“I am much obliged to you,” said Wyant; “and I may as well tell you that the letter which you apparently expected to find in the lining of my hat is not there, but in my pocket.” He drew it out and handed it to its owner, who had grown very pale. “And now,” Wyant continued, “you will perhaps be good enough to tell me what all this means.” There was no mistaking the effect produced on Count Ottaviano by this request. His lips moved, but he achieved only an ineffectual smile. “I suppose you know,” Wyant went on, his anger rising at the sight of the other’s discomfiture, “that you have taken an unwarrantable liberty. I don’t yet understand what part I have been made to play, but it’s evident that you have made use of me to serve some purpose of your own, and I propose to know the reason why.” Count Ottaviano advanced with an imploring gesture. “Sir,” he pleaded, “you permit me to speak?” “I expect you to,” cried Wyant. “But not here,” he added, hearing the clank of the verger’s keys. “It is growing dark, and we shall be turned out in a few minutes.” He walked across the church, and Count Ottaviano followed him out into the deserted square. “Now,” said Wyant, pausing on the steps. The Count, who had regained some measure of self-possession, began to speak in a high key, with an accompaniment of conciliatory gesture. “My dear sir--my dear Mr. Wyant--you find me in an abominable position--that, as a man of honor, I immediately confess. I have taken advantage of you--yes! I have counted on your amiability, your chivalry--too far, perhaps? I confess it! But what could I do? It was to oblige a lady”--he laid a hand on his heart--“a lady whom I would die to serve!” He went on with increasing volubility, his deliberate English swept away by a torrent of Italian, through which Wyant, with some difficulty, struggled to a comprehension of the case.