He stared at me as though I had been a wizard.

“Messer Boccadoro—­” he began.

“My name,” I corrected him, “is Biancomonte—­Lazzaro Biancomonte.”

“Whatever be your name,” he returned, “of the quality of your wits there can be no question.  You have guessed for yourself the half of what I was come to tell you.  Has your shrewdness borne you any further?  Have you concluded aught concerning the nature of those letters?”

“I have concluded that it might repay some trouble to discover what is contained in letters that are sent with so much secrecy.  I can conceive nothing that might lie between the Lord of Citta di Castello and this ruffian of Cesena, and yet—­treason lurks often where least it is expected, and treason makes stranger bed-fellows than misfortune.”

“Lampugnani was no fool, and yet a great fool,” the old man murmured.  He surmised what you have surmised.  With each of the messengers Ramiro has dealt in the same manner.  He has sent each to be fed and refreshed whilst waiting to return with the answer he was penning.  For their refreshment he has ordered a very full, stout wine—­not drugged, for that they might discover upon awaking; but a wine that of itself would do the work of setting them to sleep very soundly.  Then, when all slept, and only he remained at table, like the drunkard that he is, it has been his habit to descend himself to the kitchen and possess himself of the messenger’s hat.  With this he has returned to the hall, opened the lining and withdrawn a letter.

“Then, as I suppose, he has penned his answer, thrust it into the lining, where the other one had been, and secured it, as it was before, with his own hands.  He has returned the hat to the place from whence he took it, and when the courier awakens in the morning there is another letter put into his hand, and he is bidden to bear it to Vitelli.”

He paused a moment; then continued:  “Lampugnani must have suspected something and watched Ramiro to make sure that his suspicions were well founded.  In that he was wise, but he was a fool to allow Ramiro to see what lie he had discovered.  Already he has paid the penalty.  He is lying with a dagger in his throat, for an hour ago Ramiro stabbed him while he slept.”

I shuddered.  What a place of blood was this!  Could it be that Cesare Borgia had no knowledge of what things were being performed by his Governor of Cesena?

“Poor Lampugnani!” I sighed.  “God rest his soul.”

“I doubt but he is in Hell,” answered Mariani, without emotion.  “He was as great a villain as his master, and he has gone to answer for his villainy even as this ugly monster of a Ramiro shall.  But let Lampugnani be.  I am not come to talk of him.