“Ah!  There are brigands, are there?” said Varillo, getting out of the fiacre and beginning to recover something of his usual composure,—­“And I daresay you are one of them if the truth were known!  Here is your money.”  And he gave the man two gold pieces, one of twenty francs, the other of ten.

“Eccellenza, I have no change—­”

“I want none!” said Varillo airily,—­“You asked twenty-five francs—­ there are thirty.  And now—­as you say you have business in Rome, be off with you!”

The man needed no second bidding; delighted with his thirty francs, he called a gay “Buona notte, Signor!” and turning his horse’s head jogged down the road at a tolerably smart pace.  The horse knew as well as the driver, that the way now lay homeward, and lost no time.  Varillo, left to himself, paused a moment and looked about him.  The Campagna!  How he hated it!  Should he pass the night at that albergo, or walk on?  He hesitated a little—­then made for the inn direct.  It was a bright, cosy little place enough, and the padrona, a cheery, dark-eyed woman seated behind the counter, bade him smiling welcome.

Lodging—­oh yes! she said, there was a charming room at the Signor’s disposal, with a view from the windows which in the early morning was superb!  The Signor was an artist?

“No!” said Varillo, almost fiercely—­“I am a tourist—­travelling for pleasure!”

Ah!  Then the view would enchant the Signor, because it would be quite new to him!  The room should be prepared at once!  Would the Signor take supper?

Yes,—­the Signor would take supper.  And the Signor went and sat in a remote corner of the common-room, with a newspaper of a week old, pretending to read its contents.  And supper was soon served to him,- -a tasty meal enough, flavoured with excellent wine,—­and while he was drinking his third glass of it, a man entered, tall and broad-shouldered, wrapped in a heavy cloak, which he only partially loosened as he leaned against the counter and asked for a cup of coffee.  But as he caught sight of the dark face, Varillo shrank back into his corner, and put up his newspaper to shield himself from view,—­for he saw that the new-comer was no other than Monsignor Gherardi.  His appearance seemed to create a certain amount of excitement and vague alarm in the little inn; the padrona evidently knew him well, and hastened to serve him herself with the coffee he asked for.

“Will you not sit down, Eccellentissima?” she murmured deferentially.

“No, I am in haste!” replied Gherardi, glancing carelessly about him—­“My carriage waits outside.  There is strange news in Rome to-night!  The famous artist, Angela Sovrani, has been found in her studio, murdered!”

The padrona uttered a little cry.

“Murdered!”

“So it seems!  Here are the papers from which they cry the news.  I will leave them with you.  It is perhaps the judgment of Heaven on the Sovrani’s uncle, Cardinal Bonpre!”