"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

Tony 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."

She studied his face without speaking. Did it mean that he had got the letter and was hurt, or did it perhaps mean that he had got the letter and did not care to appear as Jerry Junior? That he enjoyed the play so long as he could remain incognito and stop it where he pleased, but that he had no mind to let it drift into reality? Very possibly it meant—she flushed at the thought—that he divined Nannie's plot, and refused also to consider the fourth candidate.

She laughed and dropped into their usual jargon.

"And the young American man, Signor Abraham Lincoln, will he come tomorrow for tea?"

"Ah, signorina, he is desolated, but it is not possible. He has received a letter and he must go; he has stopped too long in Valedolmo. Tomorrow morning early, he and I togever, we sail away to Austria." His eyes went back to the trail of smoke left by the little steamer.

"And Costantina, Tony. You are leaving her behind?" It took some courage to put this question, but she did not flinch; she put it with a laugh which contained nothing but raillery.

Tony sighed—a deep melodramatic sigh—and laid his hand on his heart.

"Ah, signorina, zat Costantina, she has not any heart. She love one man one day, anozzer ze next. I go away to forget."

His eyes dropped to hers; for an instant the mocking light died out; a questioning, wounded look took its place.

She felt a quick impulse to hold out her hands, to say, "Jerry, don't go!" If she only knew! Was he going because he thought that she wished to dismiss him, or because he wished to dismiss himself? Was it pique that bade him carry the play to the end, or was it merely the desire to get out of an awkward situation gracefully?

She stood hesitating, scanning the terrace pavement with troubled eyes; when she raised them to his face the chance was gone. He straightened his shoulders with an air of finality and picked up his hat from the balustrade.

"Some day, signorina, in New York, perhaps I play a little tune underneaf your window."

She nodded and smiled.

"I will give the monkey a penny when he comes—good-bye."

He bowed over her hand and touched it lightly to his lips.

"Signorina, addio!"

As he strode away into the dusky lane of cypresses, she heard him whistling softly "Santa Lucia." It was the last stroke, she reflected, angrily; he might at least have omitted that! She turned away and dropped down on the water steps to wait for the Farfalla. The terrace, the lake, the beautiful Italian night, suddenly seemed deserted and empty. Before she knew it was coming, she had leaned her head against the balustrade with a deep sob. She caught herself sharply. She to sit there crying, while Tony went whistling on his way!

* * * * *

As the Farfalla drifted idly over the water, Constance sat in the stern, her chin in her hand, moodily gazing at the shimmering path of moonlight. But no one appeared to notice her silence, since Nannie was talking enough for both. And the only thing she talked about was Jerry Junior, how funny and clever and charming he was, how phenomenally good—for a man; when she showed signs of stopping, Mr. Wilder by a question started her on. It seemed to Constance an interminable two hours before they dropped their guests in the garden of the Hotel du Lac, and headed again for Villa Rosa.

As they approached their own water steps it became apparent that someone—a man—was standing at the top in an attitude of expectancy. Constance's heart gave a sudden bound and the next instant sank deep. A babble of frenzied greetings floated out to meet them; there was no mistaking Gustavo. Moreover, there was no mistaking the fact that he was excited; his excitement was contagious even before they had learned the reason. He stuttered in his impatience to share the news.

"Signore! Dio mio! A calamity has happened. Zat Tony, zat donk'-man! he has got hisself arrested. Zay say it is a lie, zat he is American citizen; he is an officer who is dessert from ze Italian army. Zay say he just pretend he cannot spik Italian—but it is not true. He know ten—leven words."

They came hurrying up the steps and surrounded him, Mr. Wilder no less shocked than Gustavo himself.

"Arrested—as a deserter? It's an outrage!" he thundered.

Constance laid her hand on Gustavo's sleeve and whirled him about.

"What do you mean? I don't understand. Where is Tony?"

Gustavo groaned.

"In jail, signorina. Four carabinieri are come to take him away. And he fight—Dio mio! he fight like ze devil. But zay put—" he indicated handcuffs—"and he go."

Constance dropped down on the upper step and leaning her head against the balustrade, she laughed until she was weak.

Her father whirled upon her indignantly.

"Constance! Haven't you any sympathy for the man? This isn't a laughing matter."

"I know, Dad, but it's so funny—Tony an Italian officer! He can't pronounce the ten—leven words he does know right."

"Of course he can't; he doesn't know as much Italian as I do. Can't these fools tell an American citizen when they see one? I'll teach 'em to go about chucking American citizens in jail. I'll telegraph the consul in Milan; I'll make an international matter of it!"

