With infinite presence of mind, he affected not to have particularly observed the stray, fluttering paper, and began to read the letter of recommendation. More than ever, he had made up his mind to receive this man into his service. He longed to ask him, then and there, bluntly, what the mysterious tie might be that caused him to take so much interest in the signora, and why he had a note written by her in his possession--a note which he evidently feared any one else might see. He was unable to study the man’s face; for as he read the recommendatory letter, he was conscious that the fellow’s keen eyes were fixed upon him with a furtive anxiety. “When can you come to me?” he asked. A glitter as of tears of delight gleamed in those bright, half-hungry eyes, as Gilardoni eagerly answered: “Any time. To-night, if you will, sir.” “Very well. So be it.” The little details of terms and so on were soon settled. Captain Desfrayne unlocked the door leading to the inner apartments, and in a very few minutes Gilardoni was occupied in noiselessly flitting about, putting things straight with an almost womanly softness and dexterity. Captain Desfrayne threw himself upon a sofa, lighted a cigar, and, leaning back, watched him with a curiosity that was attaining an uncomfortable height. “I would give a thousand pounds, if I were so rich, to know what link there is between this poor wretch and the star singer,” he thought. “But I am sure to know in time, I imagine, and I must not startle him. “Give me some of those papers that are lying on the table in the next room,” he said, aloud. Gilardoni obeyed his orders with nimble alacrity, and lighted a reading-lamp that stood on a table at the head of the couch. CHAPTER IX. PLAYING AT CROSS-PURPOSES. Captain Desfrayne selected a paper, and slowly turned over the pages as he cut them. Some time elapsed before he spoke; for he could not exactly frame words in which to put the question he meant to ask. “What part of Italy did you come from?” he inquired carelessly, following the spiral line of cigar-smoke, as he breathed it from his lips. Gilardoni looked at him with that furtive glance Captain Desfrayne had already noticed; but replied, without seeming to hesitate: “From Florence, sir.” “Ah! Have you any relatives living?” “None, sir. Not one. My father and mother died when I was a young child, leaving me to the care of a distant relative, who has since died, and I never had either brothers or sisters.” The faint suspicion that had arisen in Paul Desfrayne’s mind that the brilliant prima donna might be this fellow’s sister, was then negatived. Probably, some humble lover of her early days, whom she had despised, perhaps jilted? So superbly beautiful a creature, born in an Italian village, must have had many adorers; and he knew her to be arrogant and callous of other people’s feelings, and incredibly vain of her own manifold attractions.