adonna of the wind, or
the sea, or the stars. I call her 'Madonna del farniente'--the saint
for weary people, whose bodies and brains both ache from too much
work."

They climbed aloft presently, Doria in a holiday suit of
golden-brown cloth with a ruby tie, and Brendon attired in tweeds,
his luncheon in his pocket. Then the Italian's manner changed and he
dropped his banter. Indeed for a time he grew silent.

Brendon opened the conversation and of course treated the other as
though no question existed concerning his honesty.

"What do you think of this business?" he asked. "You have been
pretty close to it for a long time now. You must have some theory."

"I have no theory at all," replied Doria. "My own affairs are enough
for me and this cursed mystery is thrusting a finger into my life
and darkening it. I grow a very anxious and miserable man and I
will tell you why, because you are understanding. You must not be
angry if I now mention my wife in this affair. A mill and a woman
are always in want of something, as our proverb says; but though we
may know what a mill requires, who can guess a woman's whims? I am
dazed with guessing wrong. I don't intend to be hard or cruel. It is
not in me to be cruel to any woman. But how if your own woman is
cruel to you?"

They had reached the shrine--a little alcove in a rotting mass of
brick and plaster. Beneath it extended a stone seat whereon the
wayfarer might kneel or sit; above, in the niche, protected by a
wire grating, stood a doll painted with a blue cloak and a golden
crown. Offerings of wayside flowers decorated the ledge before the
little image.

They sat down and Doria began to smoke his usual Tuscan cigar. His
depression increased and with it Brendon's astonishment. The man
appeared to be taking exactly that attitude to his wife she had
already suggested toward him.

"Il volto sciolto ed i pensieri stretti," declared Giuseppe with
gloom. "That is to say 'her countenance may be clear, but her
thoughts are dark'--too dark to tell me--her husband."

"Perhaps she fears you a little. A woman is always helpless before a
man who keeps his own secrets hidden."

"Helpless? Far from it. She is a self-controlled, efficient,
hard-headed woman. Her loveliness is a curtain. You have not yet got
behind that. You loved her, but she did not love you. She loved me
and married me. And it is I who know her character, not you. She is
very clever and pretends a great deal more