Again he sighed. His daughter Carmenilla, a slim, dark-haired girl of twenty, entered softly and, seeing her father silent and pensive, moved noiselessly across the room. He was wifeless, and all his love was bestowed upon his daughter, who held her father in absolute reverence. Carmenilla was not beautiful, but she was her father’s companion, helpmate, and friend. She stood behind him, and heard him exclaim, in a low voice only just audible—
“If what I suspect is true, then the secret is out. I must obtain leave of absence and go to Rome. Perhaps even now my letters of recall are on their way! Nevertheless, it is too strange to believe. No; at present I must wait. I can’t—I won’t believe it!”
At that moment there was a tap at the door, and as Carmenilla slipped out noiselessly, the liveried Italian servant announced that Dr Malvano had called.
“Show him in here,” His Excellency answered, crossing instantly to his writing-table, unlocking one of the drawers, and placing the secret despatch therein.
When Malvano entered, rosy, buxom, and smiling, well dressed in frock-coat, and carrying his silk hat and stick with that air adopted by members of the medical profession, the Count shook him by the hand and greeted him cordially. Without invitation, His Excellency’s visitor tossed his hat and stick upon the sofa, sank into the nearest chair, and stretched out his legs, apparently quite at home.
The Ambassador, first raising the heavy velvet portière, and slipping the small brass bolt of the door into its socket, took a seat at his table, and fixing his eyes upon the man who had served him with wine the night before, said, with a sigh—
“Well, Filippo. A crisis appears imminent.”
“You have heard from Rome?” Malvano exclaimed quickly. “I met Varesi, the messenger, in the hall.”
“Yes,” His Excellency said. “I’ve received certain instructions from the Minister, but it is impossible to act upon them.”
“Why?”