"An angel watching an angel!" then said the Prince musingly, "That is as it should be!" He paused a moment, "The King was very kind. And you, Princesse—and you, bella Contessina!" and he courteously bent over Sylvie's little hand and kissed it,—"You are all much too good to an old man like me! I am strong again—I shall be ready to speak—when Angela bids. But I must wait. I must wait!" He ruffled his white hair with one hand and looked at them all very strangely. "That was a great crowd outside—all waiting to hear news of my girl! If—if they knew who it was that stabbed her—"
"Do you know?" cried Aubrey quickly.
"Per Dio!" And Sovrani smiled, "I thought Englishmen were phlegmatic, and here is one ablaze, and ready to burst like a bomb! No!—I did not say I knew!—but I say, if the crowd had known, they would have lynched him! Yes, they would have torn him to pieces! . . . and he would have deserved it! He will deserve it!—If he is ever found! Come—we will all sup here together this evening—sorrow strengthens the bonds of friendship . . . and I will tell you . . ."
He paused, and again the strange far-off look came into his eyes.
"I will tell you—" he went on slowly—"how I found my Angela lying dead, as I thought—dead at the feet of Christ!"
XXXI.
Meanwhile Florian Varillo had not gone to Naples. He had been turned back by a spectre evoked from his own conscience—coward fear. He was on his way to the station when he suddenly discovered that he had lost the sheath of his dagger. A cold perspiration broke out on his forehead as this fact flashed upon him. What had he done with it? Surely he had drawn the weapon out and left the sheath in his breast pocket as usual—but no!—search as he would, he could not find it. It must have dropped on the floor of Angela's studio! If that were so, he would be traced!—most surely traced—as the sheath was of curious and uncommon workmanship, and many of his friends had seen it. He had told everybody he was going to Naples, and of course he would be followed there. Then, he would not go! But he went to the station as if bent on the journey, and took a ticket for Naples. Then, setting down his portmanteau on a bench, he surreptitiously tore off the label on which his name was written, and tearing it up in small bits scattered the fragments on the line. After this, he walked away leisurely, leaving the portmanteau behind him for there was nothing in it by which he could be traced, and sauntered slowly out of the station into the streets of Rome once more. Hailing the first fiacre he saw, he told the driver to take him to Frascati. The man was either lazy or sulky.
"Why not take the train, Signor?"
"Because I wish to drive!" replied Varillo. "What is your fare?"
"Twenty-five francs for half the way!" said the man, showing his white teeth in a mischievous grin.