The Baroness looked at her, and saw that she was speaking the truth and was in real distress.  It would be quite useless to search the rooms for Sabina.  The old woman-servant had no idea who the Baroness was, and in her sudden trouble would certainly have confided to her that there was a young lady in the house, who had not been able to get home.

“For the love of heaven, Signora,” she cried, “come with me to the hospital, if you know him, for he may be dying.”

The Baroness promised to go later, and really intended to do so.  She drove to the convent in which Donna Clementina was now a cloistered nun, and asked the portress whether Donna Sabina Conti had been to see her sister on the previous day.  The portress answered that she had not, and was quite positive of the fact.  The Baroness looked at her watch and hastened to the Palazzo Conti.  When she got there, the porter had already returned to his lodge, and he led her upstairs and to the door of the study.

Finding her husband alone, she explained what was the matter, in a few words and in a low voice.  The Princess had come back, and wished to see Sabina that very morning, and Sabina could not be found.  She sank into a chair, and her sallow face expressed the utmost fright and perplexity.

“Sassi left our house at five o’clock with Sabina,” said the Baron, “and at a quarter to six he was taken from the door of this palace to the hospital by Malipieri’s man.  Either Malipieri or his man must have seen her.”

“She is here!” cried the Baroness in a loud tone, something of the truth flashing upon her.  “I know she is here!”

Volterra’s mind worked rapidly at the possibility, as at a problem.  If his wife were not mistaken it was easy to explain Malipieri’s flat refusal to let any one enter the bedroom.

“You may be right,” he said, rising.  “If she is in the palace she is in the room beyond that one.”  He pointed to the door.  “You must go in,” he said.  “Never mind Malipieri.  I will manage him.”

At that moment the door opened.  Malipieri had recovered his senses enough to attempt a final resistance, and stood there, very pale, ready for anything.

But the fat Baron knew what he was about, and as he came forward with his wife he suddenly thrust out his hand at Malipieri’s head, and the latter saw down the barrel of Volterra’s revolver.

“You must let my wife pass,” cried Volterra coolly, “or I will shoot you.”

Malipieri was as active as a sailor.  In an instant he had hurled himself, bending low, at the Baron’s knees, and the fat man fell over him, while the revolver flew from his hand, half across the room, fortunately not going off as it fell on its side.  While Malipieri was struggling to get the upper hand, the detective ran forward and helped Volterra.  The two threw themselves upon the younger man, and between the detective’s wiry strength and the Baron’s tremendous weight, he lay panting and powerless on his back for an instant.