Now it chanced that Del Ferice was not at home at the hour when the carriage containing the detectives drew up at his door.

Indeed he was rarely to be found at that time, for when he was not engaged elsewhere, he dined with Donna Tullia and her old countess, accompanying them afterwards to any of the quiet Lenten receptions to which they desired to go.

Temistocle was also out, for it was his hour for supper, a meal which he generally ate in a small _osteria_ opposite his master's lodging.
There he sat now, finishing his dish of beans and oil, and debating whether he should indulge himself in another _mezza foglietta_ of his favourite white wine.

He was installed upon the wooden bench against the wall, behind the narrow table on which was spread a dirty napkin with the remains of his unctuous meal.

The light from the solitary oil-lamp that hung from the black ceiling was not brilliant, and he could see well enough through the panes of the glass door that the carriage which had just stopped on the opposite side of the street was not a cab.