“Angela must not be here,” she said.  “She is not strong enough to stand a scene.  And no doubt Gherardi has come to make one!  We will leave him to you, Mr. Leigh—­and to Gys Grandit!”

She withdrew at once with Angela, and in another moment Gherardi was ushered in.  He glanced quickly around him as he made his formal salutation,—­his eyes rested for a moment on Sylvie and Aubrey Leigh—­then he addressed himself to Prince Pietro.

“I am sorry to intrude upon you, Prince!” he said.  “I have an urgent matter to discuss with Cardinal Bonpre, and must see him at once.”

“I regret that it is not in my power to gratify your desire, Monsignor,” said Prince Sovrani with stiff courtesy.  “My brother-in-law the Cardinal left Rome last night”

“Left Rome!  Left Rome!” exclaimed Gherardi.  “Who gave him permission to leave Rome!”

“Was permission necessary?” asked Aubrey, stepping forward.

“I did not address you, sir,” returned Gherardi haughtily.  “I spoke to Prince Sovrani.”

“Prince Sovrani might well decline to answer you,” said Aubrey undauntedly.  “Were I to make him acquainted with the fiendish plot you have contrived against his daughter’s fame and honour, he would scarcely allow you to cross his threshold!”

Gherardi stood still, breathing quickly, but otherwise unmoved.

“Plot?” he echoed.  “You must be mad!  I have no plot against anyone.  My business is to uphold the cause of truth and justice, and I shall certainly defend the name of the great artist who painted that picture”—­and he pointed to Angela’s canvas—­“Florian Varillo!  Dead as he is, his memory shall live!”

“Dead!” cried Prince Sovrani, springing forward.  “Dead!  Make me sure of that, and I will praise God even for your lying tongue, if it could for once speak such a welcome truth!”

Gherardi drew back amazed, instinctively recoiling from the flashing eyes and threatening figure of the irate nobleman.

“Speak!” cried Sovrani again.  “Tell me that the murderer of my child’s youth and joy is dead and gone to hell—­and I will sing a Laus Deo at St. Peter’s!  I will pay you a thousand pounds in masses to keep his soul safe with the devil to whom it has gone!”

“Prince Sovrani, you are in ignorance of the facts,” said Gherardi coldly.  “And you speak in an anger, which if what you suspect were true, would be natural enough, but which under present circumstances is greatly misplaced.  The unfortunate Florian Varillo has been ill for many days at a Trappist monastery on the Campagna.  He had gone out towards Frascati on a matter connected with some business before starting for Naples, and as he was returning, he was suddenly met by the news of the assassination of his betrothed wife—­”

“And he knew nothing of it—­” interposed Sovrani grimly.  “Of course--he knew nothing!”

“He knew nothing—­how should he know!” responded Gherardi calmly—­ “The terrible shock threw him into a delirium and fever—­he was found in a dead swoon and taken into the monastery for shelter.  I saw him there only yesterday.”