Rome," she breathed at last,
with a long-drawn sigh.

"You are right, madam," responded a voice close at hand, the sound of
which caused the woman to press her clasped hands hard upon her
heaving bosom, though she gave no other sign of being startled.

The next moment she turned and faced the speaker.

It was Gerald Goddard.

"I heard no one approaching--I thought I was alone," she said, as she
lifted those wonderful eyes of hers to his.

He shrank from her glance as under a lightning flash that had burst
upon him unawares.

But quickly recovering himself, he courteously remarked:

"Pardon me--I trust I have not startled you."

"Only momentarily," she replied; then added: "I was admiring this
painting; it is very lovely and--most faithfully portrays the scene
from which it was copied."

"Ah! you recognize the--the locality?"

"Perfectly."

"You--you have been in--Rome?" the man faltered.

"Oh, yes."

"Recently?"

There was a sort of breathless intensity about the man as he asked
this question.

"No; I was in Rome--in the year 18--."

At this response, Gerald Goddard involuntarily put out his hand and
laid it upon the balustrade, near which he was standing, while he
gazed spell-bound into the proud, beautiful face before him, searching
it with wild, eager eyes.

After a moment he partially recovered himself, and remarked:

"Is it possible? I myself was in Rome during the same year and painted
this picture at that time. Were--were you in the city long?" he
concluded, in a voice that trembled in spite of himself.

"From January until--until June."

For the second time that evening Mr. Goddard suppressed a groan with a
cough.

"Ah! It is a singular coincidence, is it not, that I also was there
during those months?" he finally managed to articulate.

"A coincidence?" his companion repeated, with a slight lifting of her
shapely brows, a curious gleam in her eyes. Then throwing back her
head with an air of defiance which was intensified by the glitter of
those magnificent stones which crowned her lustrous hair, and with a
peculiar cadence ringing through her tones, she observed: "Rome is a
lovely city--do you not think so? And, as it happened, I resided in a
delightful portion of it. Possibly you may remember the locality. It
was a charming little house, with beautiful trees--oleander, orange,
and fig--growing all around the spacious court. This pretty ideal home
was Number 34, Via Nationale."