'...You have some influence over Agnes. Try what youcan do, Henry, to make her take a sensible view of the matter.There is really nothing to make a fuss about. My wife's maid knockedat her door early in the morning, with the customary cup of tea.Getting no answer, she went round to the dressing-room--found the dooron that side unlocked--and discovered Agnes on the bed in a fainting fit.With my wife's help, they brought her to herself again; and shetold the extraordinary story which I have just repeated to you.You must have seen for yourself that she has been over-fatigued,poor thing, by our long railway journeys: her nerves are out of order--and she is just the person to be easily terrified by a dream.She obstinately refuses, however, to accept this rational view.Don't suppose that I have been severe with her! All that a mancan do to humour her I have done. I have written to the Countess(in her assumed name) offering to restore the room to her.She writes back, positively declining to return to it.I have accordingly arranged (so as not to have the thingknown in the hotel) to occupy the room for one or two nights,and to leave Agnes to recover her spirits under my wife's care.Is there anything more that I can do? Whatever questions Agnes hasasked of me I have answered to the best of my ability; she knowsall that you told me about Francis and the Countess last night.But try as I may I can't quiet her mind. I have given up the attemptin despair, and left her in the drawing-room. Go, like a good fellow,and try what you can do to compose her.'

In those words, Lord Montbarry stated the case to his brotherfrom the rational point of view. Henry made no remark, he wentstraight to the drawing-room.

He found Agnes walking rapidly backwards and forwards,flushed and excited. 'If you come here to say what your brotherhas been saying to me,' she broke out, before he could speak,'spare yourself the trouble. I don't want common sense--I want a true friend who will believe in me.'

'I am that friend, Agnes,' Henry answered quietly, 'and you know it.'

'You really believe that I am not deluded by a dream?'

I know that you are not deluded--in one particular, at least.'

'In what particular?'

'In what you have said of the Countess. It is perfectly true--'

Agnes stopped him there. 'Why do I only hear this morningthat the Countess and Mrs. James are one and the same person?'she asked distrustfully. 'Why was I not told of it last night?'

'You forget that you had accepted the exchange of rooms before Ireached Venice,' Henry replied. 'I felt strongly tempted to tell you,even then--but your sleeping arrangements for the night wereall made; I should only have inconvenienced and alarmed you.I waited till the morning, after hearing from my brother thatyou had yourself seen to your security from any intrusion.How that intrusion was accomplished it is impossible to say.I can only declare that the Countess's presence by your bedsidelast night was no dream of yours. On her own authority I can testifythat it was a reality.'

'On her own authority?' Agnes repeated eagerly. 'Have you seenher this morning?'

'I have seen her not ten minutes since.'

'What was she doing?'

She was busily engaged in writing. I could not even get her to lookat me until I thought of mentioning your name.'

'She remembered me, of course?'

'She remembered you with some difficulty. Finding that she wouldn't answerme on any other terms, I questioned her as if I had come direct from you.Then she spoke. She not only admitted that she had the same superstitiousmotive for placing you in that room which she had acknowledgedto Francis--she even owned that she had been by your bedside,watching through the night, "to see what you saw," as she expressed it.Hearing this, I tried to persuade her to tell me how she got intothe room. Unluckily, her manuscript on the table caught her eye;she returned to her writing. "The Baron wants money," she said;"I must get on with my play." What she saw or dreamed while she wasin your room last night, it is at present impossible to discover.But judging by my brother's account of her, as well as by what Iremember of her myself, some recent influence has been at work whichhas produced a marked change in this wretched woman for the worse.Her mind (since last night, perhaps) is partially deranged.One proof of it is that she spoke to me of the Baron as if he werestill a living man. When Francis saw her, she declared that the Baronwas dead, which is the truth. The United States Consul at Milanshowed us the announcement of the death in an American newspaper.So far as I can see, such sense as she still possesses seems to beentirely absorbed in one absurd idea--the idea of writing a playfor Francis to bring out at his theatre. He admits that he encouragedher to hope she might get money in this way. I think he did wrong.Don't you agree with me?'

Without heeding the question, Agnes rose abruptly from her chair.

'Do me one more kindness, Henry,' she said. 'Take me to the Countessat once.'

Henry hesitated. 'Are you composed enough to see her, after the shockthat you have suffered?' he asked.

She trembled, the flush on her face died away, and left it deadly pale.But she held to her resolution. 'You have heard of what I saw last night?'she said faintly.

'Don't speak of it!' Henry interposed. 'Don't uselesslyagitate yourself.'

'I must speak! My mind is full of horrid questions about it.I know I can't identify it--and yet I ask myself over and over again,in whose likeness did it appear? Was it in the likeness of Ferrari?or was it--?' she stopped, shuddering. 'The Countess knows, I mustsee the Countess!' she resumed vehemently. 'Whether my courage failsme or not, I must make the attempt. Take me to her before I have timeto feel afraid of it!'

Henry looked at her anxiously. 'If you are really sure of yourown resolution,' he said, 'I agree with you--the sooner you seeher the better. You remember how strangely she talked of yourinfluence over her, when she forced her way into your room in London?'

'I remember it perfectly. Why do you ask?'

'For this reason. In the present state of her mind, I doubt if shewill be much longer capable of realizing her wild idea of you as theavenging angel who is to bring her to a reckoning for her evil deeds.It may be well to try what your influence can do while she is stillcapable of feeling it.'

He waited to hear what Agnes would say. She took his arm and ledhim in silence to the door.

They ascended to the second floor, and, after knocking,entered the Countess's room.