He fumed up and down the terrace, while Constance rose to her feet and followed after with a pretense at pacification.

"Hush, Dad! Don't be so excitable. It was a very natural mistake for them to make. But if Tony is really what he says he is it will be very easily proved. You must be sure of your ground though, before you act. I don't like to say anything against poor Tony now that he is in trouble, but I have always felt that there was a mystery connected with him. For all we know he may be a murderer or a brigand or an escaped convict in disguise. We only have his word you know that he is an American citizen."

"His word!" Mr. Wilder fairly exploded. "Are you utterly blind? He's exactly as much an American citizen as I am. He's—" He stopped and fanned himself furiously. He had sworn never to betray Tony's secret, and yet, the present situation was exceptionable.

Constance patted him on the arm.

"There, Dad. I haven't a doubt his story is true. He was born in Budapest, and he's a naturalized American citizen. It's the duty of the United States Government to protect him—but it won't be difficult; I dare say he's got his naturalization papers with him. A word in the morning will set everything straight."

"Leave him in jail all night?"

"But you can't do anything now; it's after ten o'clock; the authorities have gone to bed."

She turned to Gustavo; her tone was reassuring.

"In the morning we'll get some American war-ships to bombard the jail."

"Signorina, you joke!" His tone was reproachful.

She suddenly looked anxious.

"Gustavo, is the jail strong?"

"Ver' strong, signorina."

"He can't escape and get over into Austria? We are very near the frontier, you know."

"No, signorina, it is impossible." He shook his head hopelessly.

Constance laughed and slipped her hand through her father's arm.

"Come, Dad. The first thing in the morning we'll go down to the jail and cheer him up. There's not the slightest use in worrying any more tonight. It won't hurt Tony to be kept in—er—cold storage for a few hours—I think on the whole it will do him good!"

She nodded dismissal to Gustavo, and drew her father, still muttering, toward the house.



CHAPTER XVII

Jerry Junior's letter of regret arrived from Riva on the early mail. In the light of Constance's effusively cordial invitation, the terse formality of his reply was little short of rude; but Constance read between the lines and was appeased. The writer, plainly, was angry, and anger was a much more becoming emotion than nonchalance. As she set out with her father toward the village jail, she was again buoyantly in command of the situation. She carried a bunch of oleanders, and the pink and white egg basket swung from her arm. Their way led past the gate of the Hotel du Lac, and Mr. Wilder, being under the impression that he was enjoying a very good joke all by himself, could not forego the temptation of stopping to inquire if Mrs. Eustace and Nannie had heard any news of the prodigal. They found the two at breakfast in the courtyard, an open letter spread before them. Nannie received them with lamentations.

"We can't come to the villa! Here's a letter from Jerry wanting us to start immediately for the Dolomites—did you ever know anything so exasperating?"

She passed the letter to Constance, and then as she remembered the first sentence, made a hasty attempt to draw it back. It was too late; Constance's eyes had already pounced upon it. She read it aloud with gleeful malice.

"'Who in thunder is Constance Wilder?'—If that's an example of the famous Jerry Junior's politeness, I prefer not to meet him, thank you.—It's worse than his last insult; I shall never forgive this!" She glanced down the page and handed it back with a laugh; from her point of vantage it was naively transparent. From Mr. Wilder's point, however, the contents were inscrutable; he looked from the letter to his daughter's serene smile, and relapsed into a puzzled silence.

"I should say on the contrary, that he doesn't want you to start immediately for the Dolomites," Constance observed.

"It's a girl," Nannie groaned. "I suspected it from the moment we got the telegram in Lucerne. Oh, why did I ever let that wretched boy get out of my sight?"

"I dare say she's horrid," Constance put in. "One meets such frightful Americans traveling."

"We will go up to Riva on the afternoon boat and investigate." It was Mrs. Eustace who spoke. There was an undertone in her voice which suggested that she was prepared to do her duty by her brother's son, however unpleasant that duty might be.

"American girls are so grasping," said Nannie plaintively. "It's scarcely safe for an unattached man to go out alone."

Mr. Wilder leaned forward and reexamined the letter.

"By the way, Miss Nannie, how did Jerry learn that you were here? His letter, I see, was mailed in Riva at ten o'clock last night."

Nannie examined the post mark.

"I hadn't thought of that! How could he have found out—unless that beast of a head waiter telegraphed? What does it mean?"

