room. But he had a
certain dignity that saved his foppery from seeming ridiculous.

"You are very kind," he answered. "Perhaps you would like to hear some
news of Signor Cardegna,--your boy, for he is nothing else."

"Indeed" I said, "I should be very glad. Has he written to you,
baron?"

"Oh, no! We are not intimate enough for that. But I ran on to Paris
the other day, and heard him three or four times, and had him to
supper at Bignon's. He is a great genius, your boy, and has won all
hearts."

"That is a compliment of weight from so distinguished a musician as
yourself," I answered; for, as you know, Nino had told me all about
his playing. Indeed, the description was his, which is the reason why
it is so enthusiastic.

"Yes," said Benoni, "I am a great traveller, and often go to Paris for
a day or two. I know everyone there. Cardegna had a perfect ovation.
All the women sent him flowers, and all the men asked him to dinner."

"Pardon my curiosity," I interrupted, "but as you know everyone in
Paris, could you inform me whether Count von Lira and his daughter are
there at present? He is a retired Prussian officer." Benoni stretched
out one of his long arms and ran his fingers along the keys of the
piano without striking them. He could just reach so far from where he
sat. He gave no sign of intelligence, and I felt sure that Nino had
not questioned him.

"I know them very well," he said, presently, "but I thought they were
here."

"No, they left suddenly for Paris a month ago."

"I can very easily find out for you," said Benoni, his Bright eyes
turning on me with a searching look. "I can find out from Lira's
banker, who is probably also mine. What is the matter with that young
man? He is as sad as Don Quixote."

"Nino? He is probably in love," I said, rather indiscreetly.

"In love? Then of course he is in love with Mademoiselle de Lira, and
has gone to Paris to find her, and cannot. That is why you ask me." I
was so much astonished at the quickness of his guesswork that I
stared, open-mouthed.

"He must have told you!" I exclaimed at last.

"Nothing of the kind. In the course of a long life I have learned to
put two and two together, that is all. He is in love, he is your boy,
and you are looking for a certain young lady. It is as clear as day."
But in reality he had guessed the secret long before.

"Very well," said I, humbly, but doubting him, all the same, "I can
only admire your perspicacity. But