Kintyre struggled with his memory, brought back an approximate recollection of a later passage, and hunted for it again. Yes, here, near the middle: an account of a thirteenth century witch hunt in northern Italy, a follow-up to the Albigensian Crusade. The author said that since then there had been no covens worth mentioning north of Abruzzi, and cited proof--statements by Church and secular investigators, a couple of confessions extracted by torture. Bruce's notes at this point gave confirming cross references. A penciled afterthought occurred: "If there were no organized Satanists in the Romagna in 1398, it hardly seems reasonable that Cesare Borgia could have joined them a century later!" Evidence was marshaled to show there had been no revival in the meantime. Rather, the cults had been on the wane throughout the fifteenth century, as prosperity and enlightenment spread. _Well_, thought Kintyre, _that does pretty well sink Owens' boat._ Something caught his eye. He leaned over the sheet. A fifteenth century "discourse," an official report, in the state archives of Milan was quoted to support the claim that there was no contemporary local Black Mass. In the margin was scribbled "L.L." Private abbreviations could be weird and wonderful, but Kintyre found himself obscurely irritated. So much was unknown about Bruce's final destiny, even an initial might tell something. He found the letters several times more in the next hour, as he worked his way through the volume and the notes. They seemed to mark findings which could only be made in Italy: by going out and looking at a site, or by reading in ancient libraries. The telephone interrupted him again. He glanced at his watch. Two o'clock already! He grew aware that he was hungry. "Hello. Robert Kintyre speaking." The voice in his ear was low. It stumbled the barest bit. "Professor Kintyre. This is Corinna Lombardi." "Oh." He sat gaping into the mouthpiece like a schoolboy, feeling his heartbeat pick up. "Oh, yes," he said stupidly. "I wanted to apologize to you." "Hm?" With an effort, he pulled himself toward sense. "What the dev--What in the world is there to apologize for?" "Last night. I was horrible." Habit took over, the smoothness of having known many women; but his tone was burred. "Oh, now, please don't be silly. If you won't mind my saying so at a time like this, I thought you were quite extraordinarily pleasant to meet." Did he catch the unsubstantial wisp of a chuckle? "Thank you. You're very kind. But I did pull a regular Lady Macbeth. It was nerves. I was tired and miserable. I hope you'll believe how sorry I've been all day. I've spent the past half hour at the phone, trying to track you down." "If I'd known that, I'd have laid a paper trail--Blast!" Kintyre checked himself. "Now it's my turn to ask your pardon. I wasn't thinking." "It's all right," she said gently. "No, but--"