Orsino’s arms relaxed, and he let her go.  She drew a long breath and moved a step backward and towards the door.

“Good-bye,” she said again.  But this time she did not hold out her hand, though she looked long and fixedly into his face.

Orsino made a movement as though he would have caught her again.  She started and put out her hand behind her towards the latch.  But he did not touch her.  She softly opened the door, looked at him once more and went out.

When he realised that she was gone he sprang after her, calling her by name.

“Consuelo!”

There were a few people walking in the broad passage.  They stared at Orsino, but he did not heed them as he passed by.  Maria Consuelo was not there, and he understood in a moment that it would be useless to seek her further.  He stood still a moment, entered the reading-room again, got his hat and left the hotel without looking behind him.

All sorts of wild ideas and schemes flashed through his brain, each more absurd and impracticable than the last.  He thought of going back and finding Maria Consuelo’s maid—­he might bribe her to prevent her mistress’s departure.  He thought of offering the driver of the train an enormous sum to do some injury to his engine before reaching the first station out of Rome.  He thought of stopping Maria Consuelo’s carriage on her way to the tram and taking her by main force to his father’s house.  If she were compromised in such a way, she would be almost obliged to marry him.  He afterwards wondered at the stupidity of his own inventions on that evening, but at the time nothing looked impossible.

He bethought him of Spicca.  Perhaps the old man possessed some power over his daughter after all and could prevent her flight if he chose.  There were yet nearly two hours left before the train started.  If worst came to worst, Orsino could still get to the station at the last minute and leave Rome with her.

He took a passing cab and drove to Spicca’s lodgings.  The count was at home, writing a letter by the light of a small lamp.  He looked up in surprise as Orsino entered, then rose and offered him a chair.

“What has happened, my friend?” he asked, glancing curiously at the young man’s face.

“Everything,” answered Orsino.  “I love Madame d’Aranjuez, she loves me, she absolutely refuses to marry me and she is going to Paris at a quarter to ten.  I know she is your daughter and I want you to prevent her from leaving.  That is all, I believe.”

Spicca’s cadaverous face did not change, but the hollow eyes grew bright and fixed their glance on an imaginary point at an immense distance, and the thin hand that lay on the edge of the table closed slowly upon the projecting wood.  For a few moments he said nothing, but when he spoke he seemed quite calm.

“If she has told you that she is my daughter,” he said, “I presume that she has told you the rest.  Is that true?”