the
woods beyond Rocca di Papa, peasant carting barrels of Frascati wine,
or perhaps a _frate_ from the convent. However, he dared not attempt
it as the signorino had said "Wait."

After a few minutes of miserable uncertainty, during which he invoked
the assistance of the saints--"_Che fare! Che fare! Santa Vergine,
aiutatemi!_" he decided to go and find the signorino himself. He was
half way down the lane when he heard shots. He had been hurrying, but
he began to run then, and the last echo had not died away when he
reached the gate of the Villino. It creaked on its hinges as he passed
in, but no one in the house was listening for it now. He went in at
the door, and now he was very swift and silent, very intent. There was
a smell of powder in the passage, and someone was moving about in the
room beyond. Vincenzo felt for the long sharp knife in his hip pocket
before he softly turned the handle of the door.

"Signore! What has happened?"

Filippo Tor di Rocca started violently and uttered a sort of cry as he
turned to see the man who stood on the threshold staring at him. There
was a queer silence before he spoke, moistening his lips at almost
every word.

"I--I--you heard shots, I suppose."

The servant's quick eyes noted the recent disorder of the room: chairs
overturned, white splinters of plaster fallen from the ceiling, a
mirror broken. Into what trap had his master fallen? What was there
hidden behind the table--on the floor? There were scrabbled
finger-marks--red marks--in the dust.

"I was here with a lady whom I wished to take this house when a man
burst in upon us. He shot her, and tried to shoot me, and I drew upon
him in self-defence." The Prince spoke haltingly. He had not been
prepared to lie so soon.

"What are you doing with that cushion?"

Filippo looked down guiltily at the frilled thing he held. "I was
going to put it under her head," he began, but the other was not
listening. He had come forward into the room and he had seen. The
huddled heap of black and grey close at the Prince's feet was human--a
woman--and he knew the young pale face, veiled as it was in brown,
loosened hair threaded with gold. A woman; and the man who lay there
too, his dark head resting on her breast, his lips laid against her
throat, was his master, Jean Avenel.

He uttered a hoarse cry of rage. "Murderer! You did it!"

But Tor di Rocca had recovered himself somewhat and the bold, hard
face was a mask through whi