Vassalla was upstairs, in a private sitting-room, enjoying his breakfast, when Monteith's card was sent to him. Carmela had gone out with Sir Mark and his daughter, so the Marchese felt perfectly secure against the chance of Ronald meeting her. He dreaded the meeting, because disagreeable explanations might be made which would reconcile the lovers, and ruin all his carefully prepared schemes. As he looked at the card thoughtfully, he was rapidly running over in his mind the reasons which might make Ronald thus seek him. No feasible one, however, presenting itself to him, he told the waiter to show the gentleman up, and quietly went on with his breakfast. "He has some reason for coming," he muttered, quietly; "and I'll find it out; don't trouble yourself Mr. Monteith--friend or enemy, I'm equal to either." He arose from his seat with an enigmatical smile on his face as the Australian entered, and held out his hand. The other took it with a slight reluctance which was noticed by the clever Maltese gentleman. "Hum!" he thought; "not quite friendly, I see." Ronald took a seat, declined the offer of breakfast and prepared to talk. "Miss Cotoner is out," he said, coldly. "Yes, with Sir Mark Trevor and his charming daughter," replied Vassalla. "Do you wish to see her?" "No; I want to see you." "Me?" the foreigner's eyebrows went up. "Well, I am at your disposal." "It is about that murder that took place on board the 'Neptune,'" said Ronald, going straight to the point. "Ah, indeed!" said said the Marchese, quietly; "a most interesting subject. Have you discovered anything yet?" "Yes, many things." "Such as will lead to the detection of the assassin, I presume?" "I don't know," answered Ronald, shortly. "That's a pity; can I assist you in any way?" "I think you can." "Then you may command my services," replied the Marchese, politely. "Thank you; I will take advantage of your offer," said Ronald, glancing at the impassive face before him. Vassalla bowed, folded his arms, and leaning back in his chair, prepared to listen. "In the first place," said Ronald, "you knew him?" Vassalla shook his head. "No; I had not the honour of M. Ventin's acquaintance." "His name was not Ventin." "Indeed!" "No; it was Leopold Verschoyle." "Leopold Verschoyle," repeated the Marchese, looking at him sharply; "that was the name of the man who married my cousin." "Yes, and from whom he was afterwards divorced." "Exactly," said Vassalla. "I see you know the whole story; so he is the man who was killed?" "He was, and I want to find out who killed him." The eyebrows went up again incredulously. "I hope you will succeed," said Vassalla, politely, "but in what way can I help you?" "Do you know anyone who desired his death?" "No. "Not even his--wife?" Vassalla rose to his feet with a bound, and looked fiercely at Ronald. "This is an insult, sir," he hissed out between his teeth. "Do you dare to accuse my cousin of the murder?"