Via Aurelia, and looked down upon ancient Ostia and the broadmouths of the ancient Tiber.
Was he a traitor? Or was he innocent? That was the great and crucialquestion which he had to decide.
"And this Countess," he exclaimed, addressing the detective presently."I noticed that she is not named in your report."
"No, signore. But her name is Cioni--of the Cionis of Firenze, one ofthe most ancient houses in Italy--the Countess Guilia Cioni."
"A widow?"
"No, signore. She is daughter of the late Count Ferdinando Cioni, headof the house. Their palace is on the Lung 'Arno in Firenze."
"Of what age is she?"
"Thirty."
"You say she was from Milan."
"They have a palace in Milan--in one of those short streets off thePiazza del Duomo."
"And this woman is infatuated with the General, you say? Where does shelive?"
"In an apartment in the Corso Vittorio."
"She, no doubt, knows the chief source of his income--eh?"
"Without a doubt."
Then Waldron thought deeply. A strange theory had crossed his mind.
"Has she a maid?"
"Yes, signore, a young woman from Borghetto named Velia Bettini."
Waldron scribbled the name upon his shirt-cuff together with the addressof the young Countess Cioni.
"Anything known of this maid?"
Pucci, who had done thoroughly the work entrusted to him, reflected fora moment, and then diving his hand into his breast-pocket, drew forth awell-worn note-book, which he searched for a few moments.
"Yes," he replied. "I made a few inquiries at the Prefecture concerningher. She was previously in the service of the Marchesa di Martini, ofGenoa, and was sentenced to six months' imprisonment for stealingjewellery belonging to her."
"How long ago?"
"Two years."
"Anything else?"
"Well--her record is not exactly an unblemished one, signore," thedetective went on. "After her release she went to Paris and was in theservice of a young French actress, Mademoiselle Yvonne Barlet, of theGymnase. While there she passed herself off as a young lady of goodfamily and became friendly with a wealthy young Frenchman, whose name,however I do not know."
"And what else?"
"She returned to Italy and then entered the service of the CountessCioni."
"But this Countess Cioni--who is she? I do not seem to have heard ofher in Rome Society."
"She is not known--except in a certain circle. One of her intimatefriends, however, is Her Royal Highness, the Princess Luisa."
"The Princess Luisa?" echoed the Englishman. "Yes, signore. But, asyou have heard, the Princess makes many strange and unfortunatefriendships. She is, I fear, rather foolish."
"But surely this friendship ought to be put a stop to, Signor Pucci. Itis impossible for a Princess of the blood-royal to associate with such aperson as this Contessa Cioni."
The detective shrugged his shoulders and elevated his dark eyebrows.
Then he smiled that quiet meaning smile which all Italians can affect inmoments of indecision.
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.
"THE THRUSH."
On the night following Pucci's visit to Hubert Waldron, Her RoyalHighness sat before the fire in her handsome bedroom curled up in a softchair, thinking.
The little leather-framed travelling-clock upon her big dressing-tablewith its gold and tortoiseshell brushes and toilet accessories showedthat midnight was past. She had been to a dinner at the PalazzoRiparbella, where Her Majesty had honoured the Duchess of Riparbellawith her presence, and an hour ago they had returned.
She had dismissed her maid-of-honour, and when Renata, her personalmaid, had entered to attend her she had sent her to bed. Renata wasdevoted to her mistress. She was used to the vagaries of Her Highness--who so often wore her dresses in her escapades--so she bowed andretired.
For half an hour, still attired in her handsome, pale blue evening gown,with her dark hair well-dressed, and a beautiful diamond necklet uponher white throat, she had sat staring into the dancing flames,thinking--ever thinking.
At last she stirred herself, rising suddenly to her feet, and then,crossing to her bed, she threw herself upon her knees wildly and benther head within her white hands.
Her pale lips moved, but no sound came from them.
She was fervent in prayer.
Her countenance, her movements, her attitude showed her to be in averitable tumult of agony and despair. But she was alone, with none towitness her terrible anxiety, and the blank hopelessness of it all.