Mr. Wilder spread out his hands and raised his shoulders. "You've got me!" A gleam of illumination suddenly flashed over his face; he turned to his daughter with what was meant to be a carelessly off-hand manner. "Er—Constance, while I think of it, you didn't discharge Tony again yesterday, did you?"

Constance opened her eyes.

"Discharge Tony? Why should I do that? He isn't working for me."

"You weren't rude to him?"

"Father, am I ever rude to anyone?"

Mr. Wilder looked at the envelope again and shook his head. "There's something mighty fishy about this whole business. When you get hold of that brother of yours again, my dear young woman, you make him tell what he's been up to this week—and make him tell the truth."

"Mr. Wilder!" Nannie was reproachful. "You don't know Jerry; he's incapable of telling anything but the truth."

Constance tittered.

"What are you laughing at, Constance?"

"Nothing—only it's so funny. Why don't you advertise for him? Lost—a young man, age twenty-eight, height, five feet eleven, weight one hundred and seventy pounds, dark hair, gray eyes, slight scar over left eye brow; dressed when last seen in double breasted blue serge suit and brown russet shoes. Finder please return to Hotel du Lac and receive liberal reward."

"He isn't lost," said Nannie. "We know where he is perfectly; he's at the Hotel Sole d' Oro in Riva, and that's at the other end of the lake. We're going up on the afternoon boat to join him."

"Oh!" said Constance, meekly.

"You take my advice," Mr. Wilder put in. "Go up to Riva if you must—it's a pleasant trip—but leave your luggage here. See this young man in person and bring him back with you; tell him we have just as good mountains as he'll find in the Dolomites. If by any chance you shouldn't find him—"

"Of course, we'll find him!" said Nannie.

Constance looked troubled.

"Don't go, it's quite a long trip. Write instead and give the letter to Gustavo; he'll give it to the boat steward who will deliver it personally. Then if Jerry shouldn't be there—"

Nannie was losing her patience.

"Shouldn't be there? But he says he's there."

"Oh! yes, certainly, that ends it. Only, you know, Nannie, I don't believe there really is any such person as Jerry Junior! I think he's a myth."

Gustavo had been hanging about the gate looking anxiously up the road as if he expected something to happen. His brow cleared suddenly as a boy on a bicycle appeared in the distance. The boy whirled into the court and dismounted; glancing dubiously from one to the other of the group, he finally presented his telegram to Gustavo, who passed it on to Nannie. She ripped it open and ran her eyes over the contents.

"Can anyone tell me the meaning of this? It's Italian!" She spread it on the table while the three bent over it in puzzled wonder.

"Ceingide mai maind dunat comtu Riva stei in Valedolmo geri."

Constance was the first to grasp the meaning; she read it twice and laughed.

"That's not Italian; it's English, only the operator has spelt it phonetically—I begin to believe there is a Jerry," she added, "no one could cause such a bother who didn't exist." She picked up the slip and translated:

"'Changed my mind. Do not come to Riva; stay in Valedolmo. JERRY.'"

"I'm a clairvoyant you see. I told you he wouldn't be there!"

"But where is he?" Nannie wailed.

Constance and her father glanced tentatively at each other and were silent. Gustavo who had been hanging officiously in the rear, approached and begged their pardon.

"Scusi, signora, but I sink I can explain. Ecco! Ze telegram is dated from Limone—zat is a village close by here on ze ozzer side of ze lake. He is gone on a walking trip, ze yong man, of two—tree days wif an Englishman who is been in zis hotel. If he expect you so soon he would not go. But patience, he will come back. Oh, yes, in a little while, after one—two day he come back."

"What is the man talking about?" Mrs. Eustace was both indignant and bewildered. "Jerry was in Riva yesterday at the Hotel Sole d' Oro. How can he be on a walking trip at the other end of the lake today?"

"You don't suppose—" Nannie's voice was tragic—"that he has eloped with that American girl?"

"Good heavens, my dear!" Mrs. Eustace appealed to Mr. Wilder. "What are the laws in this dreadful country? Don't banns or something have to be published three weeks before the ceremony can take place?"

Mr. Wilder rose hastily.

"Yes, yes, dear lady. It's impossible; don't consider any such catastrophe for a moment. Come, Constance, I really think we ought to be going.—Er, you see, Mrs. Eustace, you can't believe—that is, don't let anything Gustavo says trouble you. With all respect for his many fine qualities, he has not Jerry's regard for truth. And don't bother any more about the boy; he will turn up in a day or so. He may have written some letters of explanation that you haven't got. These foreign mails—" He edged toward the gate.

Constance followed him and then turned back.

