"Where is Angela?"
The Cardinal rose out of his chair, startled and alarmed.
"Angela?" he echoed, "She is not here!"
"Not here!" Prince Sovrani drew a sharp breath, and his face visibly paled,—"It is very strange! Her studio is locked at both entrances—yet the servants swear she has not passed out of the house! Besides she never goes out without leaving word as to where she has gone and when she is coming back!"
"Her studio is locked on both sides!" repeated the Cardinal, "But that is quite easy to understand—her picture is unveiled, and no one is to be permitted to see it until to-morrow."
"Yes—yes—" said the Prince Pietro impatiently, "I know all that,—but where is Angela herself? There is no sign of her anywhere! She cannot have gone out. Her maid tells me she was not dressed to go out. She was in her white working gown when last seen. Santissima Madonna!"—and old Sovrani gave a wild gesture of despair—"If any harm has happened to the child . . ."
"Harm? Why what harm could happen? What harm could happen?" said the Cardinal soothingly,—"My dear brother, do not alarm yourself needlessly—"
"Let us go to the studio," interposed Manuel suddenly—"She may not have heard you call her."
He moved in his gentle light way out of the room, and without another word they followed. Outside the studio door they paused, and Prince Sovrani tried again and again to open it, calling "Angela!" now loudly, now softly, now entreatingly, now commandingly, all to no purpose. The servants had gathered on the landing, afraid of they knew not what, and one old man, the Prince's valet, shook his head dolefully at the continued silence.
"Why not break open the door, Eccellenza?" he asked anxiously, "I know the trick of those old locks—if the Eccellenza will permit I can push back the catch with a strong chisel."