hear something,—­to find something,—­and yet he could not agree with himself as to the nature of the circumstance he sought to discover.  There was a lurking suspicion in his mind to which he would not give a name,—­a dark thought that made him tremble with mingled rage and horror,—­ but he put it away from him as a hint offered by the Evil One—­an insidious suggestion as hideous as it was unnatural.  The afternoon had now closed into night, and many stars were glistening bravely in the purple depths of the clear sky,—­the air was mild and balmy,—­ and as he crossed the road to turn down the little side street leading to the Tiber, where Florian Varillo had stood but a few hours previously, a flower-girl met him with a large basket of white hyacinths and held them up to his eyes.

“Ecco la primavera, Signor!” she said, with a smile.

He shook his head, and turned abruptly away,—­as he did so, his foot struck against some slight obstacle.  Stooping to examine it, he saw it was the empty leathern sheath of a dagger.  He picked it up, and studied it intently.  It was elaborately adorned with old rococco work, and was evidently the ornamental covering of one of those small but deadly weapons which Italians, both men and women, so often wear concealed about their persons, for the purpose of taking vengeance, when deemed necessary, on an unsuspecting enemy.  Slipping the thing into his pocket, the Prince looked about him, and soon recognised his bearings,—­he was standing about six yards away from the private back-entrance to his daughter’s studio.  He walked up to the door and tried it,—­it was fast locked.

“Yes—­I remember!—­the servants told me—­both doors were locked,—­ and from this they said the key was gone,—­” he muttered, then paused.

Presently, actuated by a sudden impulse, he turned and walked swiftly with long impatient strides through the more populated quarters of Rome towards the Corso, and he had not proceeded very far in this direction before he heard a frenzied and discordant shouting which, though he knew it did not yet bear the truth in its harsh refrain, yet staggered him and made his heart almost stand still with an agony of premonitory fear.

   “Morte di Angela Sovrani!”
   “Assassinamento di Angela Sovrani!”
   “Morte subito di Angela Sovrani!”
   “Assassinamento crudele della bella Sovrani!”

Prince Pietro held his breath in sharp pain, listening.  How horrible was the persistent cry of the newsvendors!—­hoarse and shrill—­now near—­now far!—­

   “Morte di Angela Sovrani!”

How horrible!—­how horrible!  He put his hands to his ears to try and shut out the din.  He had not expected any public outcry—­not so soon—­but ill news travels fast, and no doubt the very servants of his own household were responsible for having, in the extremity of their terror, given away the report of Angela’s death.  The terrible shouts were like so many cruel blows