While Beatrice talked with her, the Cardinal walked about.
Now it so happened that on Peter's rustic table a book lay open, face downwards.
The Cardinal saw the book. He halted in his walk, and glanced round the garden, as if to make sure that he was not observed. He tapped his snuff—box, and took a pinch of snuff. Then he appeared to meditate for an instant, the lines about his mouth becoming very marked indeed. At last, swiftly, stealthily, almost with the air of a man committing felony, he slipped his snuff-box under the open book, well under it, so that it was completely covered up.
On the way back to Ventirose, the Cardinal put his hand in his pocket.
“Dear me!” he suddenly exclaimed. “I have lost my snuff box again.” He shook his head, as one who recognises a fatality. “I am always losing it.”
“Are you sure you had it with you?” Beatrice asked.
“Oh, yes, I think I had it with me. I should have missed it before this, if I had left it at home. I must have dropped it in Mr. Marchdale's garden.”
“In that case it will probably be found,” said Beatrice.
Peter had gone to Spiaggia, I imagine, in the hope of meeting Mrs. O'Donovan Florence; but the printed visitors' list there told him that she had left nearly a fortnight since. On his return to the villa, he was greeted by Marietta with the proud tidings that her Excellency the Duchessa di Santangiolo had been to see her.
“Oh—? Really?” he questioned lightly. (His heart, I think, dropped a beat, all the same.)