“These artistic people!” he thought.  “They have quite another way of looking at things.  Dear me.  I shall never live to understand them.”

The two separated at the market-place without much reluctance on either side.

During dinner, the Duchess was calm about her misfortune.  She bore it well.  She had been vigorously consoled by Don Francesco, who pointed out that such little things are trials of faith and that she ought to be thankful for this opportunity of proving how little she cared for earthly riches.  While not exactly thankful, she was certainly as resigned as anybody could have been.  Angelina had already been taken into grace again, at the charitable suggestion of the priest.  Every one was puzzling who the thief could be (it happened to be Mr. Richards); the police had not discovered the faintest clue.

“It does not much matter if they do,” said Don Francesco.  “I don’t think, my dear lady, that you will get the judge to take up your case very actively.  You know how he hates the clericals.  In fact, I fear he will not move a finger unless the culprit also happens to be a good believer.  In that case, he might lock him up.  He is so fond of imprisoning Catholics!”

“A bad state of the law,” commented the bishop.

“It is,” replied Don Francesco, “And perhaps you do not know,” he added, turning to the company, “that there has been another robbery as well, doubtless by the same hand.  Yes!  I only heard of it an hour ago.  Poor Miss Wilberforce is the victim.  She is terribly upset.  A number of valuables have disappeared from her house; they must have been ransacked, she thinks, at the time of Mr. Keith’s party.  I understand she was rather overcome on that occasion.  The thief seems to have been aware of her condition, and to have profited by it.”

“Poor Miss Wilberforce!” said everybody.  They were all sorry for poor Miss Wilberforce.

It was a rather full dinner-party on the whole.  Mr. Heard left at half-past eleven.

Passing the Club on his way home, he remembered his intention of looking in there and perhaps doing good to a few of those fellows.

He climbed up the stairs.  There was a fearful row going on.  The place was crammed with members of various nationalities, drinking and arguing amid clouds of tobacco smoke.  They seemed all to be at loggerheads with one another and on the verge of breaking out into violence, the south wind having been particularly objectionable all day long.  A good deal of filthy and profane language was being used—­it was worse than those hot places he had known in Africa.  That pink-faced old drunkard known as Charlie was the only person who made any signs of recognizing him.  He half rose from his chair with a genial:  “Hello, Bishop—­” and instantly collapsed again.  Mr. Muhlen was there; he bowed rather distantly.  A tremulous pale-faced youngster invited him pressingly to a drink, and just as the bishop was on the verge of accepting