then. It is a modern invention, but a very good one." He lit
a cigarette. "I wish your Liras were in Tophet," he continued,
presently. "How can people have the bad taste to hide? It only makes
ingenious persons the more determined to find them." He seemed
talkative, and as I was so sad and lonely I encouraged him by a little
stimulus of doubt. I wish I had doubted him sooner, and differently.

"What is the use?" I asked. "We shall never find them."

"'Never' is a great word,'" said Benoni. "You do not know what it
means. I do. But as for finding them, you shall see. In the first
place, I have talked with their banker. He says the count gave the
strictest orders to have his address kept a secret. But, being one of
my people he allowed himself to make an accidental allusion which gave
me a clue to what I wanted. They are hidden somewhere in the
mountains."

"Diavolo! among the brigands: they will not be very well treated,"
said I.

"The old man will be careful. He will keep clear of danger. The only
thing is to find them."

"And what then?" I asked.

"That depends on the most illustrious Signor Cardegna," said Benoni,
smiling. "He only asked you to find them. He probably did not
anticipate that I would help you."

It did not appear to me that Benoni had helped me much, after all. You
might as well look for a needle in a haystack as try to find anyone
who goes to the Italian mountains. The baron offered no further
advice, and sat calmly smoking and looking at me. I felt uneasy,
opposite him. He was a mysterious person, and I thought him disguised.
It was really not possible that, with his youthful manner, his hair
should be naturally so white, or that he should be so old as he
seemed. I asked him the question we always find it interesting to ask
foreigners, hoping to lead him into conversation.

"How do you like our Rome, Baron Benoni?"

"Rome? I loathe and detest it," he said, with a smile. "There is only
one place in the whole world that I hate more."

"What place is that?" I asked, remembering that he had made the same
remark to Nino before.

"Jerusalem," he answered, and the smile faded on his face. I thought I
guessed the reason of his dislike in his religious views. But I am
very liberal about those things.

"I think I understand you," I said; "you are a Hebrew, and the
prevailing form of religion is disagreeable to you."

"No, it is not exactly that,--and yet, perhaps, it is." He seemed to
be pond