men like Leone and Giovanni Saracinesca.  She gradually convinced herself that their indifference was a pretence, and that they were accomplices in the matter, their object being to gain Corona with all her fortune for Giovanni’s wife.  But, at the same time, Donna Tullia felt in the depths of her heart a misgiving:  she was clever enough to recognise, even in spite of herself, the difference between a liar and an honest man.

She must get possession of these papers—­and immediately too; there must be no delay in showing them to Corona, and in convincing her that this was no mere fable, but an assertion founded upon very substantial evidence.  Del Ferice was suddenly gone to Naples:  obviously the only way to get at the papers was to bribe his servant to deliver them up.  Ugo had once or twice mentioned Temistocle to her, and she judged from the few words he had let fall that the fellow was a scoundrel, who would sell his soul for money.  Madame Mayer drove home, and put on the only dark-coloured gown she possessed, wound a thick veil about her head, provided herself with a number of bank-notes, which she thrust between the palm of her hand and her glove, left the house on foot, and took a cab.  There was nothing to be done but to go herself, for she could trust no one.  Her heart beat fast as she ascended the narrow stone steps of Del Ferice’s lodging, and stopped upon the landing before the small green door, whereon she read his name.  She pulled the bell, and Temistocle appeared in his shirt-sleeves.

“Does Count Del Ferice live here?” asked Donna Tullia, peering over the man’s shoulder into the dark and narrow passage within.

“He lives here, but he is gone to Naples,” answered Temistocle, promptly.

“When will he be back?” she inquired.  The man raised his shoulders to his ears, and spread out the palms of his hands to signify that he did not know.  Donna Tullia hesitated.  She had never attempted to bribe anybody in her life, and hardly knew how to go about it.  She thought that the sight of the money might produce an impression, and she withdrew a bank-note from the hollow of her hand, spreading it out between her fingers.  Temistocle eyed it greedily.

“There are twenty-five scudi,” she said.  “If you will help me to find a piece of paper in your master’s room, you shall have them.”

Temistocle drew himself up with an air of mock pride.  Madame Mayer looked at him.

“Impossible, signora,” he said.  Then she drew out another.  Temistocle eyed the glove curiously to see if it contained more.

“Signora,” he repeated, “it is impossible.  My master would kill me.  I cannot think of it.”  But his tone seemed to yield a little.  Donna Tullia found another bank-note; there were now seventy-five scudi in her hand.  She thought she saw Temistocle tremble with excitement.  But still he hesitated.

“Signora, my conscience,” he said, in a low voice of protestation.