d it been offered to him.

"Where have you been?" Artois asked him.

"Signore, I have been all over the Piazza di Masaniello and the Mercato.
I have been through all the streets near by. I have been down by the
harbor. And the Signorina?"

He stared at Artois searchingly above his glass. His face was covered
with perspiration.

"I only saw her for a moment. She went to bed almost immediately."

"And that Signore?"

"He has gone home."

Gaspare was silent for a minute. Then he said:

"If I had met that Signore--" He lifted his right hand, which was lying
on the table, and moved it towards his belt.

He sighed, and again looked hard at Artois.

"It is better that I did not meet him," he said, with naive conviction.
"It is much better. The Signorina is not for him."

Artois was sitting opposite to him, with the table between them.

"The Signorina is not for him," repeated Gaspare, with a dogged
emphasis.

His large eyes were full of a sort of cloudy rebuke and watchfulness.
And as he met them Artois felt that he knew what Gaspare had thought.
He longed to say, "You are wrong. It is not so. It was never so." But he
only said:

"The Signore Marchese will know that to-morrow."

And as he spoke the words he was conscious of an immense sensation of
relief which startled him. He was too glad when he thought of the final
dismissal of the Marchesino.

Gaspare nodded his head and put his glass to his lips. When he set it
down again it was empty. He moved to get up, but Artois detained him.

"And so you met Ruffo to-night?" he said.

Gaspare's expression completely changed. Instead of the almost cruel
watcher, he became the one who felt that he was watched.

"Si, Signore."

"Just when the balloon went up?"

"Si, Signore. They were beside me in the crowd."

"Was he alone with his mother?"

"Si, Signore. Quite alone."

"Gaspare, I have seen Ruffo's mother."

Gaspare looked startled.

"Truly, Signore?"

"Yes. I saw her with him one day at the Mergellina. She was crying."

"Perhaps she is unhappy. Her husband is in prison."

"Because of Peppina."

"Si."

"And to-night you spoke to her for the first time?"

Artois laid a strong emphasis on the final words.

"Signore, I have never met her with Ruffo before."

The two men looked steadily at each other. A question that could not be
evaded, a question that would break like a hammer upon a mutual silence
of years, was almost upon Artois' lips. Per