"Signore, I have told you what I know," he answered gravely, tapping his great horn snuff-box and taking a pinch, tobacco being forbidden him by the rules of his Order. "I have told you what I know--and also what I suspect. You can make whatever use of the knowledge you like. Yolanda Romanelli is a handsome woman--as you will see for yourself if you meet her," he added in a strange reflective voice. "That means going down to Naples," I remarked. "Yes, go there. Be watchful, and you will discover something in progress which will interest you. But be careful. As an enemy she is dangerous." "But her husband, the Marquis? Does he know nothing?" Fra Pacifico hitched up the rope around his waist and made an impetuous gesture. "Poor fellow! He suspects nothing!" "Well, Pacifico," I said, "do be frank with me. How do you know all this?" "No," he replied. "There are certain things I cannot tell you--things which occurred in the past--before I took my vow and entered this place. I was once of your own world, Signor Hargreave. Now I am not. It is all of the past," he added in a hard, determined voice. "You have been in London. I feel sure of it, Pacifico," I said, for by his conversation he had often betrayed knowledge of England, and more especially of London. "Ah! I do not deny it," laughed the broad-faced, easy-going man, now again seated in his rush-bottomed chair. "I know your hotels in London--the Savoy, the Carlton, the Ritz, and the Berkeley. I've lunched and dined and supped at them all. I've shopped in Bond Street, and I've lost money at Ascot. Oh, yes!" he laughed. "I know your wonderful London! And now I have nothing in the world--not a soldo of my own. I am simply a Brother--and I am content," he said, with a strange look of peace and resignation. We who live outside the high monastery walls can never understand the delightful, old-world peace that reigns within--that big family of whom the father is the fat Priore, always indulgent and kind to his grown-up children, yet so very severe upon any broken rule. Fra Pacifico had that evening told me something which had placed me very much upon the alert. I had not been mistaken when I suspected that he might know something of the woman Yolanda Romanelli--the woman whom Rayne had sent me to inquire about--and I felt that I had done well to first inquire of my old friend. He had hinted certain things concerning the Marchesa, the gay leader of society in Rome, whose name was in the _Tribuna_ almost daily, and whose husband possessed a fine old palazzo in the Corso, as well as an official residence in Naples, where, in addition to being one of the most popular men in Italy, he was Admiral of the Port. "May I be forgiven for uttering those ill-words," exclaimed the monk, as though speaking to himself. "We are taught to forgive our enemies. But I cannot forgive her!" "Why?" I asked. "She has desecrated the house of God," he replied in a low tense voice.