ld man possessed some power
over his daughter after all and could prevent her flight if he chose.
There were yet nearly two hours left before the train started. If worst
came to worst, Orsino could still get to the station at the last minute
and leave Rome with her.

He took a passing cab and drove to Spicca's lodgings. The count was at
home, writing a letter by the light of a small lamp. He looked up in
surprise as Orsino entered, then rose and offered him a chair.

"What has happened, my friend?" he asked, glancing curiously at the
young man's face.

"Everything," answered Orsino. "I love Madame d'Aranjuez, she loves me,
she absolutely refuses to marry me and she is going to Paris at a
quarter to ten. I know she is your daughter and I want you to prevent
her from leaving. That is all, I believe."

Spicca's cadaverous face did not change, but the hollow eyes grew bright
and fixed their glance on an imaginary point at an immense distance, and
the thin hand that lay on the edge of the table closed slowly upon the
projecting wood. For a few moments he said nothing, but when he spoke he
seemed quite calm.

"If she has told you that she is my daughter," he said, "I presume that
she has told you the rest. Is that true?"

Orsino was impatient for Spicca to take some immediate action, but he
understood that the count had a right to ask the question.

"She has told me that she does not know her mother's name, and that you
killed her husband."

"Both these statements are perfectly true at all events. Is that all you
know?"

"All? Yes--all of importance. But there is no time to be lost. No one
but you can prevent her from leaving Rome to-night. You must help me
quickly."

Spicca looked gravely at Orsino and shook his head. The light that had
shone in his eyes for a moment was gone, and he was again his habitual,
melancholy, indifferent self.

"I cannot stop her," he said, almost listlessly.

"But you can--you will, you must!" cried Orsino laying a hand on the old
man's thin arm. "She must not go--"

"Better that she should, after all. Of what use is it for her to stay?
She is quite right. You cannot marry her."

"Cannot marry her? Why not? It is not long since you told me very
plainly that you wished I would marry her. You have changed your mind
very suddenly, it seems to me, and I would like to know why. Do you
remember all you said to me?"

"Yes, and I was in earnest, as I am now. And I was wrong in telling