nd though he was
comparatively a poor man, Guido had always managed to have what he
wanted in the way of surroundings.

He looked at the address on the note, prolonging his anticipation as
much as possible. He recognised the neat French envelope as one of those
the Countess always had on her table in a stamped leather paper-rack. He
felt it again, and was sure that it contained at least four sheets. It
was good of her to write so much, and he had not really expected
anything. He forgot that his head was aching, that he had a tiresome
pain in his bones, and could feel the fever pulse beating in his
temples.

He glanced at the door, and then raised the letter to his dry lips, with
a look of boyish pleasure. Five minutes later the crumpled pages were
crushed in his straining fingers, and he lay twisted to one side, his
face to the wall and half buried in the pillow. The grief of his life
had come upon him unawares, and he was not able to bear it. Even if he
had not been alone, he could not have hidden what he felt then.

After a long time he got up and softly locked the door. He felt very
dizzy as he came and lay down again. One of the crumpled sheets of
Cecilia's letter had fallen to the floor, the rest lay on the bed beside
him and under him.

He lay still, and when he shut his eyes he saw red waves coming and
going, for the fever was high, and the blood beat up under his ears as
if the arteries must burst.

In an hour his man knocked at the door, and almost at the same instant
turned the handle, for he was accustomed to be admitted at once.

"Go away!" cried Guido, in a hoarse voice that stuck in his throat.

The servant's footsteps echoed in the corridor, and there was silence
again, and time passed. Then the knock was repeated, very discreetly and
with no attempt to turn the handle. Guido answered with an oath.

But his man was not satisfied this time, and he stood still outside,
with a puzzled expression. He had never heard Guido swear at any one, in
all the years of his service, much less at himself. His master was
either in a delirium, or something very grave had happened which he had
learned by the letter. The doctor had said that he was not dangerously
ill, so it was not likely that he should be already raving with the
fever. The man went softly away to his pantry, where the telephone was,
shutting each door carefully behind him. There was nothing to be done
but to inform Lamberti at once, if he could be