He stopped in his walk, looked at his watch and glanced about him.  He was at some distance from the hotel and it was growing dusk, for the days were already short.  If Maria Consuelo really meant to leave Rome precipitately, she might go by the evening train to Paris and in that case the people of the hotel would have been informed of her intended departure.

Orsino only admitted the possibility of her actually going away while believing in his heart that she would remain.  He slowly retraced his steps, and it was seven o’clock before he asked the hotel porter by what train Madame d’Aranjuez was leaving.  The porter did not know whether the lady was going north or south, but he called another man, who went in search of a third, who disappeared for some time.

“Is it sure that Madame d’Aranjuez goes to-night?” asked Orsino trying to look indifferent.

“Quite sure.  Her rooms will be free to-morrow.”

Orsino turned away and slowly paced up and down the marble pavement between the tall plants, waiting for the messenger to come back.

“Madame d’Aranjuez leaves at nine forty-five,” said the man, suddenly reappearing.

Orsino hesitated a moment, and then made up his mind.

“Ask Madame if she will receive me for a moment,” he said, producing a card.

The servant went away and again Orsino walked backwards and forwards, pale now and very nervous.  She was really going, and was going north—­probably to Paris.

“Madame regrets infinitely that she is not able to receive the Signor Prince,” said the man in black at Orsino’s elbow.  “She is making her preparations for the journey.”

“Show me where I can write a note,” said Orsino, who had expected the answer.

He was shown into the reading-room and writing materials were set before him.  He hurriedly wrote a few words to Maria Consuelo, without form of address and without signature.

“I will not let you go without me.  If you will not see me, I will be in the train, and I will not leave you, wherever you go.  I am in earnest.”

He looked at the sheet of note-paper and wondered that he should find nothing more to say.  But he had said all he meant, and sealing the little note he sent it up to Maria Consuelo with a request for an immediate answer.  Just then the dinner bell of the hotel was rung.  The reading-room was deserted.  He waited five minutes, then ten, nervously turning over the newspapers and reviews on the long table, but quite unable to read even the printed titles.  He rang and asked if there had been no answer to his note.  The man was the same whom he had sent before.  He said the note had been received at the door by the maid who had said that Madame d’Aranjuez would ring when her answer was ready.  Orsino dismissed the servant and waited again.  It crossed his mind that the maid might have pocketed the note and said nothing about it, for reasons of her own.  He had almost determined to go upstairs and boldly enter the sitting-room, when the door opposite to him opened and Maria Consuelo herself appeared.