“I understand why you are anxious that the Palazzo Conti should not be watched just now,” Malipieri said.  “For my part, as I do not believe in your government, I cannot be expected to believe in its laws.  It is not my business whether you respect them yourselves or not.”

“Who is breaking the law?” asked the Baron roughly.  “It is absurd to talk in that way.  But as the government has taken it into its head to suspect that you do, it is not advisable for me, who am a staunch supporter of the government, to see too much of you.  I am sure you must understand that—­it is so simple.”

“In other words?” Malipieri looked at him coldly, waiting for an explanation.

“I cannot afford to have it said that you are living in the palace for the purpose of helping dealers to smuggle objects of art out of the country.  That is what I mean.”

“I see.  But what objects of art do you mean, since you have already sent away everything there was?”

“It is believed that you had something to do with that ridiculous affair of the copies,” said Volterra, his voice suddenly becoming oily.

“They were gone when I moved in.”

“I daresay they were.  But it would be hard to prove, and of course the people who bought the pictures from the dealer insist that they are genuine, so that there may be trouble some day, and you may be annoyed about the things if you stay here any longer.”

“You mean that you advise me to leave Rome.  Is that it?” Malipieri now spoke with the utmost indifference, and glanced carelessly at the end of his cigar as he knocked the ash into the gold cup at his side.

“You certainly cannot stay any longer in the palace,” Volterra said, in an advisory and deprecatory tone.

“You seem to be badly frightened,” observed Malipieri.  “I really cannot see why I should change my quarters until we have finished what we are doing.”

“I am afraid you will have to go.  You are looked upon as very ‘suspicious.’  It would not be so bad, if your servant had not been a convict.”

“How do you know that?” Malipieri asked with sudden sternness.

“Everything of that sort is known to the police,” answered Volterra, whose manner had become very mild.  “Of course you have your own reasons for employing such a person.”

“He is an innocent man, who was unjustly convicted.”

“Oh, indeed!  Poor fellow!  Those things happen sometimes, I know.  It is more than kind of you to employ him.  Nevertheless, you cannot help seeing that the association of ideas is unfortunate and gives a bad impression.  The man was never proved to be innocent, and when he had served his term, he was involved as your servant in your political escapade.  You do not mind my speaking of that matter lightly?  It is the safest way to look at it, is it not?  Yes.  The trouble is that you and your man are both on the black book, and since the affair has come to the notice of the government my colleagues are naturally surprised that you should both be living in a house that belongs to me.”