"We're on our way to the jail," she said, "to visit our donkey-driver who has managed to get himself arrested. While we're there we can make inquiries if you like; it's barely possible that they might have got hold of Jerry on some false charge or other. These foreign jails—"

"Constance!" said Nannie reproachfully.

"Oh, my dear, I was only joking; of course it's impossible. Good bye." She nodded and laughed and ran after her father.



CHAPTER XVIII

If one must go to jail at all one could scarcely choose a more entertaining jail than that of Valedolmo. It occupies a structure which was once a palace; and its cells, planned for other purposes, are spacious. But its most gratifying feature, to one forcibly removed from social intercourse, is its outlook. The windows command the Piazza Garibaldi, which is the social center of the town; it contains the village post, the fountain, the tobacco shop, the washing-trough, and the two rival cafes, the "Independenza" and the "Liberta." The piazza is always dirty and noisy—that goes without saying—but on Wednesday morning at nine o'clock, it is peculiarly dirty and noisy. Wednesday is Valedolmo's market day, and the square is so cluttered with booths and huxters and anxious buyers, that the peaceable pedestrian can scarcely wedge his way through. The noise moreover is deafening; above the cries of vendors and buyers, rises a shriller chorus of bleating kids and squealing pigs and braying donkeys.

Mr. Wilder, red in the face and short of temper, pushed through the crowd with little ceremony, prodding on the right with his umbrella, on the left with his fan, and using his elbows vigorously. Constance, serenely cool, followed in his wake, nodding here and there to a chance acquaintance, smiling on everyone; the spectacle to her held always fresh interest. An image vendor close at her elbow insisted that she should buy a Madonna and Bambina for fifty centesimi, or at least a San Giuseppe for twenty-five. To her father's disgust she bought them both, and presented them to two wide-eyed children who in bashful fascination were dogging their footsteps.

The appearance of the foreigners in the piazza caused such a ripple of interest, that for a moment the bargaining was suspended. When the two mounted the steps of the jail and jerked the bell, as many of the bystanders as the steps would accommodate mounted with them. Nobody answered the first ring, and Constance pulled again with a force which sent a jangle of bells echoing through the interior. After a second's wait—snortingly impatient on Mr. Wilder's part; he was being pressed close by the none too clean citizens of Valedolmo—the door was opened a very small crack by a frowsy jailoress. Her eye fell first upon the crowd, and she was disposed to close it again; but in the act she caught sight of the Signorina Americana dressed in white, smiling above a bouquet of oleanders. Her eyes widened with astonishment. It was long since such an apparition had presented itself at that door. She dropped a courtesy and the crack widened.

"Your commands, signorina?"

"We wish to come in."



"But it is against the orders. Friday is visiting-day at thirteen o'clock. If the signorina had a permesso from the sindaco, why then—"

The signorina shook her head and shrugged her shoulders. She had no permesso and it was too much trouble to get one. Besides, the sindaco's office didn't open till ten o'clock. She glanced down; there was a shining two-franc piece in her hand. Perhaps the jailoress would allow them to step inside away from the crowd and she would explain?

This sounded reasonable; the door opened farther and they squeezed through. It banged in the faces of the disappointed spectators, who lingered hopefully a few moments longer, and then returned to their bargaining. Inside the big damp stone-walled corridor Constance drew a deep breath and smiled upon the jailoress; the jailoress smiled back. Then as a preliminary skirmish, Constance presented the two-franc piece; and the jailoress dropped a courtesy.

"We have heard that Antonio, our donkey-driver, has been arrested for deserting from the army and we have come to find out about it. My father, the signore here—" she waved her hand toward Mr. Wilder—"likes Antonio very much and is quite sure that it is a mistake."

The woman's mouth hardened; she nodded with emphasis.

"Gia. We have him, the man Antonio, if that is his name. He may not be the deserter they search—I do not know—but if he is not the deserter he is something else. You should have heard him last night, signorina, when they brought him in. The things he said! They were in a foreign tongue; I did not understand, but I felt. Also he kicked my husband—kicked him quite hard so that he limps today. And the way he orders us about! You would think he were a prince in his own palace and we were his servants. Nothing is good enough for him. He objected to the room we gave him first because it smelt of the cooking. He likes butter with his bread and hot milk with his coffee. He cannot smoke the cigars which my husband bought for him, and they cost three soldi apiece. And this morning—" her voice rose shrilly as she approached the climax—"he called for a bath. It is true, signorina, a bath. Dio mio, he wished me to carry the entire village fountain to his room!"

"Not really?" Constance opened her eyes in shocked surprise. "But surely, signora, you did not do it?"

