denly.
That was all I heard."

"She did not die a natural death."

"Indeed?"

"She poisoned herself. She could not bear the life. It was very
dreadful." Francesca's voice sank to a low tone.

Lord Redin was silent for a few moments, and his bony face had a grim
look. Perhaps something in the dead woman's last act appealed to him, as
nothing in her life had done.

"Tell me, please. I should like to know. After all, she was my
daughter."

"Yes," said Francesca, gravely. "She was your daughter. She was very
unhappy with Paul Griggs, and she found out very soon that she had made
a dreadful mistake. She loved her husband, after all."

"Like a woman!" interjected Lord Redin, half unconsciously.

Francesca paid no attention to the remark, except, perhaps, that she
raised her eyebrows a little.

"They went out to spend the summer at Subiaco--"

"At Subiaco?" Dalrymple's steely blue eyes fixed themselves in a look of
extreme attention.

"Yes, during the heat. They lodged in the house of a man called
Stefanone--a wine-seller--a very respectable place."

Lord Redin had started nervously at the name, but he recovered himself.

"Very respectable," he said, in an odd tone.

"You know the house?" asked Francesca, in surprise.

"Very well indeed. I was there nearly five and twenty years ago. I
supposed that Stefanone was dead by this time."

"No. He and his wife are alive, and take lodgers."

"Excuse me, but how do you know all this?" asked Lord Redin, with sudden
curiosity.

"I have been there," answered Francesca. "I have often been to the
convent. You know that one of our family is generally abbess. A
Cardinal Braccio was archbishop, too, a good many years ago. Casa
Braccio owns a good deal of property there."

"Yes. I know that you are of the family."

"My name was Francesca Braccio," said Francesca, quietly. "Of course I
have always known Subiaco, and every one there knows Stefanone, and the
story of his daughter who ran away with an Englishman many years ago,
and never was heard of again."

Lord Redin grew a trifle paler.

"Oh!" he exclaimed. "Does every one know that story?"

There was something so constrained in his tone that Francesca looked at
him curiously.

"Yes--in Subiaco," she answered. "But Gloria--" she lingered a little
sadly on the name--"Gloria wrote letters to her husband from there and
begged him to go and see her."

"He could hardly be expected to do that," said Lord Redin, his h