At the close of his second selection the young violinist came over to her, with that look of devoted allegiance which cannot be imitated, and the princess held out her hand for him to kiss.  “I am so pleased with your success,” she said to him.  “Come, I want to present you to the Duchessa Astarte, who was much delighted with your playing.”  Smiling, she led him away.

The young man traversed the rooms with perfect ease and unconsciousness—­this peasant boy who four years previously had run ragged and barefooted, begging for soldos from the tourists who were driving out to Torre Sansevero!  From one of the doorways Sansevero watched them. “Per Dio, she is wonderful, my Leonora!” he exclaimed to the Countess Masco, whom he had taken to the supper room.  “Look what she has made of that ragamuffin!  You Americans are an extraordinary people.”  The countess, as she watched the prince’s open admiration of his wife, showed the finest, the most generous side of her cheerful nature.  Her expression was scarcely less admiring than his own.

“I’d like well enough to take all the credit for my country,” she returned, with her usual good humor, “but in Eleanor’s case it is the woman and not the nationality that is wonderful——­” Then she added brusquely, “I’m glad you appreciate her.”  The next moment she tossed the topic aside and discoursed noisily of the latest Roman gossip.

About this time the Count and Countess Olisco were announced.  Seeing Derby, who had arrived just ahead of them, Zoya walked up to him without hesitation or manoeuvre.  “I should like to talk to you,” she said; “will you take me to a seat?  There is one over there.”

He gave her his arm and led her to a sofa at the far end of the room.  “Have you been out to Torre Sansevero?” she asked when they had sat down.

“No.  We had planned to motor out next week, but I must go to Sicily to-morrow, so the motor trip is postponed until I come back.  You asked as though you had something special in mind.  Had you?”

“Yes.  I might as well tell you—­though maybe you know—­there is a rumor that a Sansevero painting—­the Raphael Madonna—­has been sold out of the country.  The way I know is secret; but through somebody connected with the Government I have learned that there are grave suspicions against the prince.”

Derby gave her his full attention, but said nothing.  “Everybody knows,” continued the contessa, “that he has spent all his wife’s money in gambling, and that they have sold everything that is not covered by the family entail.”  Her listener did not know it, but his face betrayed no surprise.  “This picture, they say, has been smuggled out of the country to a rich American.”  Her face grew troubled and she spoke lower and more distinctly.  “I do not find it possible to think that Sansevero did such a thing.  He is weak, if you like; he would fall into temptation; he might gamble or make love to a pretty woman”—­she shrugged her shoulders—­“but that he would do anything really against the law, I don’t believe.  Yet—­I have never seen such furs as the princess wears this winter.  Can’t you find out about the picture?  Everybody believes it is in America.  Think what it would be if Sansevero were put in prison!  But I am sure you will set everything straight.”