Since the evening Gilardoni had entered Captain Desfrayne’s service, and that very brief dialogue concerning Lucia Guiscardini had passed, the name of the famous Italian singer had never been mentioned by either. Neither knew that the life of the other had been blighted by this lovely snake in woman’s form. Paul Desfrayne seemed too languid to make any effort to rouse himself this day. Gilardoni, who appeared to have already formed a strong attachment to the kindly man who had held out his hand in the hour of bitter need--Gilardoni watched him with a strange sort of yearning pity and sympathy. “This is no mere physical fatigue,” the Italian said to himself. “Nor does it look like threatening illness. There is some mental strain.” He at length approached his master, deferentially, yet with the air of one who intends to be heard. “I am sure, sir, it would do you a world of good if you were to ride out for an hour or two,” he said. “Thanks for your attention, Gilardoni, but I feel too weary.” “Indeed, sir, I believe if you were to have a breath of fresh air, it would make all the difference,” Gilardoni urged. “A canter along some of those leafy roads and lanes we saw as we passed in the train would clear the clouds off your brain. Forgive me if I make too free, but I think----” “What do you think?” demanded his master, a little sharply. “Well, sir--I hope you won’t be displeased--I think you are weary in mind, not in body.” Captain Desfrayne looked keenly at his servant for a moment or two, then the expression that had almost attained a frown melted into a sad smile. “You are not far wrong, Gilardoni,” he said, very quietly. “I have been very much troubled of late by--by business affairs.” “I trust, sir, you will not consider me intrusive.” “Certainly not, my good fellow. I think I ought to feel indebted to you for your kindly interest. I will take your advice, and go for a canter before mess.” His horse was soon waiting for him--the animal being one of the few luxuries Captain Desfrayne permitted himself out of his limited income. The Italian attended him to the gates of the barracks, and then stood gazing after him with the kind of interest and affection so often seen in the eyes of a faithful, attached Newfoundland dog. “What is the matter with him?” he thought. “Money-troubles, most likely. He doesn’t seem the kind of man to be crossed in love--unless the girl he wanted liked somebody else before she saw him. Perhaps that has happened. I hope he will come back a little more cheerful.” Gilardoni turned to go back to his master’s rooms. As he moved, a small, folded package lying a few steps from him caught his quick eye. He stooped and picked it up. Before opening it, as there was nothing on the outside of the thin tissue-paper to indicate who the owner might be, he felt it over with his fingers. “Feels like a small cross,” he said to himself. “I wonder if the captain dropped it when he pulled out his handkerchief just now.”