It was Gustavo’s turn to furnish enlightenment.

“But no, signore, she do not comprehend. She sink Meestair Jayreem Ailyar is ze brover who is not arrive. She leave it for him when he come.”

“Ah!” Tony ripped it open and read it through with a chuckle. He read it a second time and his face grew grave. He thrust it into his pocket and strode away without a word for Gustavo. Gustavo looked after him reproachfully. As a head waiter, he naturally did not expect to read the letters of guests; but as a fellow conspirator, he felt that he was entitled to at least a general knowledge of all matters   bearing on the conspiracy. He turned back down stairs with a disappointed droop to his shoulders.

Tony closed his door and walked to the window where he stood staring at the roof of Villa Rosa. He drew the letter from his pocket and read it for the third time slowly, thoughtfully, very, very soberly. The reason was clear; she was tired of Tony and was looking ahead for fresh worlds to conquer. Jerry Junior was to come next.

He understood why she had been so complaisant today. She wished the curtain to go down on the comedy note. Tomorrow, the nameless young American, the “Abraham Lincoln” of the register, would call—by the gate—would be received graciously, introduced in his proper person to the guests; the story of the donkey-man would be recounted and laughed over, and he would be politely asked when he was planning to resume his travels. This would be the end of the episode. To Constance, it had been merely   an amusing farce about which she could boast when she returned to America. In her vivacious style it would make a story, just as her first meeting with Jerry Junior had made a story. But as for the play itself, for him, she cared nothing. Tony the man had made no impression. He must pass on and give place to Jerry Junior.

A flush crept over Tony’s face and his mouth took a straighter line as he continued to gaze down on the roof of Villa Rosa. His reflections were presently interrupted by a knock. He turned and threw the door open with a fling.

“Well?” he inquired.

Gustavo took a step backward.

“Scusi, signore, but zay are eating ze dessart and in five—ten minutes ze omnibus will arrive.”

“The omnibus?” Tony stared. “Oh!” he laughed shortly. “I was just joking, Gustavo.”

Gustavo bowed and turned down the corridor; there was a look on Tony’s face   that did not encourage confidences. He had not gone half a dozen steps, however, when the door opened again and Tony called him back.

“I am going away tomorrow morning—by the first boat this time—and you mustn’t let my aunt and sister know. I will write two letters and you are to take them down to the steward of the boat that leaves tonight. Ask him to put on Austrian stamps and mail them at Riva, so they’ll get back here tomorrow. Do you understand?”

Gustavo nodded and backed away. His disappointment this time was too keen for words. He saw stretching before him a future like the past, monotonously bereft of plots and masquerades.

Tony, having hit on a plan, sat down and put it into instant execution. Opening his Baedeker, he turned to Riva and picked out the first hotel that was mentioned. Then he wrote two letters, both short and to the point; he indulged in none of Constance’s vacillations, and yet in   their way his letters also were masterpieces of illusion. The first was addressed to Miss Constance Wilder at Villa Rosa. It ran:

“Hotel Sole d’Oro,

“Riva, Austria.

“Dear Miss Wilder: Nothing would give me greater pleasure than spending a few days in Valedolmo, but unfortunately I am pressed for time, and am engaged to start Thursday morning with some friends on a trip through the Dolomites.

“Trusting that I may have the pleasure of making your acquaintance at some future date,

“Yours truly,

“Jerymn Hilliard, Jr.”

The second letter was addressed to his sister, but he trusted to luck that Constance would see it. It ran:

“Hotel Sole d’Oro,

“Riva, Austria.

“Dear Nan: Who in thunder is Constance Wilder? She wants us to stop and make a   visit in Valedolmo. I wouldn’t step into that infernal town, not if the king himself invited me—it’s the deadest hole on the face of the earth. You can stay if you like and I’ll go on through the Dolomites alone. There’s an American family stopping here who are also planning the trip—a stunning girl; I know you’d like her.

“Of course the travelling will be pretty rough. Perhaps you and Aunt Kate would rather visit your friends and meet me later in Munich. If you decide to take the trip, you will have to come on down to Riva as soon as you get this letter, as we’re planning to pull out Thursday morning.

“Sorry to hurry you, but you know my vacation doesn’t last forever.

“Love to Aunt Kate and yourself,

“Yours ever,

“Jerry.”

He turned the letters over to Gustavo with a five-franc note, leaving Gustavo to decide with his own conscience whether the money was intended for himself or the steward of the Regina Margarita. This accomplished, he slipped out   unobtrusively and took the road toward Villa Rosa.

