ated how we might
discover the Paris address of the Graf von Lira. In a great city like
that it was no wonder Nino could not find them; but De Pretis hoped
that some of his pupils might be in correspondence with the
contessina, and would be willing to give the requisite directions for
reaching her. But days passed, and a letter came from Nino written
immediately after sending the telegram, and still we had accomplished
nothing. The letter merely amplified the telegraphic message.

"It is no use," I said to De Pretis. "And besides, it is much better
that he should forget all about it."

"You do not know that boy," said the maestro, taking snuff. And he was
quite right, as it turned out.

Suddenly Nino wrote from London. He had made an arrangement, he said,
by which he was allowed to sing there for three nights only. The two
managers had settled it between them, being friends. He wrote very
despondently, saying that although he had been far more fortunate in
his appearances than he had expected, he was in despair at not having
found the contessina, and had accepted the arrangement which took him
to London because he had hopes of finding her there. On the day which
brought me this letter I had a visitor. Nino had been gone nearly a
month. It was in the afternoon, towards sunset, and I was sitting in
the old green arm-chair watching the goldfinch in his cage, and
thinking sadly of the poor dear baroness, and of my boy, and of many
things. The bell rang and Mariuccia brought me a card in her thick
fingers which were black from peeling potatoes, so that the mark of
her thumb came off on the white pasteboard. The name on the card was
"Baron Ahasuerus Benoni," and there was no address. I told her to show
the signore into the sitting-room, and he was not long in coming. I
immediately recognised the man Nino had described, with his unearthly
freshness of complexion, his eagle nose, and his snow-white hair. I
rose to greet him.

"Signor Grandi," he said, "I trust you will pardon my intrusion. I am
much interested in your boy, the great tenor."

"Sir," I replied, "the visit of a gentleman is never an intrusion.
Permit me to offer you a chair." He sat down, and crossed one thin leg
over the other. He was dressed in the height of the fashion; he wore
patent-leather shoes, and carried a light ebony cane with a silver
head. His hat was perfectly new, and so smoothly brushed that it
reflected a circular image of the objects in the