“None, Mr. Redmayne.”

“I’d pinned my faith that the whole horrid thing might be capable of explanation along some other lines.  But the blood was proved to be human?”

“Yes.”

“Another secret for the sea, then, as far as Pendean is concerned.  And as for Robert, only doomsday will tell where his bones lie.”

“I also feel very little doubt indeed that he is dead.”

A few minutes later a gong sounded from beneath and the two men descended to their meal.  It was Giuseppe Doria who did the talking while they ate a substantial dinner.  He proved a great egotist and delighted to relate his own picturesque ambitions, though he had already confessed that these ambitions were modified.

“We are a race that once lorded it over western Italy,” he declared.  “Midway inland, between Ventimiglia and Bordighera, is our old fastness beneath the mountains and beside the river.  An ancient bridge like a rainbow still spans Nervia, and the houses climb up the hills among the vines and olives, while frowning down upon all things is the mighty ruin of the Doria’s castle—­a great ghost from the past.  In the midst of all the human business and bustle, removed by a century from the concerns of men, it stands, hollow and empty, with life surging round about, like the sea on the precipices below us.  The folk throng everywhere—­the sort of humble people who of old knelt hatless to my ancestors.  The base born wander in our chambers of state, the villagers dry their linen on our marble floors, children play in the closets of great counsellors, bats flutter through the casements where princesses have sat and hoped and feared!

“My people,” he continued, “have sunk through many a stage and very swiftly of late.  My grandfather was only a woodman, who brought charcoal from the mountains on two mules; my uncle grew lemons at Mentone and saved a few thousand francs for his wife to squander.  Now I alone remain—­the last of the line—­and the home of the Doria has long stood in the open market.

“With the fortress also goes the title—­that is our grotesque Italian way.  A pork butcher or butter merchant might become Count Doria to-morrow if he would put his hand deep enough in his pocket.  But salvation lies this way:  that though the property and title are cheap, to restore the ruin and make all magnificent again would demand a millionaire.”

He chattered on and after dinner lighted another of his Tuscan cigars, drank a liqueur of some special brandy Mr. Redmayne produced in honour of Brendon, and then left them.

They spoke of him, and Mark was specially interested to learn Jenny’s attitude; but she gave no sign and praised Giuseppe only for his voice, his versatility, and good nature.

“He can turn his hand to anything,” she said.  “He was going fishing this afternoon; but it is too rough, so he will work in the garden again.”

She hoped presently that Doria would find a rich wife and reach the summit of his ambitions.  It was clear enough that he did not enter into any of Mrs. Pendean’s calculations for her own future.  But Jenny said one thing to surprise her listener while still speaking of the Italian.