‘What has Miss Lockwood to do with it?’

’She has everything to do with it—­she must sleep in the room.  I shall give the room up to her when she comes here.’

Francis began to understand the superstitious purpose that she had in view.  ’Are you (an educated woman) really of the same opinion as my sister’s maid!’ he exclaimed.  ’Assuming your absurd superstition to be a serious thing, you are taking the wrong means to prove it true.  If I and my brother and sister have seen nothing, how should Agnes Lockwood discover what was not revealed to us?  She is only distantly related to the Montbarrys—­she is only our cousin.’

’She was nearer to the heart of the Montbarry who is dead than any of you,’ the Countess answered sternly.  ’To the last day of his life, my miserable husband repented his desertion of her.  She will see what none of you have seen—­she shall have the room.’

Francis listened, utterly at a loss to account for the motives that animated her.  ’I don’t see what interest you have in trying this extraordinary experiment,’ he said.

’It is my interest not to try it!  It is my interest to fly from Venice, and never set eyes on Agnes Lockwood or any of your family again!’

‘What prevents you from doing that?’

She started to her feet and looked at him wildly.  ’I know no more what prevents me than you do!’ she burst out.  ’Some will that is stronger than mine drives me on to my destruction, in spite of my own self!’ She suddenly sat down again, and waved her hand for him to go.  ‘Leave me,’ she said.  ‘Leave me to my thoughts.’

Francis left her, firmly persuaded by this time that she was out of her senses.  For the rest of the day, he saw nothing of her.  The night, so far as he knew, passed quietly.  The next morning he breakfasted early, determining to wait in the restaurant for the appearance of the Countess.  She came in and ordered her breakfast quietly, looking dull and worn and self-absorbed, as she had looked when he last saw her.  He hastened to her table, and asked if anything had happened in the night.

‘Nothing,’ she answered.

‘You have rested as well as usual?’

’Quite as well as usual.  Have you had any letters this morning?  Have you heard when she is coming?’

’I have had no letters.  Are you really going to stay here?  Has your experience of last night not altered the opinion which you expressed to me yesterday?’

‘Not in the least.’

The momentary gleam of animation which had crossed her face when she questioned him about Agnes, died out of it again when he answered her.  She looked, she spoke, she ate her breakfast, with a vacant resignation, like a woman who had done with hopes, done with interests, done with everything but the mechanical movements and instincts of life.

Francis went out, on the customary travellers’ pilgrimage to the shrines of Titian and Tintoret.  After some hours of absence, he found a letter waiting for him when he got back to the hotel.  It was written by his brother Henry, and it recommended him to return to Milan immediately.  The proprietor of a French theatre, recently arrived from Venice, was trying to induce the famous dancer whom Francis had engaged to break faith with him and accept a higher salary.