“They have, then, sent you upon this ridiculous errand?” said the signora. “It is a fool’s message, undertaken by a simpleton.” “You say this story has been hatched up by designing persons, with a view to extort money----” “Or by a pitiful coward who desires to harass and torment me,” interrupted the young woman. “Aye. As you will. I asked you where this book is concealed. I know you have not destroyed it. You had doubtless your own motives for preserving such a damning piece of evidence against yourself----” “I foresee that I shall be obliged to dismiss you from the house, sir,” again interrupted Madam Guiscardini, rising, concentrated fury blazing in her eyes. “You shall not continue to annoy and insult me under my own roof.” “Pardon me, madam. I do not wish to be other than courteous in conducting this unpleasant affair. My own interest in it is less than nothing. Did I consult my own wishes, I should not lift a finger to coerce you. Bear with me for a few moments longer. I said, I asked you where this registry-book is hidden away. The question was put merely to try you.” “Oh, indeed! Monsieur grows more and more incomprehensible. May I hope that this preposterous little farce is nearly played out?” “Very nearly, madam. The terrible drama that has been performed is also, I believe, almost at an end. I _know_ where that parchment-bound volume is.” “Indeed! Monsieur is, then, a magician--a juggler? This begins to be amusing. I should like to see this wonderful tome. But I should hope that your friends and clients and coconspirators have not been so daring as to forge written evidence against me? That would be too terrible, though I do not fear the worst they can do.” “The volume is near at hand,” pursued Frank, his eyes never leaving her face for a second. As yet, every shot had told with fatal effect. “Near at hand,” repeated the unhappy young woman mechanically. She felt certain now that she had been betrayed, and her suspicions fell on Finette, the French maid, whom she had always hated and mistrusted. “Close at hand,” the lawyer said slowly, approaching a step toward her. “It lies in this house.” “Do you mean to say that they have dared to place their forged papers within my own dwelling?” demanded Lucia Guiscardini, twisting and twining her fingers in and out of one another. But she only spoke thus to delay the last fatal moment. Not knowing that he was proceeding chiefly upon guesswork, guided by that one swift gleam from her own eyes, she made sure he had certain information. Finette had seen her open the cabinet, she thought, and had seen her examine the suspicious-looking volume. One hope remained: the girl might not know the secret of the spring opening the inner compartment where the book lay crouching amid laces and filmy handkerchiefs, placed there to deceive any casual eye that might happen to light upon the nook so cunningly devised.