He patiently examined Marcel’s fine samples of dyed wool. Apparently he was listening attentively, but his awakened intelligence, his piercing eyes under his half-closed eyelids were busied with that “something else,” of which Marcel had spoken so briefly. But nothing in the laboratory appeared to have any reference to that mysterious task, which demanded the manipulation of such dangerous products. “I should like you,” said the Italian, “to give me some of these beautiful cloths, of such a rich and harmonious colouring. I will take them to my sister, who can embroider like a fairy. She will start some magnificent piece of work, which will sooth her solitude, and thus you will see the effect of your colours, artistically employed.” “If you will permit me, I will bring them myself,” said Marcel. “As you please. We are always at home about five o’clock. But do not delay, for I shall soon be leaving the neighbourhood.” “Very well! To-morrow, if that will not inconvenience you?” “Not at all. To-morrow, then.” The Italian rose from his seat. He walked round the laboratory, and drew near the window overlooking the river. “Ah! You are close to the water here. You might even fish from the window, without descending into the garden. Are you not afraid of some one entering the laboratory? A few marauders in a boat could enter the summer-house.” “Who would ever think of such a thing!” exclaimed Marcel. “Besides, as is well known, there is nothing to take. And, then, the inhabitants of this district are very honest people.” “But have you no foreign employees at the works?” “Very seldom. A few from Belgium or from Luxembourg. As few as possible, for they are difficult to deal with.” “You do not live in this summer-house? You never sleep here?” “No; there is no convenience—simply a barn above the ground floor, that is all. I live in the house opposite the manager’s. It is small, but very comfortable. My uncle Graff lived there several months.” “You are very fortunate to have family relations,” said Cesare, in sorrowful tones. “My sister and I are alone—private dissensions have alienated us from the Briviescas. M. Vignola had no relations. We are obliged to be all in all to one another.” “Your sister is a young and charming lady. She may marry again.” “She never thinks of it. After all the sorrow caused by her union with M. Vignola, she aspires after nothing but peace and rest. Oh, she has suffered so much! The diseased and unhappy Vignola was madly jealous. He. could not endure his wife to be absent from him a single hour. He must have her constantly before his eyes. He left her a great fortune at his death. Poor compensation for all the tortures he inflicted on her! But now he is dead. Peace to his memory!” “Your sister has no children?” “No, sir; that is her greatest sorrow.”