But the men thanked Temistocle, and said they wanted none, which was just as well, since Temistocle had no idea of giving them any.  He retired, however, to the small kitchen which belongs to every Roman lodging, and made a great clattering with the coffee-pot.  Presently he slipped into Del Ferice’s bedroom, and extracted from a dark corner a shabby black bag, which he took back with him into the kitchen.  From the kitchen window ran the usual iron wire to the well in the small court, bearing an iron traveller with a rope for drawing water.  Temistocle, clattering loudly, hooked the bag to the traveller and let it run down noisily; then he tied the rope and went out.  He had carefully closed the door of the sitting-room, but he had been careful to leave the door which opened upon the stairs unlatched.  He crept noiselessly out, and leaving the door still open, rushed down-stairs, turned into the little court, unhooked his bag from the rope, and taking it in his hand, passed quietly out into the street.  The coachman was dozing upon the box of the carriage which still waited before the door, and would not have noticed Temistocle had he been awake.  In a moment more the Neapolitan was beyond pursuit.  In the Piazza di Spagna he hailed a cab and drove rapidly to Donna Tullia’s house, where he paid the man and sent him away.  The servants knew him well enough, for scarcely a day passed without his bringing some note or message from his master to Madame Mayer.  He sent in to say that he must speak to his master on business.  Del Ferice came out hastily in considerable agitation, which was by no means diminished by the sight of the well-known shabby black bag.

Temistocle glanced round the hall to see that they were alone.

“The forza—­the police,” he whispered, “are in the house, Eccellenza.  Here is the bag.  Save yourself, for the love of heaven!”

Del Ferice turned ghastly pale, and his face twitched nervously.

“But—­” he began, and then staggering back leaned against the wall.

“Quick—­fly!” urged Temistocle, shaking him roughly by the arm.  “It is the Holy Office—­you have time.  I told them you would be back, and they are waiting quietly—­they will wait all night.  Here is your overcoat,” he added, almost forcing his master into the garment—­“and your hat—­here!  Come along, there is no time to lose.  I will take you to a place where you can dress.”

Del Ferice submitted almost blindly.  By especial good fortune the footman did not come out into the hall.  Donna Tullia and her guests had finished dinner, and the servants had retired to theirs; indeed the footman had complained to Temistocle of being called away from his meal to open the door.  The Neapolitan pushed his master out upon the stairs, urging him to use all speed.  As the two men hurried along the dark street they conversed in low tones.  Del Ferice was trembling in every joint.

“But Donna Tullia,” he almost whined.  “I cannot leave her so—­she must know—­”