“Come,” said Madame Mayer, impatiently, “there is another—­there are a hundred scudi—­that is all I have got,” she added, turning down her empty glove.

Suddenly Temistocle put out his hand and grasped the bank-notes eagerly.  But instead of retiring to allow her to enter, he pushed roughly past her.

“You may go in,” he said in a hoarse whisper, and turning quickly, fled precipitately down the narrow steps, in his shirt-sleeves as he was.  Madame Mayer stood for a moment looking after him in surprise, even when he had already disappeared.

Then she turned and entered the door rather timidly; but before she had gone two steps in the dark passage, she uttered a cry of horror.  Del Ferice stood in her way, wrapped in a loose dressing-gown, a curious expression upon his pale face, which from its whiteness was clearly distinguishable in the gloom.  Temistocle had cheated her, had lied in telling her that his master was absent, had taken her bribe and had fled.  He would easily find an excuse for having allowed her to enter; and with his quick valet’s instinct, he guessed that she would not confess to Del Ferice that she had bribed him.  Ugo came forward a step and instantly recognised Madame Mayer.

“Donna Tullia!” he cried, “what are you doing?  You must not be seen here.”

A less clever man than Ugo would have pretended to be overjoyed at her coming.  Del Fence’s fine instincts told him that for whatever cause she had come—­and he guessed the cause well enough—­he would get a firmer hold upon her consideration by appearing to be shocked at her imprudence.  Donna Tullia was nearly fainting with fright, and stood leaning against the wall of the passage.

“I thought—­I—­I must see you at once,” she stammered.

“Not here,” he answered, quickly.  “Go home at once; I will join you in five minutes.  It will ruin you to have it known that you have been here.”

Madame Mayer took courage at his tone.

“You must bring them—­those papers,” she said, hurriedly.  “Something dreadful has happened.  Promise me to come at once!”

“I will come at once, my dear lady,” he said, gently pushing her towards the door.  “I cannot even go downstairs with you—­forgive me.  You have your carriage of course?”

“I have a cab,” replied Donna Tullia, faintly, submitting to be put out of the door.  He seized her hand and kissed it passionately, or with a magnificent semblance of passion.  With a startled look, Donna Tullia turned and went rapidly down the steps.  Del Ferice smiled softly to himself when she was gone, and went in again to exchange his dressing-gown for a coat.  He had her in his power at last.  He had guessed that she would betray the secret—­that after the engagement became known, she would not be able to refrain from communicating it to Corona d’Astrardente; and so soon as he heard the news, he had shut himself up in his lodging, pretending a sudden journey to Naples, determined not