“Has any lady been here?”

“A lady?  Macche!” The old creature laughed.  “What should ladies do here?”

Giovanni thought he detected some hesitation in the tone.  He was in the mood to fancy himself deceived by every one.

“Are you fond of money?” he asked, brutally.

“Eh!  I am an old woman.  What would you have?  Am I crazy that I should not like money?  But Signor Gouache is a very good gentleman.  He pays well, thank Heaven!”

“What does he pay you for?”

“What for?  For his lodging—­for his coffee.  Bacchus!  What should he pay me for?  Strange question in truth.  Do I keep a shop?  I keep lodgings.  But perhaps you like the place?  It is a fine situation—­ just in the Corso and only one flight of stairs, a beautiful position for the Carnival.  Of course, if you are inclined to pay more than Signor Gouache, I do not say but what—–­”

“I do not want your lodgings, my good woman,” returned Giovanni in gentler tones.  “I want to know who comes to see your lodger.”

“Who should come?  His friends of course.  Who else?”

“A lady, perhaps,” said Giovanni in a thick voice.  It hurt him to say it, and the words almost stuck in his throat.  “Perhaps a lady comes sometimes,” he repeated, pulling out some loose bank notes.

The old woman’s filmy eyes suddenly twinkled in the gloom.  The sound of the crisp pieces of paper was delightful to her ear.

“Well,” she said after a moment’s hesitation, “if a beautiful lady does come here, that is the Signore’s affair.  It is none of my business.”

Giovanni thrust the notes into her palm, which was already wide open to receive them.  His heart beat wildly.

“She is beautiful, you say?”

“Oh!  As beautiful as you please!” chuckled the hag.

“Is she dark?”

“Of course,” replied the woman.  There was no mistaking the tone in which the question was asked, for Giovanni was no longer able to conceal anything that he felt.

“And tall, I suppose?  Yes.  And she was here a quarter of an hour ago, you say?  Speak out!” he cried, advancing a step towards the old creature.  “If you lie to me, I will kill you!  She was here—­do not deny it.”

“Yes—­yes,” answered the woman, cowering back in some terror.  “Per carita!  Don’t murder me—­I tell you the truth.”

With a sudden movement Giovanni turned on his heel and entered Gouache’s sitting-room.  It was now almost dark in the house and he struck a match and lighted a candle that stood on the stable.  The glare illuminated his swarthy features and fiery eyes, and the veins stood out on his forehead and temples like strained and twisted cords.  He looked about him in every direction, examining the table, strewn with papers and books, the floor, the furniture, expecting every moment to find something which should prove that Corona had been there.  Seeing nothing, he entered the bedroom beyond.  It was a small chamber and he had scarcely passed through the door when he found himself before the toilet-table.  The note San Giacinto had left was there pinned upon the little cushion with the gold pin, as he had placed it.