a rusty clang, and the friends began to
descend the steep way that leads down from the Porta San Pancrazio to
the Via Garibaldi.

"Why did you say that to the nun?" asked Guido.

"Are you past praying for?" enquired Lamberti, with a careless and
good-natured laugh.

"It is not like you," said Guido.

"I do not pretend to be more consistent than other people, you know. Are
you going directly to the Princess's?"

"No. I must go home first. The old lady would never forgive me if I went
to see her without a silk hat in my hand."

"Then I suppose I must dress, too," said Lamberti. "I will leave you at
your door, and drive home, and we can meet at your aunt's."

"Very well."

They walked down the street and found a cab, scarcely speaking again
until they parted at Guido's door.

He lived alone in a quiet apartment of the Palazzo Farnese, overlooking
the Via Giulia and the river beyond. The afternoon sun was still
streaming through the open windows of his sitting room, and the warm
breeze came with it.

"There are two notes, sir," said his servant, who had followed him. "The
one from the Princess is urgent. The man wished to wait for you, but I
sent him away."

"That was right," said Guido, taking the letters from the salver. "Get
my things ready. I have visits to make."

The man went out and shut the door. He was a Venetian, and had been in
the navy, where he had served Lamberti during the affair in China.
Lamberti had recommended him to his friend.

Guido remained standing while he opened the note. The first was an
engraved invitation to a garden party from a lady he scarcely knew. It
was the first he had ever received from her, and he was not aware that
she ever asked people to her house. The second was from his aunt,
begging him to come to tea that afternoon as he had promised, for a very
particular reason, and asking him to let her know beforehand if anything
made it impossible. It began with "Dearest Guido" and was signed "Your
devoted aunt, Anatolie." She was evidently very anxious that he should
come, for he was generally her "dear nephew," and she was his
"affectionate aunt."

The handwriting was fine and hard to read, though it was regular. Some
of the letters were quite unlike those of most people, and many of them
were what experts call "blind."

Guido d'Este read the note through twice, with an expression of dislike,
and then tore it up. He threw the invitation upon some others that lay
in a