nsignor Montanelli, then?"

"No, I didn't know that he had anything to do with it. What he told me
was about--all that affair with the spy, and about----"

"About my striking Arthur and his drowning himself. Well, I will tell
you about Montanelli."

They turned back towards the bridge over which the Cardinal's carriage
would have to pass. Gemma looked out steadily across the water as she
spoke.

"In those days Montanelli was a canon; he was Director of the
Theological Seminary at Pisa, and used to give Arthur lessons in
philosophy and read with him after he went up to the Sapienza. They were
perfectly devoted to each other; more like two lovers than teacher and
pupil. Arthur almost worshipped the ground that Montanelli walked on,
and I remember his once telling me that if he lost his 'Padre'--he
always used to call Montanelli so--he should go and drown himself. Well,
then you know what happened about the spy. The next day, my father and
the Burtons--Arthur's step-brothers, most detestable people--spent the
whole day dragging the Darsena basin for the body; and I sat in my room
alone and thought of what I had done----"

She paused a moment, and went on again:

"Late in the evening my father came into my room and said: 'Gemma,
child, come downstairs; there's a man I want you to see.' And when we
went down there was one of the students belonging to the group sitting
in the consulting room, all white and shaking; and he told us about
Giovanni's second letter coming from the prison to say that they had
heard from the jailer about Cardi, and that Arthur had been tricked in
the confessional. I remember the student saying to me: 'It is at least
some consolation that we know he was innocent' My father held my hands
and tried to comfort me; he did not know then about the blow. Then I
went back to my room and sat there all night alone. In the morning my
father went out again with the Burtons to see the harbour dragged. They
had some hope of finding the body there."

"It was never found, was it?"

"No; it must have got washed out to sea; but they thought there was a
chance. I was alone in my room and the servant came up to say that a
'reverendissimo padre' had called and she had told him my father was at
the docks and he had gone away. I knew it must be Montanelli; so I ran
out at the back door and caught him up at the garden gate. When I said:
'Canon Montanelli, I want to speak to you,' he just stopped and waited
silentl