“But they said you had gone to Naples.  Your servant,” continued Donna Tullia, blushing scarlet at the remembrance of her interview with Temistocle,—­“your servant assured me in person that you had gone to Naples—­”

“I see,” replied Del Ferice, quietly.  He did not wish to press her to a confession of having tried to get the papers in his absence.  His object was to put her at her ease.

“My dear lady,” he continued, gently, “you have done an exceedingly rash thing; but I will support you in every way, by putting the documents in your possession at once.  It is unfortunate that you should have acted so suddenly, for we do not know what has become of this Felice Baldi, nor have we any immediate means of finding out.  It might have taken weeks to find her.  Why were you so rash?  You could have waited till I returned, and we could have discussed the matter carefully, and decided whether it were really wise to make use of my information.”

“You do not doubt that I did right?” asked Donna Tullia, turning a little pale.

“I think you acted precipitately in speaking without consulting me.  All may yet be well.  But in the first place, as you did not ask my opinion, you will see the propriety of not mentioning my name, since you have not done so already.  It can do no good, for the papers speak for themselves, and whatever value they may have is inherent in them.  Do you see?”

“Of course there is no need of mentioning you, unless you wish to have a share in the exposure of this abominable wickedness.”

“I am satisfied with my share,” replied Del Ferice, with a quiet smile.

“It is not an important one,” returned Donna Tullia, nervously.

“It is the lion’s share,” he answered.  “Most adorable of women, you have not, I am sure, forgotten the terms of our agreement—­terms so dear to me, that every word of them is engraven for ever upon the tablet of my heart.”

Madame Mayer started slightly.  She had not realised that her promise to marry Ugo was now due—­she did not believe that he would press it; he had exacted it to frighten her, and besides, she had so persuaded herself that he would approve of her conduct, that she had not felt as though she were betraying his secret.

“You will not—­you cannot hold me to that; you approve of telling the Astrardente, on the whole,—­it is the same as though I had consulted you—­”

“Pardon me, my dear lady; you did not consult me,” answered Del Ferice, soothingly.  He sat near her by the fire, his hat upon his knee, no longer watching her, but gazing contemplatively at the burning logs.  There was a delicacy about his pale face since the wound he had received a year before which was rather attractive:  from having been a little inclined to stoutness, he had grown slender and more graceful, partly because his health had really been affected by his illness, and partly because he had determined never again to risk being too fat.