At noon, unknown to him, his wife had telephoned to the Countess Malipiero, but was informed by the latter’s maid that she had left hurriedly for Rome on the previous night, after a visit from her friend, Signor Corradini.
Throughout the afternoon she expected Carlo to call upon her, and became extremely anxious when he did not put in an appearance.
At last, unable to stand the strain longer, she sent her little sewing-maid round to Corradini’s flat, but the girl returned with the letter to say that, according to the donna di casa, the signor had left Sarzana hurriedly at ten o’clock the previous night.
The hours seemed like years as the guilty woman sat alone in her magnificent, old-world salon, pale, startled, and nervous. Upon her left hand she wore a white glove. She had worn it ever since the previous evening, and the reason had greatly perturbed her.
At last, at nearly ten o’clock that night, her husband returned, hard-faced and haggard. With him was his chief of staff, Captain Vivarini, Madame Gabrielle, and myself. The instant we entered the room she saw that Guilio was not his old self.
“Elena,” he said abruptly, in a deep, hard voice, “I have something to say to you, and I have brought Vivarini here as witness.”
“As witness,” she echoed, starting to her feet. “Of what?”
“As witness that you are innocent of the charge made against you, that you, though my wife, are a spy of Austria.”
“A spy,” she laughed uneasily, in pretence of ridicule. “Have you really taken leave of your senses, Guilio?”
“I have not. Tell me,” he demanded, “why are you wearing that glove?”