"Well," she said as they passed into one of the small rooms then unoccupied, for the guests were already departing--"well, why have you been so long away?" "I had no incentive to stay in England," he said. "I find life much more amusing on the Continent, and I'm a bit of a Bohemian, you know." "When you are in love--eh?" she laughed. Her words stabbed him, and he frowned. "If I want a wife, I suppose I can find one in London," he snapped, rather annoyed. "But it was love which kept you in Tuscany so long," she observed with sarcasm. "Because you love Gemma Fanetti." He started in surprise. "How did you know?" he inquired. "News of that sort travels quickly," the old lady answered, glancing at him craftily. "It is to be regretted." "Why?" "Because a woman of her character could never become your wife, Charles," she replied after a moment's hesitation. "Take my advice; think no more of her." Strange, he pondered, how every one agreed that her past would not bear investigation, yet all seemed to conspire against him to preserve the secret. "We have already parted," he said in a low voice. On many previous occasions they had spoken together confidentially. At that moment a man-servant entered, glanced quickly across the room, and noticing with whom his mistress was conversing, turned and rapidly made his exit. Armytage was seated with his back to the door, therefore did not notice that the eminently respectable servant was none other than the man in whose company he had shot down in Berkshire--the jovial Malvano. That evening the movements of the village doctor of Lyddington had been somewhat mysterious. He had arrived about dinner-time as an extra hand, and had served refreshments in the shape of champagne-cup, coffee, sandwiches and biscuits to the hungry ones--and it is astonishing how hungry and thirsty people always are at other people's houses, even if they have only finished dinner half an hour before. His face was imperturbable, his manner stiff, and the style in which he handled plates and glasses perfect. One incident, at least, would have struck the onlooker as curious. While standing behind the improvised buffet serving champagne, Count Castellani, the Italian Ambassador, a tall, striking figure with his dozen or so orders strung upon a tiny golden chain in his lapel, approached and demanded some wine. Malvano opened a fresh bottle, and while pouring it out His Excellency exclaimed in a low half-whisper in Italian-- "To-morrow at twelve, at the Embassy." "Si, signore," the other answered without raising his head, apparently still engrossed in pouring out the wine. "You're still on the alert?" asked the Ambassador in an undertone. "Si, signore." "Good! To-morrow I must have a consultation with you," answered His Excellcncy, tossing off the wine.