The Italian attendant brought me back to the present with a jerk of his elbow.  He was replacing the last register in the huge drawers of the table.  He and I were alone.  My colleagues had left, and our first sitting had come to an end without my assistance, though before my eyes.  They could not have gone far, so, somewhat ashamed of my want of attention, I put on my hat, and went to find them and apologize.  The little attendant caught me by the sleeve, and gave a knowing smile at the letter which I was slipping into my pocketbook.

“E d’una donna?” he asked.

“What’s that to you?”

“I am sure of it; a letter from a man would never take so long to read; and, ‘per Bacco’, you were a time about it!  ’Oh, le donne, illustre signore, le downe!’”

“That’s enough, thank you.”

I made for the door, but he threw himself nimbly in my way, grimacing, raising his eyebrows, one finger on his ribs.  “Listen, my lord, I can see you are a true scholar, a man whom fame alone can tempt.  I could get your lordship such beautiful manuscripts—­Italian, Latin, German manuscripts that never have been edited, my noble lord!”

“Stolen, too!” I replied, and pushed past him.

I went out, and in the neighboring square, amicably seated at the same table, under the awning of a cafe, I found my French colleagues and the Italian judge.  At a table a little apart the clerk was sucking something through a straw.  And they all laughed as they saw me making my way toward them through the still scorching glare of the sun.

Milan, June 25th.

Our mission was concluded to-day.  Zampini is a mere rogue.  Brought face to face with facts he could not escape from, he confessed that he had intended to “have a lark” with the French heirs by claiming to be the rightful heir himself, though he lacked two degrees of relationship to establish his claim.

We explained to him that this little “lark” was a fraudulent act which exposed him at least to the consequence of having to pay the costs of the action.  He accepted our opinion in the politest manner possible.  I believe he is hopelessly insolvent.  He will pay the usher in macaroni, and the barrister in jests.

My colleagues, the record man and the translator, leave Milan to-morrow.  I shall go with them.

CHAPTER XIV

A SURPRISING ENCOUNTER

Milan, June 26th.

I have just had another letter from Sylvestre.  My poor friend is very miserable; his mother is dead—­a saint if ever there was one.  I was very deeply touched by the news, although I knew this lovable woman very slightly—­too slightly, indeed, not having been a son, or related in any way to her, but merely a passing stranger who found his way within the horizon of her heart, that narrow limit within which she spread abroad the treasures of her tenderness and wisdom.  How terribly her son must feel her loss!