Masin had been sent to Elba to the penitentiary, had been a “good-behaviour man” from first to last, and his term had been slightly abridged in consequence.  When he was discharged, he went back to the north.  Malipieri had found him working as a mason when some repairs were being made in the cathedral of Milan, and had taken a fancy to him.  Masin had told his story simply and frankly, explaining that he found it hard to get a living at all since he had been a convict, and that he was trying to save enough money to emigrate to New York.  Malipieri had thought over the matter for a week, speaking to him now and then, and watching him, and had at last proposed to take him into his own service.  Later, Masin had helped Malipieri to escape, had followed him into exile, and had been of the greatest use to him during the excavations in Carthage, where he had acted as body-servant, foreman, and often as a trusted friend.

He was certainly not an accomplished valet, but Malipieri did not care for that.  He was sober, he was honest, he was trustworthy, he was cool in danger, and he was very strong.  Moreover, he was an excellent and experienced mason, a fact of little or no use in the scientific treatment of shoes, trousers, silk hats, hair-brushes and coffee, but which had more than once been valuable to Malipieri during the last few years.  Finally, his gratitude to the man who had believed in his innocence was deep and lasting.  Masin would really have given his life to save Malipieri’s, and would have been glad to give it.

He set the lamp down on the table, and waited for orders, his blue eyes quietly fixed on his master.

“I never saw that gentleman before,” said Malipieri, setting some papers in order, under the bright light, but still standing.  “Did you look at his face?”

“Yes, sir,” answered Masin, and waited.

“What sort of man should you take him to be?”

“A spy, sir,” replied Masin promptly.

“I think you are right,” Malipieri answered.  “We will begin work to-morrow morning.”

“Yes, sir.”

Malipieri ate his supper without noticing what Masin brought him, and then installed himself with his shaded lamp at his work-table.  He took from the drawer a number of sketches of plans and studied them attentively, by a rather odd process.

He had drawn only one plan on heavy paper, in strong black lines.  An architect would have seen at once that it represented a part of the foundations of a very large building; and two or three persons then living in Rome might have recognized the plan of the cellars under the north-west corner of the Palazzo Conti—­certainly not more than two or three, one of whom was the snuffy expert who had come from beyond the Tiber, and another was Baron Volterra.  Toto, the mason, could have threaded the intricate ways in the dark, but could assuredly have made nothing of the drawings.  On the other hand, the persons who were acquainted with them did not know what Toto knew, and he was not at all inclined to impart his knowledge to any one, for reasons best known to himself.