“A countrywoman of yours,” he abruptly said, with an effort at smiling, as he turned out the large, oval engraving of Madam Guiscardini. Gilardoni could not refuse to look; but he drew back his lips as some animals do when in a fury. The action might pass for an affirmative smile, but it was uglier than any frown. “Yes,” he curtly replied. “Did you know her?” Gilardoni did not respond this time; but gave his attention to a tall vase, which he seemed to find in need of being relieved of the dust that had accumulated round the flutings. Captain Desfrayne waited for a minute, and then repeated the question. “Why, sir, everybody knows her--everybody all over the world,” Gilardoni answered, only half-turning round. He spoke with a strong effort to display indifference; but his manner and voice both betrayed singular constraint. Paul Desfrayne was prepared for this, and did not take any notice, but continued: “She was but a village girl, I suppose, when you knew her? They say she is going to marry a Russian prince.” This time Gilardoni made a great effort, and, looking his new master full in the face, with a vacant, uninterested expression, said: “Do they, sir?” There was no doubt that Gilardoni was on his guard, and would not betray more than he could possibly help. Paul Desfrayne would not give up yet, for that eager desire to know what secret reason this man had for hating Madam Guiscardini so bitterly as he seemed to do was almost unconquerable. “They say,” he went on slowly, lowering his eyes, and taking a tiny nail-knife from his waistcoat-pocket, to keep his glances ostentatiously employed, “that the beautiful songstress is already married.” These men were playing at cross-purposes. The master would have given all he possessed in the world to have learned the secret which was of no value whatever to the servant. Four monosyllables would have served to unlock those dreary prison doors, and let in the light of possible happiness upon that poor, weary soul, who was suffering the penalty of the one mistake of his young life. Paul Desfrayne glanced for a swift instant at Gilardoni. The Italian’s strong, nervous hands were clutched fast upon the top of the chair in front of him; his face was alternately red and pale, and his eyes were gleaming like fire. “Who told you that?” he demanded, in a sepulchral whisper. “I don’t know,” Captain Desfrayne answered, slightly shrugging his shoulders. “People tell you all sorts of things about eminent singers and public characters generally.” Gilardoni leaned his long, thin body forward, and stared his master in the face. “Then where do they say her husband is?” he demanded, in the same sibilant whisper.