The woman blinked.

"It would be impossible, signorina," she contented herself with saying.

Constance, with grave concern, translated the sum of Tony's enormities to her father; and turned back to the jailoress apologetically.

"My father is very much grieved that the man should have caused you so much trouble. But he says, that if we could see him, we could persuade him to be more reasonable. We talk his language, and can make him understand."

The woman winked meaningly.

"Eh—he pretends he cannot talk Italian, but he understands enough to ask for what he wishes. I think—and the Signor-Lieutenant who ordered his arrest thinks—that he is shamming."

"It was a lieutenant who ordered his arrest? Do you remember his name—was it Carlo di Ferara?"

"It might have been." Her face was vague.

"Of the cavalry?"

"Si, signorina, of the cavalry—and very handsome."

Constance laughed. "Well, the plot thickens! Dad, you must come to Tony's hearing this afternoon, and put it tactfully to our friend the lieutenant that we don't like to have our donkey-man snatched away without our permission." She turned back to the jailoress. "And now, where is the man? We should like to speak with him."

"It is against the orders, but perhaps—I have already permitted the head waiter from the Hotel du Lac to carry him newspapers and cigarettes. He says that the man Antonio is in reality an American nobleman from New York who merely plays at being a donkey-driver for diversion, and that unless he is set at liberty immediately a ship will come with cannon, but—we all know Gustavo, signorina."

Constance nodded and laughed.

"You have reason! We all know Gustavo—may we go right up?"

The jailoress called the jailor. They talked aside; the two-franc piece was produced as evidence. The jailor with a great show of caution got out a bunch of keys and motioned them to follow. Up two flights and down a long corridor with peeling frescoes on the walls—nymphs and cupids and garlands of roses; most incongruous decorations for a jail—at last they paused before a heavy oak door. Their guide tried two wrong keys, swore softly as each failed to turn, and finally with an exclamation of triumph produced the right one. He swung the door wide and stepped back with a bow.

A large room was revealed, brick-floored and somewhat scanty as to furniture, but with a view—an admirable view, if one did not mind its being checked off into iron squares. The most conspicuous object in the room, however, was its occupant, as he sat, in an essentially American attitude, with his chair tipped back and his feet on the table. A cloud of tobacco smoke and a wide spread copy of a New York paper concealed him from too impertinent gaze. He did not raise his head at the sound of the opening door but contented himself with growling:

"Confound your impudence! You might at least knock before you come in."

Constance laughed and advanced a hesitating step across the threshold. Tony dropped his paper and sprang to his feet, his face assuming a shade of pink only less vivid than the oleanders. She shook her head sorrowfully.

"I don't need to tell you, Tony, how shocked we are to find you in such a place. Our trust has been rudely shaken; we had not supposed we were harboring a deserter."

Mr. Wilder stepped forward and held out his hand; there was a twinkle in his eye which he struggled manfully to suppress.

"Nonsense, Tony, we don't believe a word of it. You a deserter from the Italian army? It's preposterous! Where are your naturalization papers?"

"Thank you, Mr. Wilder, but I don't happen to have my papers with me—I trust it won't be necessary to produce them. You see—" his glance rested entirely on Mr. Wilder; he studiously overlooked Constance's presence—"this Angelo Fresi, the fellow they are after, got into a quarrel over a gambling debt and struck a superior officer. To avoid being court-martialed he lit out; it happened a month ago in Milan and they've been looking for him ever since. Now last night I had the misfortune to tip Lieutenant Carlo di Ferara over into a ditch. The matter was entirely accidental and I regretted it very much. I, of course, apologized. But what did the lieutenant do but take it into his head that I, being an assaulter of superior officers, was, by a priori reasoning, this Angelo Fresi in disguise. Accordingly—" he waved his hand around the room—"you see me here."

"It's an imposition! Depriving an American citizen of his liberty on any such trumped-up charge as that! I'll telegraph the consul in Milan. I'll—"

"Oh, don't trouble. I'll get off this afternoon; they've sent for someone to identify me, and if he doesn't succeed, I don't see how they can hold me. In the meantime, I'm comfortable enough."

Mr. Wilder's eye wandered about the room. "H'm, it isn't bad for a jail! Got everything you need—tobacco, papers? What's this, New York Sun only ten days old?" He picked it up and plunged into the headlines.

Constance turned from the window and glanced casually at Tony.

"You didn't go to Austria after all?"

"I was detained; I hope to get off tomorrow."

