"I don't believe it. I can't believe it," he declared, as the remembrance of her passionate declarations of love flooded his mind. If what her ladyship alleged were actually the truth, then all her ingenuousness had been artificial; all her words of devotion feigned and meaningless; all her kisses false; all mere hollow shams for the purpose of deceiving and ensnaring him for some ulterior object. "Until I have proof of Gemma's perfidy and deceit, I will believe no word against her," he declared decisively. "You desire proof?" the old woman said, her wizened face growing more cruel as her eyes again met his. "Well, you shall have it at once;" and, rising, she crossed to a small escritoire, and took from it a large panel portrait, which she placed before him. "Read the words upon this," she said, with an evil gleam in her vengeful gaze. He took the picture with trembling hands, and read the following, written boldly across the base:-- "T'invio la mia fotografia, cosi ti sara sempre presente la mia efige, che ti obblighera a ricordarmi. Tua aff.--Gemma Luisa Funaro." The photograph was by Alvino, of Florence, from the same negative as the one at that moment upon the table in his chambers. The handwriting was undoubtedly that of a woman he loved dearer than life. Charles Armytage stood pale and speechless. Indeed, it was a hideous truth. CHAPTER NINETEEN. A SECRET DESPATCH. At noon next day Count Castellani, the Italian Ambassador to the Court of St James, stood at the window of his private room gazing out upon cabs and carriages passing and repassing around Grosvenor Square. In his hand was a secret and highly important despatch which had only ten minutes before arrived from Rome by special messenger. His brows were knit, and he was pondering deeply over it. He stroked his grey beard and sighed, murmuring to himself-- "Extraordinary! Most extraordinary! If I had suspected such a complication as this, I should have never accepted this Embassy. True, this is the highest office in our diplomatic service--an office which I have coveted ever since I was a young attache at Brussels. And now that I have fame in my own country, and honour among these English, I am unable to enjoy it. Ah! the fruits of life are always bitter--always!"