"I'd pinned my faith that the whole horrid thing might be capable of
explanation along some other lines. But the blood was proved to be
human?"

"Yes."

"Another secret for the sea, then, as far as Pendean is concerned.
And as for Robert, only doomsday will tell where his bones lie."

"I also feel very little doubt indeed that he is dead."

A few minutes later a gong sounded from beneath and the two men
descended to their meal. It was Giuseppe Doria who did the talking
while they ate a substantial dinner. He proved a great egotist and
delighted to relate his own picturesque ambitions, though he had
already confessed that these ambitions were modified.

"We are a race that once lorded it over western Italy," he declared.
"Midway inland, between Ventimiglia and Bordighera, is our old
fastness beneath the mountains and beside the river. An ancient
bridge like a rainbow still spans Nervia, and the houses climb up
the hills among the vines and olives, while frowning down upon all
things is the mighty ruin of the Doria's castle--a great ghost from
the past. In the midst of all the human business and bustle, removed
by a century from the concerns of men, it stands, hollow and empty,
with life surging round about, like the sea on the precipices below
us. The folk throng everywhere--the sort of humble people who of old
knelt hatless to my ancestors. The base born wander in our chambers
of state, the villagers dry their linen on our marble floors,
children play in the closets of great counsellors, bats flutter
through the casements where princesses have sat and hoped and
feared!

"My people," he continued, "have sunk through many a stage and very
swiftly of late. My grandfather was only a woodman, who brought
charcoal from the mountains on two mules; my uncle grew lemons at
Mentone and saved a few thousand francs for his wife to squander.
Now I alone remain--the last of the line--and the home of the Doria
has long stood in the open market.

"With the fortress also goes the title--that is our grotesque
Italian way. A pork butcher or butter merchant might become Count
Doria to-morrow if he would put his hand deep enough in his pocket.
But salvation lies this way: that though the property and title are
cheap, to restore the ruin and make all magnificent again would
demand a millionaire."

He chattered on and after dinner lighted another of his Tuscan
cigars, drank a liqueur of some special brandy Mr. Redmayne produced