"Oh, before I forget it." She removed the basket from her arm and set it on the table. "Here is some lemon jelly, Tony. I couldn't remember whether one takes lemon jelly to prisoners or invalids—I've never known any prisoners before, you see. But anyway, I hope you'll like it; Elizabetta made it."

He bowed stiffly. "I beg of you to convey my thanks to Elizabetta."

"Tony!" She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper and glanced apprehensively over her shoulder to see if the jailor were listening. "If by any chance they should identify you as that deserter, just get word to me and I will have Elizabetta bake you a veal pasty with a rope ladder and a file inside. I would have had her bake it this morning, only Wednesday is ironing-day at the villa, and she was so awfully busy—"

"This is your innings," Tony rejoined somewhat sulkily. "I hope you'll get all the entertainment you can out of the situation."

"Thank you, Tony, that's kind. Of course," she added with a plaintive note in her voice, "this must be tiresome for you; but it is a pleasant surprise for me. I was feeling very sad last night, Tony, at the thought that you were going to Austria and that I should never, never see you any more."

"I wish I knew whether there's any truth in that statement or not!"

"Any truth! I realize well, that I might search the whole world over and never find another donkey-man who sings such beautiful tenor, who wears such lovely sashes and such becoming earrings. Why, Tony—" she took a step nearer and her face assumed a look of consternation. "You've lost your earrings!"

He turned his back and walked to the window where he stood moodily staring at the market. Constance watched his squared shoulders dubiously out of the corner of her eye; then she glanced momentarily into the hall where the jailor was visible, his face flattened against the bars of an open window; and from him to her father, still deep in the columns of his paper, oblivious to both time and place. She crossed to Tony and stood at his side peering down at the scene below.

"I don't suppose it will interest you," she said in an off-hand tone, her eyes still intent on the crowd, "but I got a letter this morning from a young man who is stopping at the Sole d' Oro in Riva—a very rude letter I thought."

He whirled about.

"You know!"

"It struck me that the person who wrote it was in a temper and might afterwards be sorry for having hurt my feelings, and so"—she raised her eyes momentarily to his—"the invitation is still open."

"Tell me," there was both entreaty and command in his tone, "did you know the truth before you wrote that letter?"

"You mean, did I know whom I was inviting? Assuredly! Do you think it would have been dignified to write such an informal invitation to a person I did not know?"

She turned away quickly and laid her hand on her father's shoulder.

"Come, Dad, don't you think we ought to be going? Poor Tony wants to read the paper himself."

Mr. Wilder came back to the jail and his companions with a start.

"Oh, eh, yes, I think perhaps we ought. If they don't let you out this afternoon, Tony, I'll make matters lively for 'em, and if there's anything you need send word by Gustavo—I'll be back later." He fished in his pockets and brought up a handful of cigars. "Here's something better than lemon jelly, and they're not from the tobacco shop in Valedolmo either."

He dropped them on the table and turned toward the door; Constance followed with a backward glance.

"Good-bye, Tony; don't despair. Remember that it's always darkest before the dawn, and that whatever others think, Costantina and I believe in you. We know that you are incapable of telling anything but the truth!" She had almost reached the door when she became aware of the flowers in her hand; she hurried back. "Oh, I forgot! Costantina sent these with her—with—" She faltered; her audacity did not go quite that far.

Tony reached for them. "With what?" he insisted.

She laughed; and a second later the door closed behind her. He stood staring at the door till he heard the key turn in the lock, then he looked down at the flowers in his hand. A note was tied to the stems; his fingers trembled as he worked with the knot.

"Caro Antonio mio," it commenced; he could read that. "La sua Costantina," it ended; he could read that. But between the two was an elusive, tantalizing hiatus. He studied it and put it in his pocket and took it out and studied it again. He was still puzzling over it half an hour later when Gustavo came to inquire if the signore had need of anything.

Had he need of anything! He sent Gustavo flying to the stationer's in search of an Italian-English dictionary.

* * * * *

It was four o'clock in the afternoon and all the world—except Constance—was taking a siesta. The Farfalla, anchored at the foot of the water steps in a blaze of sunshine, was dipping up and down in drowsy harmony with the lapping waves; she was for the moment abandoned, Giuseppe being engaged with a nap in the shade of the cypress trees at the end of the drive. He was so very engaged that he did not hear the sound of an approaching carriage, until the horse was pulled to a sudden halt to avoid stepping on him. Giuseppe staggered sleepily to his feet and rubbed his eyes. He saw a gentleman descend, a gentleman clothed as for a wedding, in a frock coat and a white waistcoat, in shining hat and pearl gray gloves and a boutonniere of oleander. Having paid the driver and dismissed the carriage, the gentleman fumbled in his pocket for his card-case. Giuseppe hurrying forward with a polite bow, stopped suddenly and blinked. He fancied that he must still be dreaming; he rubbed his eyes and stared again, but he found the second inspection more confounding than the first. The gentleman looked back imperturbably, no slightest shade of recognition in his glance, unless a gleam of amusement far, far down in the depths of his eye might be termed recognition. He extracted a card with grave deliberation and handed it to his companion.

