the waiters hurrying up. In the little
momentary bustle, his sudden pause and
confusion escaped notice, as he fancied.

Cesare had been on the point of mentioning
that his sick friend was no other than
the bridegroom whose marriage had taken
place on board the Furibond, when he
remembered that Frost had spoken of " Lady
Gale." If Frost supposed Veronica to be
Sir John's wife already at the time of their
conversation at the window of the hotel, it
would be injudicious, to say the least, to
proclaim that she had only been married
that very morning. Besides, Veronica had
so shrunk from having the date of the
marriage known. It might be—nay it was
probable— that Mr. Frost had already heard
of it. But at all events he (Cesare) would
say no word on the subject. Mr. Frost had
clearly perceived that the dropping of the
coffee-cup had been a mere feint on
Barletti's part to divert attention from his
unfinished speech. But it was a matter
of considerable indifference to Mr. Frost
whether Prince Cesare de' Barletti were
close or candid in his communications,
now that the business which had brought
the two men into contact was satisfactorily
concluded. He therefore began to chat
easily and amusingly as he sipped his coffee,
and Barletti listened, with lazy satisfaction.

Presently he observed, during a pause in
the talk: " What a devil of a pace those
fellows drive at! The hackney cabmen I
mean. Just listen how one is tearing up the
street at this moment. Neck or nothing!"

"Yes," replied Mr. Frost, " I often
wonder that in your teeming streets more
accidents do not happen. This fellow, whoever
he may be, is coming here, by the sound.
By Jove! What's the matter?"

The exclamation was elicited by the
sudden pulling up of an open cab at the
door, and the hurried descent therefrom of
a pale frightened servant in an English
livery. The man looked about him eagerly,
and elbowed his way through the crowd of
coffee-drinkers with a disregard of their
convenience which would have brought
down considerable wrath on his head, had
it not been for the expression of his
countenance, which aroused curiosity and kept
resentment in abeyance.

"Oh, there you are, signor principe!"
exclaimed the man, catching sight of Barletti;
"I've been half over Naples looking for
you! At last I heard you were here. Will
you come at once to miladi? Here's the
cab waiting."

"What is it, Pietro?" asked Barletti,
rising with a face yet paler that the
servant's.

He had no reason to fear for Veronica,
and yet his unreasonable lover-like
apprehension could fix on no other object.

"My master, signor principe, is dying or
dead. I don't expect to find him alive when
we get there, and miladi she's been falling
from one fainting fit into another. And as
soon as she had consciousness she sent for
you."

Barletti seized his hat and rushed to the
door. Before he stepped into the cab, he
called out to Frost, " Let me see you this
evening! I may have business. Something
important! Come to the Palazzo Dinori at
six o'clock if you possibly can, and ask for
me!"

Then Barletti got into the cab, and was
whirled away with a mighty whooping and
clattering of hoofs.

CHAPTER XIV. "MY BELOVED WIFE."

MR. FROST called at the Palazzo Dinori a
few minutes after six o'clock that evening.
He was admitted immediately by the porter,
who had been told to expect him, and was
ushered into a small, sumptuously furnished
room, overladen with ornament. It was
Veronica's boudoir.

Mr. Frost had not come to the palazzo
without trying to gain some information
respecting the person who lived there. A
rich Englishman—very, very rich!
A millionaire at the least. Milordo Gale. That was
the report of the landlord of Mr. Frost's
hotel. His cook was a superior person— a
man of talent—a cordon bleu! The landlord
had the honour of a slight acquaintance with
that distinguished artist; who sometimes
cracked a bottle of " Lacrima" or fine Capri
with him, in his private room. As to
Milordo Gale—ah, yes, he was rich. Diavolo!
Poor men did not enjoy the services of such
a cook. The landlord had known the latter
long, and esteemed him highly. He had
been chef de cuisine to the Russian
Ambassador, years ago: in the old days, you
understand.

Mr. Frost would perhaps not have
complied with Barletti's request to go to the
Palazzo Dinori so promptly, had he not felt
a considerable amount of curiosity respecting
its inmates. He sat down in the luxurious
room and contrasted it with poor Lady
Tallis's shabby lodging in Gower-street.
That thought brought others in its train:
other thoughts of a painful and harassing
nature. His promise to Zillah Lockwood
had not yet been redeemed. And Hugh