On the way back to Ventirose, the Cardinal put his hand in his pocket.

“Dear me!” he suddenly exclaimed.  “I have lost my snuff box again.”  He shook his head, as one who recognises a fatality.  “I am always losing it.”

“Are you sure you had it with you?” Beatrice asked.

“Oh, yes, I think I had it with me.  I should have missed it before this, if I had left it at home.  I must have dropped it in Mr. Marchdale’s garden.”

“In that case it will probably be found,” said Beatrice.

Peter had gone to Spiaggia, I imagine, in the hope of meeting Mrs. O’Donovan Florence; but the printed visitors’ list there told him that she had left nearly a fortnight since.  On his return to the villa, he was greeted by Marietta with the proud tidings that her Excellency the Duchessa di Santangiolo had been to see her.

“Oh—?  Really?” he questioned lightly. (His heart, I think, dropped a beat, all the same.)

“Ang,” said Marietta.  “She came with the most Eminent Prince Cardinal.  They came in the carriage.  She stayed half an hour.  She was very gracious.”

“Ah?” said Peter.  “I am glad to hear it.”

“She was beautifully dressed,” said Marietta.

“Of that I have not the shadow of a doubt,” said he.

“The Signorina Emilia drove away with them,” said she.

“Dear, dear!  What a chapter of adventures,” was his comment.

He went to his rustic table, and picked up his book.

“How the deuce did that come there?” he wondered, discovering the snuff box.

It was, in truth, an odd place for it.  A cardinal may inadvertently drop his snuff box, to be sure.  But if the whole College of Cardinals together had dropped a snuff box, it would hardly have fallen, of its own weight, through the covers of an open book, to the under-side thereof, and have left withal no trace of its passage.

“Solid matter will not pass through solid matter, without fraction—­I learned that at school,” said Peter.

The inference would be that someone had purposely put the snuff box there.

But who?

The Cardinal himself?  In the name of reason, why?

Emilia?  Nonsense.

Marietta?  Absurd.

The Du—­

A wild surmise darted through Peter’s soul.  Could it be?  Could it conceivably be?  Was it possible that—­that—­was it possible, in fine, that this was a kind of signal, a kind of summons?

Oh, no, no, no.  And yet—­and yet—­

No, certainly not.  The idea was preposterous.  It deserved, and (I trust) obtained, summary deletion.

“Nevertheless,” said Peter, “it’s a long while since I have darkened the doors of Ventirose.  And a poor excuse is better than none.  And anyhow, the Cardinal will be glad to have his snuff.”

The ladder-bridge was in its place.

He crossed the Aco.