proached a palazetto smothered in orange trees, whose terraces overhung the sea, odorous, and shaded deep with myrtle. He made his way unannounced, and passing through several chambers entered one in which he found the temporary owner of the house, who looked up wearily and listlessly;—the owner was Víctor Vane.
"Well?" he asked, as the door closed.
"That Scot! That courier!" panted Phaulcon.
"He is in Capri. I passed him lying asleep on the grass; I could have killed him like a dog. Does he know Idalia? Is it possible he can have learnt that it was she who saved him?"
"Know Idalia? Yes, beyond doubt, he knows her."
"He does? She never named him to me!"
"Very possibly; but you remember how she saved him, and Miladi has her caprices!—she had him with her day after day in the East."
The words were languid still; there was no irritation expressed in them, but there was a significance for which, had Erceldoune been there, the speaker would have been hurled out on to his terrace with as little ceremony as though he had been dead Border grouse.
Even his comrade and sworn ally darted a
