It was not long before Allard came out, and closing the door behind him, stood for a moment regarding his host with an expression that blended all thoughts in its passionate intensity. And prepared as he was for the change, remembering as he did the Don John of Palermo, the other yet returned the gaze with startled admiration and wonder. This gentleman, who proclaimed his class in bearing, glance, in the very poise of his head with its short, waving chestnut hair of patrician fineness,—how had he been confounded for one hour with the underworld? Who had found the stamp of criminality in the strong, fine, sorrowful face?
"Monsieur," said Allard, taking a step forward.
Recalled, the host rose at once.
"Pardon a thousand times; I must remember you are the guest now and that this is not Villa Giocosa. But I can not play incognito any more. I have told my people that you come to take the place of my late secretary, Dancla—the man of whom you warned me—so you comprehend that it would never do for us not to know each other. I am Feodor Stanief."
Too aloof from recent European news, too long separated in thought from his former careless knowledge of such things, the name awoke in Allard only a vague sense of familiarity.
"If you have so much patience, or care for the old days, I will tell you my story whenever you choose, monsieur," he answered frankly and with dignity. "Until then, may I still give you the half-truth of Villa Giocosa and bear the name of John?"
The soft tinkle of china interrupted them. Stanief had only time to reply with his unexpectedly brilliant smile, before the servant entered the salon.
"I shall have pleasure in claiming the confidence, Monsieur John," he returned, "and may have one to give, if you concede what I hope. Marzio, what is that uproar outside?" turning to the servant.
"Your Royal Highness, it is not known. The people on shore are much disturbed."
"Apparently. If we were home, Monsieur John, I should call it a riot; but here—" he shrugged his shoulders and moved toward the table.