"Voglio vedere la Signorina Costantina," he remarked.

The tone, the foreign accent, were both reminiscent of many a friendly though halting conversation. Giuseppe stared again, appealingly, but the gentleman did not help him out; on the contrary he repeated his request in a slightly sharpened tone.

"Si, signore," Giuseppe stammered. "Prego di verire. La signorina e nel giardino."

He started ahead toward the garden, looking behind at every third step to make sure that the gentleman was still following, that he was not merely a figment of his own sleepy senses. Their direction was straight toward the parapet where, on a historic wash-day, the signorina had sat beside a row of dangling stockings. She was sitting there now, dressed in white, the oleander tree above her head enveloping her in a glowing and fragrant shade. So occupied was she with a dreamy contemplation of the mountains across the lake that she did not hear footsteps until Giuseppe paused before her and presented the card. She glanced from this to the visitor and extended a friendly hand.

"Mr. Hilliard! Good afternoon."

There was nothing of surprise in her greeting; evidently she did not find the visit extraordinary. Giuseppe stared, his mouth and eyes at their widest, until the signorina dismissed him; then he turned and walked back—staggered back almost—never before, not even late at night on Corpus Domini day, had he had such overwhelming reason to doubt his senses.

Constance turned to the visitor and swept him with an appreciative glance, her eye lingering a second on the oleander in his buttonhole.

"Perhaps you can tell me, is Tony out of jail? I am so anxious to know."

He shook his head.

"Found guilty and sentenced for life; you'll never see him again."

"Ah; poor Tony! I shall miss him."

"I shall miss him too; we've had very good times together."

Constance suddenly became aware that her guest was still standing; she moved along and made place on the wall. "Won't you sit down? Oh, excuse me," she added with an anxious glance at his clothes, "I'm afraid you'll get dusty; it would be better to bring a chair." She nodded toward the terrace.

He sat down beside her.

"I am only too honored; the last time I came you did not invite me to sit on the wall."

"I am sorry if I appeared inhospitable, but you came so unexpectedly, Mr. Hilliard."

"Why 'Mr. Hilliard'? When you wrote you called me 'dear Jerry'."

"That was a slip of the pen; I hope you will excuse it."

"When I wrote I called you 'Miss Wilder'; that was a slip of the pen too. What I meant to say was 'dear Constance'."

She let this pass without comment.

"I have an apology to make."

"Yes?"

"Once, a long time ago, I insulted you; I called you a kid. I take it back; I swallow the word. You were never a kid."

"Oh," she dimpled, and then, "I don't believe you remember a thing about it!"



"Connie Wilder, a little girl in a blue sailor suit, and two nice fat braids of yellow hair dangling down her back with red bows on the ends—very convenient for pulling."

"You are making that up. You don't remember."

"Ah, but I do! And as for the racket you were making that afternoon, it was, if you will permit the expression, infernal. I remember it distinctly; I was trying to cram for a math. exam."

"It wasn't I. It was your bad little sisters and brothers and cousins."

"It was you, dear Constance. I saw you with my own eyes; I heard you with my own ears."

"Bobbie Hilliard was pulling my hair."

"I apologize on his behalf, and with that we will close the incident. There is something much more important which I wish to talk about."

"Have you seen Nannie?" She offered this hastily not to allow a pause.

"Yes, dear Constance, I have seen Nannie."

"Call me 'Miss Wilder' please."

"I'll be hanged if I will! You've been calling me Tony and Jerry and anything else you chose ever since you knew me—and long before for the matter of that."

Constance waived the point.

"Was she glad to see you?"

"She's always glad to see me."

"Oh, don't be so provoking! Give me the particulars. Was she surprised? How did you explain the telegrams and letters and Gustavo's stories? I should think the Hotel Sole d'Oro at Riva and the walking trip with the Englishman must have been difficult."

"Not in the least; I told the truth."

"The truth! Not all of it?"

"Every word."

"How could you?" There was reproach in her accent.

"It did come hard; I'm a little out of practice."

"Did you tell her about—about me?"

