Malipieri told the whole story, from the time when Volterra had first invited him to come and make a search.  The Princess nodded her energetic approval of his view that Sabina had a right to a large share in anything that was found.  The poor girl’s dowry, she said, had been eaten up by her father’s absurd charities and by the bad administration of the estates which had ruined the whole family.  Malipieri paid no attention to this statement, for he knew the truth, and he went on to the end, telling everything, up to the moment when Volterra had at last quitted the palace that morning and had left him free.

“Poor Sassi!” exclaimed the Princess, when he had finished.  “He was a foolish old man, but he always seemed very willing.  Is that all?”

“Yes.  That is all.  I think I have forgotten nothing.”

The Princess looked at him and smiled encouragingly, expecting him to say something more, but he was grave and silent.  Gradually, the smile faded from her face, till she looked away, and took a cigarette from the table at her elbow.  Still he said nothing.  She lit the cigarette and puffed at it two or three times, slowly and thoughtfully.

“I hope that Donna Sabina is none the worse for the fatigue,” Malipieri said at last.  “She seemed quite well this morning.  I wondered that she had not caught cold.”

“She never caught cold easily, even as a child,” answered the Princess indifferently.  “This affair may have much more serious consequences than a cold in the head,” she added, after a long pause.

“I think the Volterra couple will be discreet, for their own sakes,” Malipieri answered.

“Their servants must know that Sabina was out all night.”

“They do not know that poor Sassi did not bring her to you here, and the Baroness will be careful to let them understand that she is here now, and with you.  Those people dread nothing like a scandal.  The secret is between them and us.  I do not see how any one else can possibly know it, or guess it.”

“The fact remains,” said the Princess, speaking out, “that my daughter spent last night in your rooms, and slept there, as if she had been in her own home.  If it is ever known she will be ruined.”

“It will never be known, I am quite sure.”

“I am not, and it is a possibility I cannot really afford to contemplate.”  She looked fixedly at him.

Malipieri was silent, and his face showed that he was trying to find some way out of the imaginary difficulty, or at least some argument which might quiet the Princess’s fears.

She did not understand his silence.  If he was a man of honour, it was manifestly his duty at least to offer the reparation that lay in his power; but he showed no inclination to do so.  It was incomprehensible.

“I cannot see what is to be done,” he said at last.

“Is it possible that I must tell you, Signer Malipieri?” asked the Princess, and her splendid eyes flashed angrily.