What is he doing all this time in Valedolmo ?' Gustavo's eyes roved wildly until they lighted on the tennis-court.
'He--he stay, signorina, to play lawn-tennis wif me, but he go to-morrow.' 'Oh, he is going to-morrow ?--What's his name, Gustavo ?' She put the question indifferently while she stooped to pet a tortoise-shell cat that was curled asleep on the bench.
'His name ?' Gustavo's face cleared.

'I get ze raygeester; you read heem yourself.' He darted into the bureau and returned with a black book.
'_Ecco_, signorina!' spreading it on the table before her.
His alacrity should have aroused her suspicions; but she was too intent on the matter in hand.

She turned the pages and paused at the week's entries; Rudolph Ziegelmann und Frau, Berlin; and just beneath, in bold black letters that stretched from margin to margin, Abraham Lincoln, U.S.A.
Gustavo hovered above, anxiously watching her face; he had been told that this would make everything right, that Abraham Lincoln was an exceedingly respectable name.

Constance's expression did not change.

She looked at the writing for fully three minutes, then she opened her purse and looked inside.