“There is some mistake, viscontesse. I have just landed from my yacht and have come straight here to see her.” “For Heaven’s sake do not try to deceive me. I know what has happened. It was cruel and shameful. I have been beside myself with grief and suspense.” “I give you my word of honour I have not seen Miralda since the day before yesterday.” She stared at me as if unable to believe or even understand me. “Have not seen her?” she repeated hoarsely, after a pause. “Oh, that cannot be true.” “I assure you most earnestly and solemnly that it is true.” As the conviction of my sincerity was forced upon her, her expression changed. The trouble in her wide, staring eyes gave place to unmistakable terror inspired by her new thoughts. Suddenly she reeled, threw up her hands in despair, and then clasped them distractedly to her face and sank on a couch with a moan of anguish. “Then she is arrested or dead. Heaven have mercy upon my dear, dear child,” she cried, a prey to overpowering emotion. I was scarcely less alarmed by this most disconcerting news, and while the viscontesse was striving to recover some measure of self-command, I tried to realize all it meant and to think what to do. “Don’t go, Mr. Donnington,” she said at length in the midst of her sobs; and I waited, tormented by a thousand vague fears. “I beg you to tell me all as soon as possible. Even minutes may be of vital importance,” I said earnestly. She made an effort to check her wild sobs. “But we cannot do anything,” she wailed helplessly. “Not unless you can let me know what has happened,” I replied sharply. “If anything is to be done, it must be at once.” “I will try to tell you,” she said a minute later, sitting up. “I know that Miralda was here yesterday,” I said, “because I sent to her and received a letter from her. That was early in the afternoon. Will you tell me everything that occurred after that?” “I know very little, Mr. Donnington. In the afternoon Inez came and the two were alone together. Miralda came to me afterwards and I saw that she was both greatly excited and distressed. It was in some way connected with this miserable conspiracy business. She told me that something very important was to happen; but that she herself did not know what it was. She was to go for the evening to Inez. I was in great trouble about Vasco, you know. He was in bed ill--he had been drinking heavily the night before, I must tell you.” “Did he leave the house yesterday?” I interposed. “No. He was getting better toward the evening and said he had to go out; but I went up later and found him sleeping so soundly that I could not rouse him.” “Was Miralda in the house then?”