“I know the police have watched you. I guessed what it meant. I wanted to get the boxes away, but I could not—the servants would have seen me. I knew the soldiers would come soon. I climbed to the casa roof.”
The narrator had paused. The paper shook in Gordon’s hand. “No more, Tita!”
“It was the only way, Excellence!” said Tita, features working. “I swore on the Virgin to guard whatever came. The servants ran to the balcony when—it happened. The way was clear. I carried the boxes down to the garden. There is a covered well. They are there—where no one would look.”
Gordon was staring at the letter-case, his mind struggling between revolt at the act itself and a sense of its motive. So it was for him the shot had been fired! What a ghastly levity that the wounded man should now be lying here! He shuddered. Tita’s voice spoke again:
“Now, Excellence, will you read what may be in that portafogli?”
Gordon strode to the window and opened the case. It contained a single official letter. He unfolded and scanned it swiftly:
“Rome, Direction-General of Police.
(Most private.)
“Your Excellency:
“The Governor of Rome, in his capacity of Director-General, forwards the following:
“‘With the approval of Count Guiccioli, her husband, from whom by papal decree she has been separated, it is deemed advisable since the death of her father to modify that decree, and to grant to the Contessa Guiccioli henceforth a retreat in the protection of Holy Church. You are directed herewith to arrange for her immediate conveyance to the Convent of Saint Ursula in His Holiness’ estates below Rome.