‘When is his time up?’ she persisted. ‘To get out of prison, I mean.’ ‘I don’t know; I really haven’t figured it up. There are enough things to worry about without troubling over him.’ In her excitement over the King’s attempted assassination she had almost forgotten the man of the grotto, but her uncle’s careless laugh brought back her terror. The man might at that very moment be watching them from the ilex grove. She cast a quick glance over her shoulder toward the open glass doors which led to the balcony. It was moonlight again. In contrast to the soft radiance of the marble-paved terrace, the ilex shadows were black with the sinister blackness of a pall. She looked down at her plate with a little shiver, and she sat through the rest of the meal in an agony of impatience to get up and move about. Once she roused herself to listen to the conversation. They were talking of the soldiers; a large detachment of carabinieri had been stationed at Palestrina, and the mountain roads were being patrolled. The carriage that night had passed two men on horseback stationed at the turning where the road to Castel Vivalanti branches off from the Via Prænestina. Mrs. Copley said something about its giving them a feeling of security at the villa to have so many soldiers near, and Melville replied that whatever the crimes of the Italian government, it at least looked after the safety of its guests, Marcia listened with a sigh of relief, and she rose from the table with an almost easy mind. They all adjourned to the salon for coffee, and as soon as she could speak to her uncle without attracting attention she touched him on the arm. ‘Come out on the loggia just a moment, Uncle Howard; I want to tell you something.’ He followed her in some surprise. She went down the steps and paused on the terrace, well out of ear-shot of the salon windows. ‘Uncle Howard, I saw the tattooed man to-day.’ Mr. Copley paused with a match in one hand and a cigar in the other. ‘Whereabouts?’ he asked. ‘Asleep in the ruined grotto.’ ‘Are you sure?’ ‘There was a crucifix tattooed upside down on his breast.’ ‘So!’ He examined the pavement in silence a moment, then he raised his head with an excited little laugh such as a hunter might give when hot on the scent. ‘Well! I thought I had done for him, but it appears not.’ He strode over to the salon windows. ‘Sybert—ah, Sybert,’ he called in a low tone, ‘just step out here a moment.’ Sybert joined them with a questioning look. Copley very deliberately scratched his match on the balustrade and lighted his cigar. ‘Tell your story, Marcia,’ he said between puffs. She felt a load of anxiety roll from her shoulders; if he could take the information as casually as this, it could not be very serious. She repeated the account of what she had seen, and the two men exchanged a silent glance. Copley gave another short laugh. ‘It appears that his Majesty and I are in the same boat.’