“That, Stefan,” said Natalie’s mother, with courage, “is a small matter, surely, compared with the possibility of your letting this man go to his death unjustly.  You would countenance, then, an act of private revenge?  That is the use you would let the powers of your Society be put to?  That is not what Janecki, what Rausch, what Falevitch looked forward to.”

The taunt was quite lost on him; he was calmly regarding Natalie.  She had not stirred.  After that one outburst of despairing appeal there was no more for her to say or to do.  She could wait, mutely, and hear what the fate of her lover was to be.

“Unfortunately,” said the general, turning and looking up at the vast pink frontage of the villa, “There are no papers here that one can appeal to.  I only secured the temporary use of the villa, as being a more fitting place than some to receive the signorina your daughter.  But it is possible the Secretary may remember something; he has a good memory.  Will you excuse me, Natalie, for a few moments?”

He strode away toward the house.  The mother went over to her daughter, and put a hand on her shoulder.

“Courage, Natalushka!  You must not despair yet.  Ah, my old friend Stefan has a kind heart; there were tears in his eyes when he turned away from your appeal to him.  He does not forget old associates.”

Von Zoesch almost immediately returned, still looking preoccupied.  He drew Natalie’s mother aside a few steps, and said,

“This much I may tell you, Natalie:  in the proceedings four were concerned—­your husband, Mr. Brand, Beratinsky, Reitzei.  What do you know of these last two?”

“I?  Alas, Stefan, I know nothing of them!”

“And we here little.  They are your husband’s appointment.  I may also tell you, Natalie, that the Secretary is also of my opinion, that it is very unlikely your husband would be so audacious as to repeat his offence of former years, by conspiring to fix this duty on this man to serve his own interests.  It would be too audacious, unless his temper had outrun his reason altogether.”

“But you must remember, Stefan,” she said, eagerly, “that there was no one in England who knew that former story.  He could not imagine that I was to be, unhappily, set free to go to my daughter—­that I should be at her side when this trouble fell on her—­”

“Nevertheless,” said he, gently interrupting her, “you have appealed to us:  we will inquire.  It will be a delicate affair.  If there has been any complicity, any unfairness, to summon these men hither would be to make firmer confederates of them than ever.  If one could get at them separately, individually—­”

He kept pressing his white mustache into his teeth with his forefinger.

“If Calabressa were not such a talker,” he said, absently.  “But he has ingenuity, the feather-brained devil.”

“Stefan, I could trust everything to Calabressa,” she said.