COLLECTING herself sufficiently to know that she must not cry out or alarm her aunt, Marcia hurried to the front staircase and stood a moment on the landing, hesitating what to do. Sybert was lounging in the doorway leading on to the loggia. She leaned over the balustrade and called to him softly so as not to attract the attention of the others. He turned with a start at the sound of his name, and in response to her summons crossed the hall in his usual leisurely stroll. But at the foot of the stairs, as he caught sight of her face in the dim candle-light, he came springing up three steps at a time. ‘What’s the matter? What’s happened?’ he cried. ‘Gerald!’ Marcia breathed in a sobbing whisper. ‘Gerald!’ he repeated, anxious lines showing in his face. ‘Good heavens, Marcia! What’s happened?’ ‘I don’t know; he’s gone,’ she said wildly. ‘Come up here, where Aunt Katherine won’t hear us.’ She led the way up into the hall again and explained in broken sentences. Sybert turned without a word and strode back to Gerald’s room. He stood upon the threshold, looking at the empty little crib and tossed pillows. ‘It will simply kill Uncle Howard and Aunt Katherina if anything has happened to him,’ Marcia faltered. ‘Nothing has happened to him,’ Sybert returned shortly. ‘The scoundrels wouldn’t dare steal a child. Every police spy in Italy would be after them. He must be with Bianca somewhere.’ He turned away from the room and went on down the stone passage toward the rear of the house. He paused at the head of the middle staircase, thinking the matter over with frowning brows, while Marcia anxiously studied his face. As they stood there in the dim moonlight that streamed in through the small square window over the stairs they suddenly heard the patter of bare feet in the passage below, and in another moment Gerald himself came scurrying up the winding stone stairway, looking like a little white rat in the dimness. Marcia uttered a cry of joy, and Sybert squared his shoulders as if a weight had dropped from them. Their second glance at the child’s face, however, told them that something had happened. His little white nightgown was draggled with dew, his face was twitching nervously, and his eyes were wild with terror. He reached the top step and plunged into Marcia’s arms with a burst of sobbing. ‘Gerald, Gerald, what’s the matter? Don’t make such a noise. Hush, dear; you will frighten mamma. Marcia won’t let anything hurt you. Tell me what’s the matter.’ Gerald clung to her, crying and trembling and pouring out a torrent of unintelligible Italian. Sybert bent down, and taking him in his arms, carried him back to his own room. ‘No one’s going to hurt you. Stop crying and tell us what’s the matter,’ he said peremptorily.