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Wyant’s anger had fallen at the recital of this simple romance. It was absurd to be angry with a young man who confided his secrets to the first stranger he met in the streets, and placed his hand on his heart whenever he mentioned the name of his betrothed. The easiest way out of the business was to take it as a joke. Wyant had played the wall to this new Pyramus and Thisbe, and was philosophic enough to laugh at the part he had unwittingly performed.

He held out his hand with a smile to Count Ottaviano.

“I won’t deprive you any longer,” he said, “of the pleasure of reading your letter.”

“Oh, sir, a thousand thanks! And when you return to the casa Lombard, you will take a message from me–the letter she expected this afternoon?”

“The letter she expected?” Wyant paused. “No, thank you. I thought you understood that where I come from we don’t do that kind of thing–knowingly.”

“But, sir, to serve a young lady!”

“I’m sorry for the young lady, if what you tell me is true”–the Count’s expressive hands resented the doubt–“but remember that if I am under obligations to any one in this matter, it is to her father, who has admitted me to his house and has allowed me to see his picture.”

“HIS picture? Hers!”

“Well, the house is his, at all events.”

“Unhappily–since to her it is a dungeon!”

“Why doesn’t she leave it, then?” exclaimed Wyant impatiently.

The Count clasped his hands. “Ah, how you say that–with what force, with what virility! If you would but say it to HER in that tone–you, her countryman! She has no one to advise her; the mother is an idiot; the father is terrible; she is in his power; it is my belief that he would kill her if she resisted him. Mr. Wyant, I tremble for her life while she remains in that house!”

“Oh, come,” said Wyant lightly, “they seem to understand each other well enough. But in any case, you must see that I can’t interfere–at least you would if you were an Englishman,” he added with an escape of contempt.

III

Wyant’s affiliations in Siena being restricted to an acquaintance with his land-lady, he was forced to apply to her for the verification of Count Ottaviano’s story.

The young nobleman had, it appeared, given a perfectly correct account of his situation. His father, Count Celsi-Mongirone, was a man of distinguished family and some wealth. He was syndic of Orvieto, and lived either in that town or on his neighboring estate of Mongirone. His wife owned a large property near Siena, and Count Ottaviano, who was the second son, came there from time to time to look into its management. The eldest son was in the army, the youngest in the Church; and an aunt of Count Ottaviano’s was Mother Superior of the Visitandine convent in Siena. At one time it had been said that Count Ottaviano, who was a most amiable and accomplished young man, was to marry the daughter of the strange Englishman, Doctor Lombard, but difficulties having arisen as to the adjustment of the young lady’s dower, Count Celsi-Mongirone had very properly broken off the match. It was sad for the young man, however, who was said to be deeply in love, and to find frequent excuses for coming to Siena to inspect his mother’s estate.

Viewed in the light of Count Ottaviano’s personality the story had a tinge of opera bouffe; but the next morning, as Wyant mounted the stairs of the House of the Dead Hand, the situation insensibly assumed another aspect. It was impossible to take Doctor Lombard lightly; and there was a suggestion of fatality in the appearance of his gaunt dwelling. Who could tell amid what tragic records of domestic tyranny and fluttering broken purposes the little drama of Miss Lombard’s fate was being played out? Might not the accumulated influences of such a house modify the lives within it in a manner unguessed by the inmates of a suburban villa with sanitary plumbing and a telephone?