to the foundations at the north-west corner, that while the work was going on even the little postern door was to be kept shut all day, and no one was to be admitted on any condition without Signor Malipieri’s express permission.  The fat Baron fixed his eyes on the porter’s with an oddly hard look, and said that he himself might come at any moment to see how the work was going on, and that if he found anybody inside the gate without Signor Malipieri’s authority, it would be bad for the porter.  During this conversation, Malipieri stood listening, and when it ended he nodded, as if he were satisfied, and after shaking hands with the Baron he went up the grand staircase without a word.

It was all very mysterious, and the porter shook his head as he turned into his lodge after fastening the postern; but he said nothing to his wife about what had passed.

From what he had been told, he now naturally expected that a number of masons would come in a day or two in order to begin the work of strengthening the foundations; but no one came, and everything went on as usual, except that the postern was kept shut.  He supposed that Malipieri was not ready, but he wisely abstained from asking questions.  Then Malipieri asked him for the address of Pompeo Sassi, and wrote it down in his pocket-book, and went out.  That was on the morning after he had dined at the Baron’s house, for it was not his habit to waste time when he wanted information.

Sassi received Malipieri in a little sitting-room furnished with a heterogeneous collection of utterly useless objects, all of which the old agent treasured with jealous affection, and daily recommended to the care of the elderly woman who was his only servant.  The sofa and chairs had been new forty years ago, and though the hideous red-and-green stuffs with which they were covered were still tolerably vivid in colours the legs did not look safe, and Malipieri kept his feet well under him and sat down cautiously.  Two rickety but well-dusted tables were loaded with ancient nicknacks, dating from the early part of the second French Empire, with impossibly ugly little figures carved out of cheap alabaster, small decayed photograph albums, and ingeniously bad wax flowers under glass shades.  On the walls hung bad lithographs of Pius Ninth, Napoleon Third and Metternich, with a large faded photograph of old Prince Conti as a young man.  Malipieri looked at it curiously, for he guessed that it represented Sabina’s father.  The face was clean-shaven, thin and sad, with deep eyes and fair hair that looked almost white now, as if the photograph had grown old with the man, while he had lived.

Sassi sat down opposite his visitor.  He wore a black cloth cap with a green tassel, and rubbed his hands slowly while he waited for Malipieri to speak.  The latter hesitated a moment and then went to the point at once.

“You were the agent of the Conti estate for many years,” he said.  “I know the Senator Volterra and have met Donna Sabina.  I understand that her mother has left her under the charge of the Senator’s wife, and seems to have forgotten her existence.  The young lady is apparently without resources of her own, and it is not clear what would become of her if the Volterra couple should not find it convenient to keep her with them.  Is that the state of affairs?”