"I had to, Constance. When it came to the necessity of squaring all of Gustavo's yarns, my imagination gave out. Anyway, I had to tell her out of self-defence; she was so superior. She said it was just like a man to muddle everything up. Here I'd been ten days in the same town with the most charming girl in the world, and hadn't so much as discovered her name; whereas if she had been managing it—You see how it was; I had to let her know that I was quite capable of taking care of myself without any interference from her. I even—anticipated a trifle."

"How?"

"She said she was engaged. I told her I was too."

"Indeed!" Constance's tone was remote. "To whom?"

"The most charming girl in the world."

"May I ask her name?"

He laid his hand on his heart in a gesture reminiscent of Tony. "Costantina."

"Oh! I congratulate you."

"Thank you—I hoped you would."

She looked away, gravely, toward the Maggiore rising from the midst of its clouds. His gaze followed hers, and for three minutes there was silence. Then he leaned toward her.

"Constance, will you marry me?"

"No!"

A pause of four minutes during which Constance stared steadily at the mountain. At the end of that time her curiosity overcame her dignity; she glanced at him sidewise. He was watching her with a smile, partly of amusement, partly of something else.

"Dear Constance, haven't you had enough of play, are you never going to grow up? You are such a kid!"

She turned back to the mountain.

"I haven't known you long enough," she threw over her shoulder.

"Six years!"

"One week and two days."

"Through three incarnations."

She laughed a delicious rippling laugh of surrender, and slipped her hand into his.

"You don't deserve it, Jerry, after the fib you told your sister, but I think—on the whole—I will."

Neither noticed that Mr. Wilder had stepped out from the house and was strolling down the cypress alley in their direction. He rounded the corner in front of the parapet, and as his eye fell upon them, came to a startled halt. The young man failed to let go of her hand, and Constance glanced at her father with an apprehensive blush.

"Here's—Tony, Dad. He's out of jail."

"I see he is."

She slipped down from the wall and brought Jerry with her.

"We'd like your parental blessing, please. I'm going to marry him, but don't look so worried. He isn't really a donkey-man nor a Magyar nor an orphan nor an organ-grinder nor—any of the things he has said he was. He is just a plain American man and an awful liar!"

The young man held out his hand and Mr. Wilder shook it.

"Jerry," he said, "I don't need to tell you how pleased—"

"'Jerry!'" echoed Constance. "Father, you knew?"

"Long before you did, my dear." There was a suggestion of triumph in Mr. Wilder's tone.

"Jerry, you told." There was reproach, scorn, indignation in hers.

Jerry spread out his hands in a gesture of repudiation.

"What could I do? He asked my name the day we climbed Monte Maggiore; naturally, I couldn't tell him a lie."

"Then we haven't fooled anybody. How unromantic!"

"Oh, yes," said Jerry, "we've fooled lots of people. Gustavo doesn't understand, and Giuseppe, you noticed, looked rather dazed. Then there's Lieutenant Carlo di Ferara—"

"Oh!" said Constance, her face suddenly blank.

"You can explain to him now," said her father, peering through the trees.

A commotion had suddenly arisen on the terrace—the rumble of wheels, the confused mingling of voices. Constance and Jerry looked too. They found the yellow omnibus of the Hotel du Lac, its roof laden with luggage, drawn up at the end of the driveway, and Mrs. Eustace and Nannie on the point of descending. The center of the terrace was already occupied by Lieutenant di Ferara, who, with heels clicked together and white gloved hands at salute, was in the act of achieving a military bow. Miss Hazel fluttering from the door, in one breath welcomed the guests, presented the lieutenant, and ordered Giuseppe to convey the luggage upstairs. Then she glanced questioningly about the terrace.

"I thought Constance and her father were here—Giuseppe!"

Giuseppe dropped his end of a trunk and approached. Miss Hazel handed him the lieutenant's card. "The signorina and the signore—in the garden, I think."

Giuseppe advanced upon the garden. Jerry's face, at the sight, became as blank as Constance's. The two cast upon each other a glance of guilty terror, and from this looked wildly behind for a means of escape. Their eyes simultaneously lighted on the break in the garden wall. Jerry sprang up and pulled Constance after him. On the top, she gathered her skirts together preparatory to jumping, then turned back for a moment toward her father.

"Dad," she called in a stage whisper, "you go and meet him like a gentleman. Tell him you are very sorry, but your daughter is not at home today."

The two conspirators scrambled down on the other side; and Mr. Wilder with a sigh, dutifully stepped forward to greet the guests.

THE END