He strode along with his hands in his pockets and his eyes on the path until he nearly bumped his nose against the villa gate-post. Then he stopped and thought. He had no mind to be ushered to the terrace where he would have to dissemble some excuse for his visit before Miss Hazel and Mr. Wilder. His business tonight was with Constance, and Constance alone. He turned and skirted the villa wall, determined on reconnoitering first. There was a place in the wall—he knew well—where the stones were missing, and a view was obtainable of the terrace and parapet.

He reached the place to find Lieutenant Carlo di Ferara already there. Now the Lieutenant’s purpose was exactly as innocent as Tony’s own; he merely wished to assure himself that Captain Coroloni was not before him. It was considered a joke at the tenth cavalry mess to detail one or the other of the officers to call on the   Americans at the same time that Lieutenant di Ferara called. He was not spying on the family, merely on his meddling brother officers.

Tony of course could know nothing of this, and as his eyes fell upon the lieutenant, there was apparent in their depths a large measure of contempt. A lieutenant in the Royal Italian Cavalry can afford to be generous in many things, but he cannot afford to swallow contempt from a donkey-driver. The signorina was not present this time; there was no reason why he should not punish the fellow. He dropped his hand on Tony’s shoulder—on his collar to be exact—and whirled him about. The action was accompanied by some vigorous colloquial Italian—the gist of it being that Tony was to mind his own business and mend his manners. The lieutenant had a muscular arm, and Tony turned. But Tony had not played quarterback four years for nothing; he tackled low, and the next moment the lieutenant was rolling down the bank of a dried stream that stretched at their feet. No   one likes to roll down a dusty stony bank, much less an officer in immaculate uniform on the eve of paying a formal call upon ladies. He picked himself up and looked at Tony; he was quite beyond speech.

Tony looked back and smiled. He swept off his hat with a deferential bow. “Scusi,” he murmured, and jumped over the wall into the grounds of Villa Rosa.

The lieutenant gasped. If anything could have been more insultingly inadequate to the situation than that one word scusi, it did not at the moment occur to him. Jeering, blasphemy, vituperation, he might have excused, but this! The shock jostled him back to a thinking state.

Here was no ordinary donkey-driver. The hand that had rested for a moment on his arm was the hand of a gentleman. The man’s face was vaguely, elusively familiar; if the lieutenant had not seen him before, he had at least seen his picture. The man had pretended he could not talk Italian, but—scusi—it came out very pat when it was needed.

An idea suddenly assailed Lieutenant di   Ferara. He scrambled up the bank and skirted the wall, almost on a run, until he reached the place where his horse was tied. Two minutes later he was off at a gallop, headed for the house of the prefect of police of Valedolmo.

  CHAPTER XVI

ony jumped over the wall. He might have landed in the midst of a family party; but in so much luck was with him. He found the Farfalla bobbing at the foot of the water steps with Mr. Wilder and Miss Hazel already embarked. They were waiting for Constance, who had obligingly run back to the house to fetch the rainbow shawl (finished that afternoon) as Miss Hazel distrusted the Italian night breeze.

Constance stepped out from the door as Tony emerged from the bushes. She regarded him in startled surprise; he was still in some slight disarray from his encounter with the lieutenant.

“May I speak to you, Miss Wilder? I won’t detain you but a moment.”

She nodded and kept on, her heart thumping absurdly. He had received the   letter of course; and there would be consequences. She paused at the top of the water steps.

“You go on,” she called to the others, “and pick me up on your way back. Tony wants to see me about something, and I don’t like to keep Mrs. Eustace and Nannie waiting.”

Giuseppe pushed off and Constance was left standing alone on the water steps. She turned as Tony approached; there was a touch of defiance in her manner.

“Well?”

He came to her side and leaned carelessly against the parapet, his eyes on the Farfalla as she tossed and dipped in the wash of the Regina Margarita which was just puffing out from the village landing. Constance watched him, slightly taken aback; she had expected him to be angry, sulky, reproachful—certainly not nonchalant. When he finally brought his eyes from the water, his expression was mildly melancholy.

“Signorina, I have come to say good   bye. It is very sad, but tomorrow, I too—” he waved his hand toward the steamer—“shall be a passenger.”

“You are going away from Valedolmo?”

He nodded.

“Unfortunately, yes. I should like to stay, but—” he shrugged—“life isn’t all play, Miss Wilder. Though one would like to be a donkey-man forever, one only may be for a summer’s holiday. I am your debtor for a unique and pleasant experience.”