“How is the princess?” asked the big man in a tone of sympathy as he slowly stirred the sugar in his coffee.

“Thank you—­she is very well,” answered Giovanni, mechanically.  In his mind the secret which he must conceal was so closely connected with Corona’s illness that he almost unconsciously included her state among the things of which he would not speak.  But San Giacinto looked sharply at him, wondering what he meant.

“Indeed?  I thought she was very ill.”

“So she is,” replied Sant’ Ilario, bluntly.  “I forgot—­I do not know what I was thinking of.  I fear she is in a very dangerous condition.”

He was silent again, and sat leaning upon the table absently looking at the objects that lay before him, an open portfolio and writing materials, a bit of sealingwax, a small dictionary, neatly laid in order upon the dark red cloth.  He did not know why he had allowed himself to be led to the place, but he felt a sense of rest in sitting there quietly in silence.  San Giacinto saw that there was something wrong and said nothing, but lighted a black cigar and smoked thoughtfully.

“You look as though you had been up all night,” he remarked after a long pause.

Giovanni did not answer.  His eyes did not look up from the red blotting-paper in the open portfolio before him.  As he looked down San Giacinto almost believed he was asleep, and shook the table a little to see whether his cousin would notice it.  Instantly Giovanni laid his hand upon the writing book, to steady it before him.  But still he did not look up.

“You seem to be interested,” said San Giacinto, with a smile, and he blew a cloud of smoke into the air.

Giovanni was indeed completely absorbed in his studies, and only nodded his head in answer.  After a few minutes more he rose and took the portfolio to a dingy mirror that stood over the chimney-piece of the lodging, and held up the sheet of red blotting-paper before the reflecting surface.  Apparently not satisfied with this, he brought the lamp and set it upon the shelf, and then repeated the process.

“You are an infernal scoundrel,” he said in a low voice, that trembled with wrath, as he turned and faced San Giacinto.

“What do you mean?” inquired the latter with a calmness that would have staggered a less angry man.

Giovanni drew from his pocket-book the note he had found in Gouache’s room.  For a week he had kept it about him.  Without paying any further attention to San Giacinto he held it in one hand and again placed the blotting-paper in front of the mirror.  The impression of the writing corresponded exactly with the original.  As it consisted of but a very few words and had been written quickly, almost every stroke had been reproduced upon the red paper in a reversed facsimile.  Giovanni brought the two and held them before San Giacinto’s eyes.  The latter looked surprised but did not betray the slightest fear.