She began her survey accompanied by Guntello and Utta. But when she came to the nursery and schoolroom she sent the two away, told them to wait for her in the peristyle, shut herself in and had a long, hard cry; precisely as if she had been, as of old, a little girl hurt or angry or vexed. After she had wept till no more tears flowed she felt relieved and comforted. She called Utta, had her bring water, bathed her face and sent the maid away again. Then she resolutely examined room after room. The second floor took a long while, for there were many doors to open and close for the last time. There was a third floor, a feature possessed by few dwellings in Rome in ancient times. The Imperial Palace, which later towered to even seven stories, was unique in Brinnaria’s time, in the possession of five superposed floors. The great palace of Sallust, near the Salarian Gate, had but three. To the third floor she mounted. Before she had investigated half the rooms she found a door fast. What was more, as she tried it, she thought she heard a sound, as of human movement, inside that room. Brinnaria was no weakling. Methodically she tried that door with her full, young strength, tried it all along its edge opposite its hinges, tried it at the middle, at the top, at the bottom. She made sure the door was not stuck or jammed; she was convinced that it was bolted within the room. She leaned over the railing of the gallery and called Guntello. The odd note in her voice brought that faithful giant up the stairs, two steps at a time; the beams of the house, even the marble steps of the stair, seemed to quiver under his tread. She had him try the door. He agreed that it was bolted. “Can you break it in?” she queried. Guntello laughed. “Without half trying, little Mistress,” he replied. Brinnaria’s voice came hard and sharp. “You in that room!” she called, “unbolt that door and come out, or it will be the worse for you. I’ll count ten and then order the door burst open.” She began to count. She heard the bolt shot back. She nodded to Guntello. He gave the door a push. Before them stood Calvaster, his attitude and countenance expressing cringing cowardice, cloaked by ill-assumed effrontery. He did not speak, trying to appear unconcerned. “What are you doing in my house?” Brinnaria demanded. “I do not wonder that you are astonished to see me here and angry as well,” Calvaster replied, “but the explanation is simple. I learned that you were proposing to sell the property. I had a curiosity to see it as it is. I found means to slip in and go over the building. I counted on leaving before you arrived. I miscalculated, that is all. Awkward for both of us, but unintentional on my part.” “I don’t believe half of that rigmarole,” snapped Brinnaria. “It is all true, nevertheless,” Calvaster asserted with an air of injured innocence. “One thing is plain, anyhow,” Brinnaria declared. “You bribed one of my slaves. Which one did you bribe?”