sent them was not an easy business; it was impossible to introduce a spy into the banking-house in Florence, and among the many drafts daily bought and sold, it was almost impossible to identify, without the aid of the banker’s books, the person who chanced to buy any particular one.  The addresses were, it is true, uniformly written by the same hand; but the writing was in no way peculiar, and was certainly not that of any prominent person whose autograph the Cardinal possessed.

The next step was to get possession of some letter written by Del Ferice himself, and, if possible, to intercept everything he wrote.  But although the letters containing the drafts were regularly opened, and, after having been examined and sealed again, were regularly transmitted through the post-office to Ugo’s address, the expert persons set to catch the letters he himself wrote were obliged to own, after three weeks’ careful watching, that he never seemed to write any letters at all, and that he certainly never posted any.  They acknowledged their failure to the Cardinal with timid anxiety, expecting to be reprimanded for their carelessness.  But the Cardinal merely told them not to relax their attention, and dismissed them with a bland smile.  He knew, now, that he was on the track of mischief; for a man who never writes any letters at all, while he receives many, might reasonably be suspected of having a secret post-office of his own.  For some days Del Ferice’s movements were narrowly watched, but with no result whatever.  Then the Cardinal sent for the police register of the district where Del Ferice lived, and in which the name, nationality, and residence of every individual in the “Rione” or quarter were carefully inscribed, as they still are.

Running his eye down the list, the Cardinal came upon the name of “Temistocle Fattorusso, of Naples, servant to Ugo dei Conti del Ferice:”  an idea struck him.

“His servant is a Neapolitan,” he reflected.  “He probably sends his letters by way of Naples.”

Accordingly Temistocle was watched instead of his master.  It was found that he frequented the society of other Neapolitans, and especially that he was in the habit of going from time to time to the Ripa Grande, the port of the Tiber, where he seemed to have numerous acquaintances among the Neapolitan boatmen who constantly came up the coast in their “martingane”—­heavy, sea-going, lateen-rigged vessels, bringing cargoes of oranges and lemons to the Roman market.  The mystery was now solved.  One day Temistocle was actually seen giving a letter into the hands of a huge fellow in a red woollen cap.  The sbirro who saw him do it marked the sailor and his vessel, and never lost sight of him till he hoisted his jib and floated away down stream.  Then the spy took horse and galloped down to Fiumicino, where he waited for the little vessel, boarded her from a boat, escorted by a couple of gendarmes, and had no difficulty in