“Faustina Montevarchi—­killed her own father!” cried Giovanni in the utmost astonishment.

Corona thrust the note into his hands.  It only contained a few words scrawled in an irregular hand as though written in great emotion.

“Of course it is some horrible mistake,” said Corona, “but I must go at once.”

“I will go with you.  I may be able to give some help.”

Five minutes later, they were descending the stairs.  The carriage was not ready, and leaving orders for it to follow them they went out into the street and took a passing cab.  Under the influence of the excitement they acted together instinctively.  During the short drive they exchanged but few words, and those only expressive of amazement at the catastrophe.  At the Palazzo Montevarchi everything was already in confusion, the doors wide open, the servants hurrying aimlessly hither and thither with frightened faces.  They had just been released from the preliminary examination held by the prefect of police.  A party of gendarmes stood together in the antechamber talking, while one of their number mounted guard at the door with a drawn sabre, allowing no one to leave the house.  A terrified footman led Giovanni and Corona to the great drawing-room.

The vast chamber was lighted by a single lamp which stood upon a yellow marble pier-table, and cast dim shadows on the tapestry of the walls.  The old-fashioned furniture was ranged stiffly around the room as usual; the air was damp and cold, not being warmed even by the traditional copper brazier.  The voices of the group of persons collected within the circle of the light sounded hollow, and echoed strangely in the huge emptiness.  Dominant above the rest were heard the hard tones of the prefect of police.

“I can assure you,” he was saying, “that I feel the greatest regret in being obliged to assert my decision.”

Giovanni and Corona came forward, and the rest made way for them.  The prefect stood with his back to the light and to the table, like a man who is at bay.  He was of middle height, very dark, and inclining to stoutness.  His aquiline features and his eyes, round in shape, but half veiled by heavy lids, gave him something of the appearance of an owl.  When he spoke, his voice was harsh and mechanical, and he always seemed to be looking just over the head of the person he addressed.  He made no gestures and held himself very straight.

Opposite him stood Faustina Montevarchi, her face luminously pale, her eyes almost wild in their fixed expression.  She held her hands clasped before her, and her fingers worked nervously.  Around her stood her brothers and their wives, apparently speechless with horror, crowding together like frightened sheep before the officer of the law.  Neither her mother, nor Flavia, nor San Giacinto accompanied the rest.  It would be impossible to imagine a number of persons more dumb and helpless with fear.

“Oh Corona, save me!” cried Faustina, throwing herself into her friend’s arms as soon as she saw her face.