Rontivogli went to the Popes’ at eleven o’clock that morning. The look of the flunky who opened the door foreshadowed to him his fate. He was shown not into the drawing room, but into a reception room--a small alcove to the left of the door, intended for wraps rather than for callers. The servant returned with a package on his tray. “Miss Pope is not at ’ome,” he said haughtily, omitting the customary “Your ’Ighness,” and not even substituting so much as a “Sir” for it, “and she left this to be given to you.” Rontivogli ignored the impudences of omitting his title and of addressing him as “you,” and took the package. The servant held aside the portière with the broadest possible hint in his face and manner. “Tell Senator Pope that the Prince di Rontivogli wishes to see him,” said Rontivogli in a tone which at once reduced the servant, in spite of himself, from a human being to a mechanical device for the transmission of messages. When he hesitatingly withdrew Rontivogli opened the package--his ring with the stone unset and loose in the box. He solved the puzzle almost as soon as it was presented to him. He scowled, then gave a short, sneering laugh, put the lid on the box, and thrust it into the tail pocket of his frock coat. Senator Pope received him in his study, rising and bowing without advancing or extending his hand. He was serious, but bland--he did not know how to be brusque, or even unkind in manner; he did know how to be diplomatic. “I have come, sir, to repel the lies of that infamous Prussian,” began Rontivogli with suppressed passion. “You will, I trust, not distress me with the painful subject,” said Pope slowly and gently. “We know that the Count has maligned you. But you, as a gentleman, must appreciate how terrible the notoriety is to us all. I assume that you have come to relieve the young lady of the embarrassment of the situation.” Rontivogli lost control of himself, raved, paced the floor, pleaded, denounced, threatened even. But Pope, sympathetic and in the proper places tenderly sorrowful, pressed in upon the Prince his and Elsie’s unchangeable determination. At last Rontivogli gave up the useless battle and drew the box from his pocket. “Your daughter,” he said, “sent me by a servant this broken ring. The stone has been removed and to my astonishment I find that a false emerald has been substituted.” His voice and manner were apologetic, deprecatory, as if Senator Pope owed him an explanation which he was loath to demand. He opened the box and exhibited its contents to Pope, who looked with polite interest. “The stone has become detached,” was all he said. “But why was it not returned to me?” asked Rontivogli. “Why this false emerald in its place?” “It is the same stone,” said Pope. His tone was absent, as if he were thinking of something else. “It is not!” Rontivogli’s voice was bold and hard, a covert threat in it.