Tom leaped from his chair, and was going alone, but Lord Barmouth persisted in accompanying him, and together they were driven to a quiet hotel in the Rue de l'Arcade, near the Madeleine. "You think you have found the lady?" queried Tom. "Oh, yais m'sieu; and ze milord vis she." "Bravo!" cried Tom, "a big black-bearded, Italian scoundrel!" "Scoundrail, vot is you call scoundrail, sare?" "There, there, never mind," said Viscount Diphoos--"a big, black-bearded Italian!" The waiter shrugged his shoulders. "Zere is no beard, m'sieu, and ye zhentlemans is not black. He is vite; oh, oui, yais, he is vite." "Another disappointment," growled Tom. "M'sieu say, ze _billet de banc_ if I find ze lady. I not know noting at all of the black shentailman." They were already in the hall, where they were encountered by one of the _garcons_ of the establishment, whose scruples about introducing them to the private rooms of the gentleman and lady staying there were hushed with a sovereign. "Pray take care, my dear boy," said Lord Barmouth; "don't be violent." "We must get her away, father, at any cost," said Viscount Diphoos, sternly. "What I want you to do is this--take charge of Maude, and get her to our hotel. Never mind me. I shall have the police to back me if the Italian scoundrel proves nasty." "But mind that he has no knife, my dear boy. Foreigners are dangerous." "If he attempts such a thing, dad, I'll shoot him like a dog," exclaimed the young man, hotly. And then the door was thrown open, and they entered. The room was empty, and upon the proprietor being consulted, it was announced that the gentleman and lady had left that evening by the Lyons mail. Telegraph communication failed. CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. AN ENCOUNTER. Sunny Italy, the home of music. The sun was shining as it can shine in Naples, but the courtyard of the Hotel di Sevril was pleasantly shady, for there was a piazza all round, and in the centre a cool and sparkling fountain played in its marble basin, while evergreen trees spread dark tracery on the white pavement. In one of the shadiest and coolest spots sat Maude, daughter of The Earl of Barmouth, looking exceedingly pretty, though there was a certain languid air, undoubtedly caused by the warmth of the climate, which seemed to make her listless and disposed to neglect the work which lay in her lap, and lean back in the lounging chair, which creaked sharply at every movement. "I do wish he would come back," she said softly, and as she spoke her eyes lit up with an intense look of happiness, and a sweet smile played about her lips. "But he will not leave me alone long." Here she made a pretence of working, but ceased directly.