Giovanni suddenly came upon a description of a dinner and reception given by Del Ferice and his wife.  The paragraph was written in the usual florid style with a fine generosity in the distribution of titles to unknown persons.

“The centre of all attraction,” said the reporter, “was a most beautiful Spanish princess, Donna Maria Consuelo d’A——­z d’A——­a, in whose mysterious eyes are reflected the divine fires of a thousand triumphs, and who was gracefully attired in olive green brocade—­”

“Oh!  Is that it?” said Sant’ Ilario aloud, and in the peculiar tone always used by a man who makes a discovery in a daily paper.

“What is it?” inquired Frangipani and Montevarchi in the same breath.  The young diplomatist looked up with an air of interrogation.

Sant’ Ilario read the paragraph aloud.  All three listened as though the fate of empires depended on the facts reported.

“Just like the newspapers!” exclaimed Frangipani.  “There probably is no such person.  Is there, Ascanio?”

Montevarchi had always been a weak fellow, and was reported to be at present very deep in the building speculations of the day.  But there was one point upon which he justly prided himself.  He was a superior authority on genealogy.  It was his passion and no one ever disputed his knowledge or decision.  He stroked his fair beard, looked out of the window, winked his pale blue eyes once or twice and then gave his verdict.

“There is no such person,” he said gravely.

“I beg your pardon, prince,” said the young diplomatist, “I have met her.  She exists.”

“My dear friend,” answered Montevarchi, “I do not doubt the existence of the woman, as such, and I would certainly not think of disagreeing with you, even if I had the slightest ground for doing so, which, I hasten to say, I have not.  Nor, of course, if she is a friend of yours, would I like to say more on the subject.  But I have taken some little interest in genealogy and I have a modest library—­about two thousand volumes, only—­consisting solely of works on the subject, all of which I have read and many of which I have carefully annotated.  I need not say that they are all at your disposal if you should desire to make any researches.”

Montevarchi had much of his murdered father’s manner, without the old man’s strength.  The young secretary of embassy was rather startled at the idea of searching through two thousand volumes in pursuit of Madame d’Aranjuez’s identity.  Sant’ Ilario laughed.

“I only mean that I have met the lady,” said the young man.  “Of course you are right.  I have no idea who she may really be.  I have heard odd stories about her.”

“Oh—­have you?” asked Sant’ Ilario with renewed interest.