“What are you doing here?” asked Beroviero in a tone of displeasure.  “The garden was very well as it was.”

“I—­I thought,” stammered Giovanni, “that it would—­that it might be better to dig it—­”

“It would not be better,” answered the old man.  “You may go,” he added, speaking to the men, who were glad enough to be dismissed.

Beroviero passed his son without further words and tried the door of the laboratory, but found it locked.

“What is this?” he asked angrily.  “Where is Zorzi?  I told him not to leave you here alone.”

“You had great confidence in him,” answered Giovanni, recovering himself a little.  “He is in prison.”

He took the key from his wallet and thrust it into the lock as he spoke.

“In prison!” cried Beroviero in a loud voice.  “What do you mean?”

Giovanni held the door open for him.

“I will tell you all about Zorzi, if you will come in,” he said.

Beroviero entered, stood still a moment and looked about.  Everything was as Zorzi had left it, but the glass-maker’s ear missed the low roar of the furnace.  Instinctively he made a step towards the latter, extending his hand to see whether it was already cold, but at that moment he caught sight of the silk mantle in the chair.  He glanced quickly at his son.

“Has Marietta been here with you this morning?” he asked sharply.

“Oh no!” answered Giovanni contemptuously.  “Zorzi stole that thing and had not time to hide it when they arrested him last night.  I left it just where it was, that the Governor might see it.”

Beroviero’s face changed slowly.  His fiery brown eyes began to show a dangerous light and he stroked his long beard quickly, twisting it a little each time.

“If you say that Zorzi stole Marietta’s silk mantle,” he said slowly, “you are either a fool or a liar.”

“You are my father,” answered Giovanni in some perturbation.  “I cannot answer you.”

Beroviero was silent for a long time.  He took the mantle from the chair, examined it and assured himself that it was Marietta’s own and no other.  Then he carefully folded it up and laid it on the bench.  His brows were contracted as if he were in great pain, and his face was pale, but his eyes were still angry.

Giovanni knew the signs of his father’s wrath and dared not speak to him yet..

“Is this the evidence on which you have had my man arrested?” asked Beroviero, sitting down in the big chair and fixing his gaze on his son.

“By no means,” answered Giovanni, with all the coolness he could command.  “If it pleases you to hear my story from the beginning I will tell you all.  If you do not hear all, you cannot possibly understand.”

“I am listening,” said old Beroviero, leaning back and laying his hands on the broad wooden arms of the chair.

“I shall tell you everything, exactly as it happened,” said Giovanni, “and I swear that it is all true.”