"But," persisted Harley, "think again. Was there no lady well acquainted with Italian, and with whom, perhaps, for that very reason, your wife became familiar?" "Ah, it is true. There was one old lady of retired habits, but who had been much in Italy. Lady--Lady--I remember--Lady Jane Horton." "Horton--Lady Jane!" exclaimed Harley; "again! thrice in one day--is this wound never to scar over?" Then, noting Riccabocca's look of surprise, he said, "Excuse me, my friend; I listen to you with renewed interest. Lady Jane was a distant relation of my own; she judged me, perhaps harshly--and I have some painful associations with her name; but she was a woman of many virtues. Your wife knew her?" "Not, however, intimately--still, better than any one else in London. But Paulina would not have written to her; she knew that Lady Jane had died shortly after her own departure from England. I myself was summoned back to Italy on pressing business; she was too unwell to journey with me as rapidly as I was obliged to travel; indeed, illness detained her several weeks in England. In this interval she might have made acquaintances. Ah, now I see; I guess. You say the name began with B. Paulina, in my absence, engaged a companion; it was at my suggestion--a Mrs. Bertram. This lady accompanied her abroad. Paulina became excessively attached to her, she knew Italian so well. Mrs. Bertram left her on the road, and returned to England, for some private affairs of her own. I forget why or wherefore; if, indeed, I ever asked or learned. Paulina missed her sadly, often talked of her, wondered why she never heard from her. No doubt it was to this Mrs. Bertram that she wrote!" "And you don't know the lady's friends or address?" "No." "Nor who recommended her to your wife?" "No." "Probably Lady Jane Horton?" "It may be so. Very likely." "I will follow up this track, slight as it is." "But if Mrs. Bertram received the communication, how comes it that it never reached--O, fool that I am, how should it! I, who guarded so carefully my incognito!" "True. This your wife could not foresee; she would naturally imagine that your residence in England would be easily discovered. But many years must have passed since your wife lost sight of this Mrs. Bertram, if their acquaintance was made so soon after your marriage; and now it is a long time to retrace--long before even your Violante was born." "Alas! yes. I lost two fair sons in the interval. Violante was born to me as the child of sorrow." "And to make sorrow lovely! how beautiful she is!" The father smiled proudly. "Where, in the loftiest house of Europe, find a husband worthy of such a prize?" "You forget that I am still an exile--she still dowerless. You forget that I am pursued by Peschiera; that I would rather see her a beggar's wife--than--Pah, the very thought maddens me, it is so foul. _Corpo di Bacco!_ I have been glad to find her a husband already." "Already! Then that young man spoke truly?"