She had been wondering ever since she had regained consciousness on theprevious night what had really occurred in the room of the Minister ofthe Royal Household--whether the British diplomat, her friend, had alsobeen discovered there in her company. She had questioned the maids, butthey had been instructed by Ghelardi and refused to satisfy hercuriosity.
Therefore she was in ignorance of what had happened after the receipt ofthat fatal message from Brussels.
How she had passed that day of feverish anxiety she knew not. Everysecond had to her seemed an hour.
At last, after crossing herself devoutly, she rose from her kneeswearily, when her eyes fell upon the clock.
Instantly she began to take off her splendid evening gown. Her diamondsshe unclasped and tossed them unheeded into a velvet-lined casket on thebig dressing-table, together with her bracelets and the ornament fromher corsage.
Then, kicking off her evening slippers, she exchanged her pale blue silkstockings for stout ones of black cashmere, and putting on a pair ofserviceable country boots, she afterwards opened her wardrobe and tookout a dingy costume of blue serge--one of Renata's.
This she hastily donned, and taking down her hair, deftly arranged it sothat when she put on the little black bonnet she produced from a lockedbox, she was in a quarter of an hour transformed from a princess to ademure, neatly-dressed lady's maid.
From a drawer in her dressing-table she took out a shabby hand-bag--Renata's bag--and, after ascertaining that there was a small sum ofmoney in it, she put it upon her arm, and finally examined herself inthe glass.
She was an adept at disguising herself as Renata, and, after patting herhair and altering the angle of her neat bonnet, she switched off thelight and left the room.
Boldly she passed along the corridor of the private apartments until sheat length opened a door at the end, whereupon she passed a sentryunchallenged, and away into the servants' quarters.
Across the courtyard, now only dimly lit, she passed, and then out bythe servants' entrance to the Via del Quirinale.
Having left the Palace she hurried through a number of dark side-streetsuntil she reached a small garage in a narrow thoroughfare--almost alane--called the Via della Muratte, beyond the Trevi fountain.
A sleepy, white-haired old man roused himself as she entered, while shegave him a cheery good evening, and then went up to her car, a powerfulgrey one of open type, and switched on the head-lamps. From a locker inthe garage the old man brought her a big, fur-lined motor coat and aclose-fitting hat, and these she quickly assumed. Then a few minuteslater, seated at the wheel, she passed out of the garage exclaiminggaily:
"I shall be back before it is light, Paolo. _Buona motte_."
Gaining the Corso, silent and dark at that hour, she drove rapidly away,out by the Popolo Gate, and with her cut-out roaring went straight alongthe Via Flaminia, the ancient way through the mountains to CivitaCastellana and the wilds of Umbria.
The night was dark and bitterly cold, for a strong east wind was blowingfrom the snowcapped mountains causing Lola to draw up and take her bigfur mitts from the inside pocket of the car. Then she turned up thewide fur collar of her coat, mounted to the wheel again, and was soonnegotiating the winding road--the surface of which at that season wasshockingly loose and bad.
After fifteen miles of continual ascent she approached the dead silentold town of Castelnuova, being
challenged by the octroi guards who,finding a lady alone, allowed her to proceed without further word. Thenthrough the narrow, ancient street, lit by oil lamps, she went slowly,and out again into a great plain for a further fifteen miles--a lonelydrive, indeed, along a difficult and dangerous road. But she was anexpert driver and negotiated all the difficult corners with tact andcaution.
Through several hamlets she passed, but not a dog was astir, untilpresently she descended a sharp hill, and below saw a few meagre lightsof the half-hidden town of Borghetto--a little place dominated by agreat ruined castle situated on the direct railway line between Firenzeand Rome.
Half-way down the hill she slackened speed, her great head-lightsglaring, until presently she pulled up at the roadside and, slowlydescending, extinguished the lights so that they might not attractattention.
Then, leaving the car, she hurried forward along the road, for she