To do the bravo credit he stuck to his lie with admirable dexterity. Clearly enough he understood that Forli’s gratitude for his perverted tale would far offset any anger of mine. He swore circumstantially that I had summoned him to an interview that afternoon, had represented that Bari was crossing me in the matter of a lady; and then we had arranged for the Archbishop’s removal. He named places, persons, and times with inimitable plausibility. The exalted rank of his questioner disturbed him not the least. When asked as to his experience in such matters, he looked upon Bari with capital nonchalance, and avowed that “he had helped eleven better than Monsignore into purgatory,--praised be Santo Paolo!--for had he not learned his art in the school of _il illustrissimo_ Caesare Borgia?” When all direct attempts to shake his story had failed, the Pope turned on me. “And now your denial, Conte?” “As before. I swear I did not employ this cut-throat. His story is a tissue of lies.” “He said you talked with him at your lodgings before you left for Chigi’s. If you did not, who were with you at that time, to substantiate your denial?” “I will not deceive your Holiness, only my own servants.” “And where were you before that?” “At the palazzo of the Cardinale di Forli.” “And who was there?” I felt the flush mount to my temples. I never cursed my German blood as I cursed it then. Why did my tongue trip at a well-placed lie? I knew my reputation for blunt Northern veracity. Why dared I not trade on it? “Madonna Marianna, of course,” I answered, sparring for time. “Naturally; and the Forli servants, and some of your own, perhaps. Who else?” “I do not recollect. I was not there long.” But the words did not come boldly; and simultaneously I saw Bari’s keen face flash from me to Forli, then back with a sudden gleam of intelligence. “I demand a better answer, your Holiness,” he thrust in. “The Conte is not making a full answer. He _does_ recollect. Command that he declare upon his honor whom he saw at that palazzo.” “Can you answer the Archbishop?” said the Pope, with unwonted firmness. He was a shrewd judge of men when once aroused. I looked His Holiness fairly in the eye. “I regret to pique Monsignore’s curiosity,” I said, “but I cannot reply to his question.” You could have counted twelve ere any in the company spoke a word. They had all pressed near to catch my disclosure. Not one could miss the point of the question and answer. Forli was looking downward sheepishly. I knew he was execrating my hesitancy to prevaricate. Then the Pope began again--ominously gentle. “I trust you appreciate the unfortunate results of withholding anything. If you cannot swear you saw no stranger at the Cardinal’s, whom did you see? Describe as precisely as possible if you cannot identify him.” I glanced furiously at Rocca and Forli. I was more angry at their involving me in their fell project, than fearful of its consequences.