“‘Il Conte del Ferice,’” he read slowly.  “Do you happen to know that gentleman, my good sir?” he inquired, turning to the Prince, and looking keenly at him over his glasses.

“Certainly,” answered Saracinesca, beginning to understand the situation.  “I know him very well.”

“Ah, that is good!” said the priest.  “He was here two years ago, and had those same entries concerning Giovanni Saracinesca copied.  Probably—­certainly, indeed—­the papers you have there are the very ones he took away with him.  When he came to see me about it, he gave me this card.”

“I wonder he did,” answered Saracinesca.

“Indeed,” replied the curate, after a moment’s thought, “I remember that he came the next day—­yes—­and asked to have his card returned.  But I could not find it for him.  There was a hole in one of my pockets—­it had slipped down.  Carmela, my old servant, found it a day or two later in the lining of my cassock.  I thought it strange that he should have asked for it.”

“It was very natural.  He wished you to forget his existence.”

“He asked me many questions about Giovanni,” said the priest, “but I could not answer him at that time.”

“You could answer now?” inquired the Prince, eagerly.

“Excuse me, my good sir; what relation are you to Giovanni?  You say you are from Rome?”

“Let us understand each other, Signor Curato,” said Saracinesca.  “I see I had better explain the position.  I am Leone Saracinesca, the prince of that name, and the head of the family.”  The priest bowed respectfully at this intelligence.  “My only son lives with me in Rome—­he is now there—­and his name is Giovanni Saracinesca.  He is engaged to be married.  When the engagement became known, an enemy of the family attempted to prove, by means of these papers, that he was married already to a certain Felice Baldi.  Now I wish to know who this Giovanni Saracinesca is, where he is, and how he comes to have my son’s name.  I wish a certificate or some proof that he is not my son,—­that he is alive, or that he is dead and buried.”

The old priest burst into a genial laugh, and rubbed his hands together in delight.

“My dear sir—­your Excellency, I mean—­I baptised Felice Baldi’s second baby a fortnight ago!  There is nothing simpler—­”

“I knew it!” cried the Prince, springing from his chair in great excitement; “I knew it!  Where is that baby?  Send and get the baby at once—­the mother—­the father—­everybody!”

“Subito! At once—­or come with me.  I will show you the whole family together,” said the curate, in innocent delight.  “Splendid children they are, too.  Carmela, my cloak—­sbrigati, be quick!”

“One moment,” objected Saracinesca, as though suddenly recollecting something.  “One moment, Sign or Curato; who goes slowly goes safely.  Where does this man come from, and how does he come by his name?  I would like to know something about him before I see him.”