“Did I?” The Baron watched the smoke of his cigar curling upwards.

“I think you did.  Not that I bear you the least malice.  I only mean that you might very naturally expect that I should be thought a suspicious person, and that detectives would follow me about.”

“Nobody cares a straw for your politics,” retorted Volterra rudely.

“Then I shall be the more free to think as I please,” Malipieri answered with calm.

“Perfectly so.  In the meantime it is not the Ministry of the Interior that is watching you.  The present Ministry does not waste time and money on such nonsense.  You are being watched because you are suspected of trying to get some statues or pictures out of Italy, in defiance of the Pacca law.”

“Oh!” Malipieri blew a whiff of smoke out with the ejaculation, for he was surprised.

“I have it from one of the cabinet,” Volterra continued.  “He told me the facts confidentially after dinner.  You see, as you are living in my house, the suspicion is reflected on me.”

“In your house?”

“The Palazzo Conti is my house,” answered the Baron, taking his cigar from his mouth for the first time since he had lighted it, and holding it out at arm’s length with a possessive sweep while he leaned back and looked at the ceiling again.  “It all belongs to me,” he said.  “I took it for the mortgage, with everything in it.”

“By the bye,” said Malipieri, “what became of that Velasquez, and those other pictures?”

“Was there a Velasquez?” enquired the Baron carelessly, without changing his attitude.

“Yes.  It was famous all over Europe.  It was a family portrait.”

“I remember!  It turned out to be a copy after all.”

“A copy!” repeated Malipieri incredulously.

“Yes, the original is in Madrid,” answered the Baron with imperturbable self-possession.

“And all those other pictures turned out to be copies, too, I daresay,” suggested Malipieri.

“Every one of them.  It was a worthless collection.”

“In that case it was hardly worth while to take so much trouble in getting them out of the country secretly.”  Malipieri smiled.

“That was the dealer’s affair,” answered Volterra without the least hesitation.  “Dealers are such fools!  They always make a mystery of everything.”

Malipieri could not help admiring the proportions and qualities of the Baron’s lies.  The financier was well aware that Malipieri knew the pictures to be genuine beyond all doubt.  The disposal of them had been well managed, for when Malipieri moved into the palace there was not a painting of value left on the walls, yet there had been no mention of them in the newspapers, nor any gossip about them, and the public at large believed them to be still in their places.  As a matter of fact most of them were already in France and England, and the Velasquez was in Saint Petersburg.