"Ah! that would be the best thing that could happen to Italy," she declared with a look of wisdom. "Montelupo is my father's enemy; he seeks to fetter him in every action, in order that his reputation as a diplomat may be ruined, so that the King may be forced to send him his letters of recall. Truly the post of Ambassador in London is no sinecure." Gemma was silent. She hesitated and shuddered, Carmenilla noticed it, and asked her if she were cold. "No, no," she answered quickly. "It is quite warm and cosy here." The light played on her smooth skin to admiration, and the colour changed in her excited face. At luncheon, served with that stateliness which characterised the whole of the Ambassador's household, they chatted on, as women will chat, of dress, of books, of plays, and of the latest gossip from Florence and Rome, the two centres of Italian society. They were eating their dessert, when the hall-porter entered bearing a card upon the salver. Carmenilla glanced at it, smiled, and rose to excuse herself. "A visitor!" Gemma exclaimed. "Who is it?" Her friend hesitated, blushing ever so faintly. "An Englishman," she answered. "I won't be more than ten minutes. Try and amuse yourself, won't you, dear? Go back to the boudoir and play. I know you love music." And she left the room hurriedly. The card was still lying beside her plate, and Gemma, in curiosity reached forward and took it up. In an instant, however, she cast it from her. The man who had called was Frank Tristram. In order not to attract the undue attention of the grave-faced man who stood silent and immovable before the great carved oak buffet, she finished her apple leisurely, sipped the tiny cup of coffee, dipped the tips of her fingers in the silver-rimmed bowl of rose-scented water, and rising, passed out along the corridor back to the warm, cosy little room where they had passed such a pleasant hour. She had detected Carmenilla's flushed cheeks, and had suspicion that this caller was no ordinary friend. This man, whose murderous fingers had not long ago clutched themselves around her own throat, was a friend of this smart, slim girl who was so admired in London society. She stood silent in the centre of the little room, her heart beating wildly, wondering whether she might, without arousing suspicion, retrace her steps along that long, thickly carpeted corridor and secure the document which Montelupo required. The voices of servants sounded outside, and she knew that at present to approach and unlock the door unobserved was impossible. Therefore she advanced to the grate, and spreading out her chilly, nervous hands to the fire, waited, determined to possess herself in patience. Even now she felt inclined to draw back because of the enormous risk she ran. Castellani was not her friend. If he knew, he might give her over to the English police as a common thief. Her face was of death-like pallor at that moment of indecision. Again she shuddered.