w and
unsuspected danger. In a flash it seemed to her that since Corbario was
in the house, he might very possibly enter suddenly and take Settimia's
defence. Regina was not afraid of him, but she was only a woman after
all, and Corbario was not a man to stop at trifles. He was very likely
armed, and would perhaps shoot her, in order to make good his escape
with Settimia, unless, as was quite probable, he killed his old
accomplice too, before leaving the room.

Regina stood still a moment, reflecting on the dangerous situation. It
certainly would not be safe to release Settimia yet; for if Corbario
were really in the house, the two together could easily overpower one
woman, though she was strong.

"I am sorry that I cannot untie you yet," Regina said, and with a glance
at the prostrate figure she took up her candle-stick, stuck her pin
through her hair before the mirror, and went to the door.

She took the key from the lock, put it back on the outside, and turned
it, and put it into her pocket when she had shut the door after her.
Then she slowly descended the stairs, stopping now and then to listen,
and shading her candle with her hand so that she could see over it, for
she expected to be attacked at any moment. At the slightest sound she
would have snatched her pin from her hair again, but she heard nothing,
and went cautiously down till she reached the vestibule outside the
sitting-room. She entered the latter and sat down to think.

Should she boldly search the house? Settimia could hardly have had any
object in lying. If she had meant to frighten Regina, she would have
spoken very differently. She would have made out that Corbario was
almost within hearing, waiting in a dark corner with a loaded revolver.
But her words had been the cry of truth, uttered to save her life at the
moment when death was actually upon her. She would have screamed out the
truth just as certainly if Corbario had already left Rome, or if he were
in some hotel for the night--or even if she had really known nothing. In
the last case Regina would have believed her, and would have let her go.
There is no mistaking the accent of mortal terror, whether one has ever
heard it or not.

Corbario was somewhere in the house, Marcello's enemy, and the man she
herself had long hated. A wild longing came over her to have him in her
power, bound hand and foot like Settimia, and then to torment him at her
pleasure until he died. She felt the strength o