“As you know, I’m going to spend the day in the red man’s haunt,” explained Mark, “and I’ll call at supper time since you wish it; but before you go, I’ll ask you to stroll along for an hour.  I want to talk to you.”

“That will suit me very well,” said the other, and in half an hour he returned to Brendon, found him chatting with Jenny in the dark portal of the silkworm house, and drew him away.

“You shall have speech with her to-night after supper,” promised Giuseppe.  “Now it is my turn.  We will ascend to the little shrine on the track above the orchards.  There are shrines too many to the Holy Mother, my friend.  But this one is not to Madonna of the wind, or the sea, or the stars.  I call her ’Madonna del farniente’—­the saint for weary people, whose bodies and brains both ache from too much work.”

They climbed aloft presently, Doria in a holiday suit of golden-brown cloth with a ruby tie, and Brendon attired in tweeds, his luncheon in his pocket.  Then the Italian’s manner changed and he dropped his banter.  Indeed for a time he grew silent.

Brendon opened the conversation and of course treated the other as though no question existed concerning his honesty.

“What do you think of this business?” he asked.  “You have been pretty close to it for a long time now.  You must have some theory.”

“I have no theory at all,” replied Doria.  “My own affairs are enough for me and this cursed mystery is thrusting a finger into my life and darkening it.  I grow a very anxious and miserable man and I will tell you why, because you are understanding.  You must not be angry if I now mention my wife in this affair.  A mill and a woman are always in want of something, as our proverb says; but though we may know what a mill requires, who can guess a woman’s whims?  I am dazed with guessing wrong.  I don’t intend to be hard or cruel.  It is not in me to be cruel to any woman.  But how if your own woman is cruel to you?”

They had reached the shrine—­a little alcove in a rotting mass of brick and plaster.  Beneath it extended a stone seat whereon the wayfarer might kneel or sit; above, in the niche, protected by a wire grating, stood a doll painted with a blue cloak and a golden crown.  Offerings of wayside flowers decorated the ledge before the little image.

They sat down and Doria began to smoke his usual Tuscan cigar.  His depression increased and with it Brendon’s astonishment.  The man appeared to be taking exactly that attitude to his wife she had already suggested toward him.

“Il volto sciolto ed i pensieri stretti,” declared Giuseppe with gloom.  “That is to say ’her countenance may be clear, but her thoughts are dark’—­too dark to tell me—­her husband.”

“Perhaps she fears you a little.  A woman is always helpless before a man who keeps his own secrets hidden.”