And the Signor went and sat in a
remote corner of the common-room, with a newspaper of a week old,
pretending to read its contents. And supper was soon served to him,-
-a tasty meal enough, flavoured with excellent wine,--and while he
was drinking his third glass of it, a man entered, tall and broad-
shouldered, wrapped in a heavy cloak, which he only partially
loosened as he leaned against the counter and asked for a cup of
coffee. But as he caught sight of the dark face, Varillo shrank back
into his corner, and put up his newspaper to shield himself from
view,--for he saw that the new-comer was no other than Monsignor
Gherardi. His appearance seemed to create a certain amount of
excitement and vague alarm in the little inn; the padrona evidently
knew him well, and hastened to serve him herself with the coffee he
asked for.
"Will you not sit down, Eccellentissima?" she murmured
deferentially.
"No, I am in haste!" replied Gherardi, glancing carelessly about
him--"My carriage waits outside. There is strange news in Rome to-
night! The famous artist, Angela Sovrani, has been found in her
studio, murdered!"
The padrona uttered a little cry.
"Murdered!"
"So it seems! Here are the papers from which they cry the news.
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