in the Church; and an aunt
of Count Ottaviano's was Mother Superior of the Visitandine convent in
Siena. At one time it had been said that Count Ottaviano, who was a most
amiable and accomplished young man, was to marry the daughter of the
strange Englishman, Doctor Lombard, but difficulties having arisen as to
the adjustment of the young lady's dower, Count Celsi-Mongirone had very
properly broken off the match. It was sad for the young man, however,
who was said to be deeply in love, and to find frequent excuses for
coming to Siena to inspect his mother's estate.

Viewed in the light of Count Ottaviano's personality the story had a
tinge of opera bouffe; but the next morning, as Wyant mounted the stairs
of the House of the Dead Hand, the situation insensibly assumed another
aspect. It was impossible to take Doctor Lombard lightly; and there was
a suggestion of fatality in the appearance of his gaunt dwelling. Who
could tell amid what tragic records of domestic tyranny and fluttering
broken purposes the little drama of Miss Lombard's fate was being played
out? Might not the accumulated influences of such a house modify the
lives within it in a manner unguessed by the inmates of a suburban villa
with sanitary plumbing and a telephone?

One person, at least, remained unperturbed by such fanciful problems;
and that was Mrs. Lombard, who, at Wyant's entrance, raised a placidly
wrinkled brow from her knitting. The morning was mild, and her chair had
been wheeled into a bar of sunshine near the window, so that she made a
cheerful spot of prose in the poetic gloom of her surroundings.

"What a nice morning!" she said; "it must be delightful weather at
Bonchurch."

Her dull blue glance wandered across the narrow street with its
threatening house fronts, and fluttered back baffled, like a bird with
clipped wings. It was evident, poor lady, that she had never seen beyond
the opposite houses.

Wyant was not sorry to find her alone. Seeing that she was surprised
at his reappearance he said at once: "I have come back to study Miss
Lombard's picture."

"Oh, the picture--" Mrs. Lombard's face expressed a gentle
disappointment, which might have been boredom in a person of acuter
sensibilities. "It's an original Leonardo, you know," she said
mechanically.

"And Miss Lombard is very proud of it, I suppose? She seems to have
inherited her father's love for art."

Mrs. Lombard counted her stitches, and he went on: "It's unusual