Three weeks had gone by since he had written, and yet no word of reply had reached him.  Then he sought out Spicca and asked him boldly whether anything had happened to Maria Consuelo, explaining that he had written to her and had got no answer.  Spicca looked at him curiously for a moment.

“Nothing has happened to her, as far as I am aware,” he said, almost immediately.  “I saw her this morning.”

“This morning?” Orsino was surprised almost out of words.

“Yes.  She is here, looking for an apartment in which to spend the winter.”

“Where is she?”

Spicca named the hotel, adding that Orsino would probably find her at home during the hot hours of the afternoon.

“Has she been here long?” asked the young man.

“Three days.”

“I will go and see her at once.  I may be useful to her in finding an apartment.”

“That would be very kind of you,” observed Spicca, glancing at him rather thoughtfully.

On the following afternoon, Orsino presented himself at the hotel and asked for Madame d’Aranjuez.  She received him in a room not very different from the one of which she had had made her sitting-room during the winter.  As always, one or two new books and the mysterious silver paper cutter were the only objects of her own which were visible.  Orsino hardly noticed the fact, however, for she was already in the room when he entered, and his eyes met hers at once.

He fancied that she looked less strong than formerly, but the heat was great and might easily account for her pallor.  Her eyes were deeper, and their tawny colour seemed darker.  Her hand was cold.

She smiled faintly as she met Orsino, but said nothing and sat down at a distance from the windows.

“I only heard last night that you were in Rome,” he said.

“And you came at once to see me.  Thanks.  How did you find it out?”

“Spicca told me.  I had asked him for news of you.”

“Why him?” inquired Maria Consuelo with some curiosity.

“Because I fancied he might know,” answered Orsino passing lightly over the question.  He did not wish even Maria Consuelo to guess that Spicca had spoken of her to him.  “The reason why I was anxious about you was that I had written you a letter.  I wrote some weeks ago to your address in Paris and got no answer.”

“You wrote?” Maria Consuelo seemed surprised.  “I have not been in Paris.  Who gave you the address?  What was it?”

Orsino named the street and the number.

“I once lived there a short time, two years ago.  Who gave you the address?  Not Count Spicca?”

“No.”

Orsino hesitated to say more.  He did not like to admit that he had received the address from Maria Consuelo’s maid, and it might seem incredible that the woman should have given the information unasked.  At the same time the fact that the address was to all intents and purposes a false one tallied with the maid’s spontaneous statement in regard to her mistress’s mental alienation.