She was still busily engaged in writing. When she looked up fromthe paper, and saw Agnes, a vacant expression of doubt was the onlyexpression in her wild black eyes. After a few moments, the lostremembrances and associations appeared to return slowly to her mind.The pen dropped from her hand. Haggard and trembling, she looked closerat Agnes, and recognised her at last. 'Has the time come already?'she said in low awe-struck tones. 'Give me a little longer respite,I haven't done my writing yet!'

She dropped on her knees, and held out her clasped hands entreatingly.Agnes was far from having recovered, after the shock that she hadsuffered in the night: her nerves were far from being equal to thestrain that was now laid on them. She was so startled by the changein the Countess, that she was at a loss what to say or to do next.Henry was obliged to speak to her. 'Put your questions while youhave the chance,' he said, lowering his voice. 'See! the vacant lookis coming over her face again.'

Agnes tried to rally her courage. 'You were in my room last night--'

she began. Before she could add a word more, the Countess liftedher hands, and wrung them above her head with a low moan of horror.Agnes shrank back, and turned as if to leave the room. Henry stopped her,and whispered to her to try again. She obeyed him after an effort.'I slept last night in the room that you gave up to me,' she resumed.'I saw--'

The Countess suddenly rose to her feet. 'No more of that,' she cried.'Oh, Jesu Maria! do you think I want to be told what you saw?Do you think I don't know what it means for you and for me?Decide for yourself, Miss. Examine your own mind. Are you wellassured that the day of reckoning has come at last? Are you readyto follow me back, through the crimes of the past, to the secrets ofthe dead?'

She returned again to the writing-table, without waiting to be answered.Her eyes flashed; she looked like her old self once more as she spoke.It was only for a moment. The old ardour and impetuosity werenearly worn out. Her head sank; she sighed heavily as she unlockeda desk which stood on the table. Opening a drawer in the desk,she took out a leaf of vellum, covered with faded writing.Some ragged ends of silken thread were still attached to the leaf,as if it had been torn out of a book.

'Can you read Italian?' she asked, handing the leaf to Agnes.

Agnes answered silently by an inclination of her head.

'The leaf,' the Countess proceeded, 'once belonged to a book in the oldlibrary of the palace, while this building was still a palace.By whom it was torn out you have no need to know. For what purposeit was torn out you may discover for yourself, if you will.Read it first--at the fifth line from the top of the page.'

Agnes felt the serious necessity of composing herself.'Give me a chair,' she said to Henry; 'and I will do my best.'He placed himself behind her chair so that he could look over hershoulder and help her to understand the writing on the leaf.Rendered into English, it ran as follows:--

I have now completed my literary survey of the firstfloor of the palace. At the desire of my noble and gracious patron,the lord of this glorious edifice, I next ascend to the second floor,and continue my catalogue or description of the pictures,decorations, and other treasures of art therein contained.Let me begin with the corner room at the western extremity of the palace,called the Room of the Caryatides, from the statues which supportthe mantel-piece. This work is of comparatively recent execution:it dates from the eighteenth century only, and reveals the corrupttaste of the period in every part of it. Still, there is a certaininterest which attaches to the mantel-piece: it conceals a cleverlyconstructed hiding-place, between the floor of the room and the ceilingof the room beneath, which was made during the last evil daysof the Inquisition in Venice, and which is reported to have savedan ancestor of my gracious lord pursued by that terrible tribunal.The machinery of this curious place of concealment has been keptin good order by the present lord, as a species of curiosity.He condescended to show me the method of working it.Approaching the two Caryatides, rest your hand on the forehead(midway between the eyebrows) of the figure which is on your leftas you stand opposite to the fireplace, then press the head inwardsas if you were pushing it against the wall behind. By doing this,you set in motion the hidden machinery in the wall which turnsthe hearthstone on a pivot, and discloses the hollow place below.There is room enough in it for a man to lie easily at full length.The method of closing the cavity again is equally simple. Place bothyour hands on the temples of the figures; pull as if you were pullingit towards you--and the hearthstone will revolve into its properposition again.

'You need read no farther,' said the Countess. 'Be carefulto remember what you have read.'

She put back the page of vellum in her writing-desk, locked it,and led the way to the door.

'Come!' she said; 'and see what the mocking Frenchman called "Thebeginning of the end." '

Agnes was barely able to rise from her chair; she trembled from headto foot. Henry gave her his arm to support her. 'Fear nothing,'he whispered; 'I shall be with you.'

The Countess proceeded along the westward corridor, and stoppedat the door numbered Thirty-eight. This was the room which hadbeen inhabited by Baron Rivar in the old days of the palace:it was situated immediately over the bedchamber in which Agnes hadpassed the night. For the last two days the room had been empty.The absence of luggage in it, when they opened the door, showed that ithad not yet been let.

'You see?' said the Countess, pointing to the carved figure atthe fire-place; 'and you know what to do. Have I deserved that youshould temper justice with mercy?' she went on in lower tones.'Give me a few hours more to myself. The Baron wants money--I must get on with my play.'

She smiled vacantly, and imitated the action of writing with her righthand as she pronounced the last words. The effort of concentratingher weakened mind on other and less familiar topics than the constantwant of money in the Baron's lifetime, and the vague prospectof gain from the still unfinished play, had evidently exhaustedher poor reserves of strength. When her request had been granted,she addressed no expressions of gratitude to Agnes; she only said,'Feel no fear, miss, of my attempting to escape you. Where you are,there I must be till the end comes.'

Her eyes wandered round the room with a last weary and stupefied look.She returned to her writing with slow and feeble steps, like the stepsof an old woman.