‘I’ve been sleeping for the last twenty-four hours, Mrs. Copley, and I really don’t need any more sleep at present,’ he protested laughingly, but with a slight air of embarrassment. It was a peculiar trait of Sybert’s that he never liked to be made the subject of conversation, which was possibly the reason why he had been made the subject of so many conversations. This reticence when speaking of himself or his own feelings, struck the beholder as somewhat puzzling. It had always puzzled Marcia, and had been one reason why she had been so persistent in her desire to find out what he was really like. The party shortly assembled for dinner, the women in the coolest of light summer gowns, the men in white linen instead of evening dress. They went into the dining-room without affording Marcia a chance to catch her uncle alone. The meal did not pass off very gaily. Assassinations were served with the soup, bread riots with the fish, and hypothetical robberies and plots with the further courses; while Pietro presided with a sinister obsequiousness which added darkly to the effect. In vain Mrs. Copley tried to turn the conversation into pleasanter channels. The men were too stirred up to talk of anything else, and the threatened tragedy of the day was rehearsed in all its bearings. The assassin had dashed out from the crowd that lined the driveway and sprung to the side of the royal carriage before any of the bystanders had realized what was happening. The white-haired aide-de-camp sitting at his Majesty’s side was the first to see, and springing to his feet, he struck the man fiercely in the face just as he raised his arm. Had it not been for the aide-de-camp’s quick action, the man would have plunged his stiletto into the King’s heart. Mrs. Copley and Mrs. Melville shuddered, and Marcia leaned forward listening with wide eyes. ‘Right on the Pincio, mind you.’ Melville in his excitement thumped the table until the glasses rang. ‘Not a chance of the fellow’s getting off. Scarcely a chance of his accomplishing his purpose. He knew he would be taken. Shouted, “_Viva libertà!_” as the soldiers grabbed him—I swear it beats me what these fellows are after. “_Viva libertà!_” That’s what they cried when they put the House of Savoy on the throne, and now they’re trying to pull it off again with the same cry.’ ‘I fear the seeds of revolution are sown pretty thick in Italy,’ said Copley. ‘Where aren’t there the seeds of revolution to-day?’ Melville groaned. ‘Central Africa is only waiting a government in order to overturn it.’ ‘By the way,’ interpolated Copley, ‘the assassin is a friend of Sybert’s.’ ‘A friend of Sybert’s!’ Marcia echoed the words before she considered their form. Sybert caught the expression and smiled slightly. ‘Not a very dear friend, Miss Marcia. I first made his acquaintance, I believe, on the day that you discovered Marcellus.’ ‘How did that happen?’ Mrs. Copley asked. ‘I heard him talking in a café.’