"Phœbe," cried the Countess, after a long silence, "I can't bear this any longer. Oh! Where is my husband?"
Phœbe did her loving best to comfort her young mistress, while a servant was despatched to inquire at the offices where the Count attended for public business; but no information could be obtained. He had been there in the day, but had left as usual.
"There might be secret business," the man suggested.
This was a glimmer of hope, and the anxious wife yielded at last to Phœbe's entreaty that she would try to sleep; but servants sat up, and the lights burned all the night.
Morning came, and the Countess was up, restlessly pacing the rooms.
"Phœbe," she said, "I want you to go to the Piazzi di— and find the young English artist; he may know if the Count had any intention of absence."
"Missy tell him name. Plenty English artists maybe 'bout ole city."
"Mr. Falconer,—Guy Falconer, I mean. Didn't I tell you that a young man was introduced to the Count lately by letter from England, and that he is nephew (I think) to my step-father?"
"No, ole Phœbe nebber hear dis. What him be to de ole man dat die?"
"Grandson, of course. He is poor, it seems, and wants to study painting. My husband likes him, and has shown him paintings that are seldom to be seen by strangers. Now, Phœbe, go and find him. I dare say he is up and at work, and certainly will help us if he can."