Hilda looked up rather sharply from an illustrated newspaper she happened to be studying. She knew that he was not adhering strictly to the truth. From her point of vantage behind the newspaper she continued to watch Christian, and she realised during the minutes that followed, that this was indeed the brilliant young journalist of whose fame Farrar had spoken as already known in London. Signor Bruno's conversation with Mrs. Carew became at this moment somewhat muddled. “There, you see,” said Molly vivaciously, “we endeavour to interest him by retailing the simple annals of our neighbourhood, and his highness simply disbelieves us!” “Not at all,” Christian hastened to add, with a laugh. “It simply happened that I was surprised. It shall not occur again. But tell me, what sort of monastery is it? Dominican? Franciscan? Carmelite?--” “Oh, goodness! I do not know.” “Perhaps,” said Christian, advancing towards the Italian--“perhaps Signor Bruno can tell us.” “What is that, Mr. Vell'cott?” asked the old gentleman, making a movement as if about to raise his curved hand to his ear, but restraining himself upon second thoughts. Hilda noticed that, instead of raising his voice, Christian spoke in the same tone, or even lower, as he said: “We want some details of the establishment at Porton Abbey, Signor Bruno.” The old gentleman made a little grimace expressive of disgust, at the same time spreading out his hands as if to ward off something hurtful. “Ach!” he said, “do not ask me. I know nothing of such people, and wish to learn no more. It is to them that my poor country owes her downfall. No, no; leave them alone. I always take care of myself against--against--what you say--_ces gens-là_!” Christian awaited the answer in polite silence, and, when Signor Bruno had again turned to Mrs. Carew, he looked across the room towards Hilda with the same expression of vacant composure that she had noticed on a previous occasion. The accent with which Signor Bruno had spoken the few words of French was of the purest Parisian, entirely free from the harshness which an Italian rarely conquers. After dinner Hilda went out of the open window into the garden alone. Christian, who had seated himself at a small table in the drawing-room, did not move. Sidney and his mother were talking with the Italian. The young journalist was stooping over a book, a vase of flowers stood in front of him, but by the movement of his arm it appeared as if he were drawing instead of reading. Presently a faint, low whistle came from the garden. Though soft, the sound was very clear, and each note distinctly given. It was like the beginning of a refrain which broke off suddenly and was repeated. Signor Bruno gave a little start and a quick upward glance. “What is that?” he asked, with a little laugh, as if at the delicacy of his own nerves.