Prince Rivani opened the door with a low bow, and the two men went back to the salon. The prince was pale but perfectly self possessed, and Blair very grave and quiet. The picture still floated before his eyes: the great black rock and the white, wan figure still stretched upon it, almost in the grasp of the cruel waves. His Margaret! Who could have painted it? And the prince had said that the picture had made the artist famous! He must find out that artist and get at the bottom of the mystery.

The salon was fuller than when he had left it, and he went and sat down in a quiet part of the room to wait until the prince had made some excuse for openly giving a reason for the duel of the morrow.

So he sat in his corner, outwardly calm and self-possessed, but thinking a great deal more of Margaret than the duel.

Presently Blair saw a tall, patrician man, with long hair and a beard, and the unmistakable air of an artist, enter the room, and absently noticed that he was instantly surrounded. He caught the name—it was Signor Alfero, the great artist; and scraps of the conversation floated to Blair's corner.

Suddenly he started. They were talking of the picture; he leaned forward and listened intently.

"What have you done with the masterpiece, prince?" Blair heard him ask.

"It is in my writing-room," said Prince Rivani.

"Oh, that is a pity! You should not deprive the world of a sight of its great treasures, mon prince."

"You still think as highly of Miss Leslie's picture, then, signor?" asked a gentleman.

"As highly?—more!" said the old man, turning promptly. "The more I see of it, the greater my astonishment grows that a woman so young could have painted a picture so old."

"So old?"

"Yes. We measure the age of a picture by the age of the thought it contains. There is a lifetime of suffering, and love, and despair in the face of the girl on that rock. Miss Leslie must have felt all that—ay, every heart-pang of it—before she could have painted it. It is—I repeat my verdict—a marvelous picture! She will, I trust, live to paint many other great ones; but never one that will go straighter to the heart than this."

"Where is Miss Leslie now?" asked another gentleman. "One sees and hears nothing of her."

"Because you do not go where she goes, signor. Miss Leslie is never seen in the promenade; you may drink your afternoon tea in all the palaces of Naples and not meet with her. But I venture to prophesy that if you will penetrate the slums of the city, the fever haunts, in which our poorest of the poor are awaiting the peace bringer, Death, you will find the great artist in their midst."

There was silence for a moment.

"Miss Leslie is a—philanthropist, then?" said the gentleman.

"She is a ministering angel," responded Signor Alfero, simply.

The prince stood by, white to the lips.

"What time she can spare from her work—and she works as hard as any seamstress in the city!—she spends amongst the poor. There is not a beggar in our streets who does not know her; not a blind man whose ears do not eagerly greet her footfall; not a sick child whose face does not 'lighten' at the sight of her smile. She is an artist—and an angel!" and the old man's lips quivered.

As if he could bear it no longer, the prince stood upright and approached Blair, his face white and set with the effort to suppress his thirst for vengeance.

"Referring to our discussion, Lord Ferrers," he said significantly, "are you still of opinion that we Italians have taken but a low place in the scale of nations?"

Blair started and looked up at him in surprise, then, understanding that the prince was going to make pretense of a quarrel, he replied:

"I cannot alter my opinion, even for so distinguished an Italian as Prince Rivani."

"That means that, as an Englishman, you regard us with contempt, my lord?"

Blair shrugged his shoulders.

"Your highness is at liberty to place any construction upon my words you please," he said.

"Thanks, my lord. Even if I assume that you charge us with cowardice?"

"Choose your own signification, prince," said Blair, beginning to grow warm, though it was only pretense.

"A nation of cowards!" said Prince Rivani, his eyes glittering at the success of the play. "That is a brave assertion; has the Earl of Ferrers courage to maintain it by the only consistent and appropriate argument?"

"I can maintain it at the sword's point, if necessary," said Blair, rising to his full height, and meeting the prince's deadly gaze with a steady, calm regard.

The prince bowed low, then turning slightly to the rest, said in a low, clear voice:

"Gentlemen, I call you to witness that the cause of quarrel is mine! Lord Ferrers has accused my country-men of a base and vile cowardice. I shall have the honor of defending them. As the Earl of Ferrers says, the argument is not one for words, but weapons! Is that so, my lord?"

"Your highness interprets me correctly," said Blair.

"Good! My friend, General Tralini, will have the honor of waiting upon your lordship at a later hour."

The prince drew him apart.

Blair got his crush hat and cloak, and approaching the prince, bowed low, then, with a general salutation, he left the room.

It was a lovely night, and the air blew upon his brow refreshingly, after the heat of the salon.

He paused outside the great doorway, and stood looking up at the sky—it was probable that it was the last time he would have the opportunity of seeing the stars.

Then he drew his cloak round him, and was going onward, when a woman, who had been coming down the street with her head bent and her face almost hidden in the thin shawl she hugged round her, stopped, and seeing him, held out her hand, murmuring something in broken Italian.

Blair stopped and looked at her absently; then he started, and taking her arm, drew her near a lamp.

"Lottie!" he said.

She flung her hands before her face and bent her head, almost as if she expected him to strike her.

The gesture amazed Blair.

"Lottie, Lottie!" he said, encouragingly; "it is you, then? I saw you this evening in the streets, my poor girl. But why do you shrink from me? What is the matter? Don't you know me—Blair?"

"Yes, yes!" she gasped. "I know you. I—I——Oh, Blair, don't kill me!"

"Kill you!" he exclaimed, with astonishment. "Why, Lottie, what is the matter with you?"

He took her arm as he spoke and drew it through his.

"You look ill. Lean on me. Don't be afraid."

She tore her arm from his and, shrinking back, leaned against the lamp-post, the light flashing on her face and revealing it in all its haggardness.

"Don't!—don't!" she said, with a catch in her breath. "Don't speak a kind word to me; I don't deserve it! Oh, Blair, if you knew all I've done——"

He sighed.

"Never mind, Lottie," he said, gently; "I'm afraid we have all done rather badly. But I'm sorry to see you looking so ill. Where are you staying? What made you come here? Come, tell me all about it."

"I can't! I can't!" she said, with a shudder and a fearful glance at his grave face. "I came here with a theatrical company—I got ill, and left behind. I wrote to him and asked for help, and he only threatened me——"

"Him! Who?" demanded Blair soothingly, for he began to think that illness and privation had turned poor Lottie's reason.

She shuddered and caught her breath.

"Austin Am——" she said, then stopped and looked up at him in sudden terror.

"Austin!" he exclaimed. "You wrote to Austin, and he——Oh, come, Lottie; that can't be true! But why didn't you write to me?"

"To you?" she breathed; "to you? Oh, Blair, Blair; if you only knew, you'd kill me where I stand!"

"Nonsense!" he said with gentle reproof. "Don't be silly, Lottie. Look here, you are weak and upset, and not in a fit state to tell me your story. Come to the palace, where I live, to-morrow, and let me hear all about it. Here is the address," and he tore a page from his pocketbook and wrote on it. "There it is. Now, mind you come; I shall be in all the morning—-" Then he stopped, for it suddenly flashed upon him that probably he should be where Lottie could not follow him. "Stay!" he said; "tell me where to find you, and I will come to-morrow—if possible."

"No!" she said with a shudder; "I will not! Go on and leave me, now."

"No, I won't," he said, and his voice sounded like the old Blair's in its hearty good-nature; "I shall stay here till you do tell me; and I warn you that we are keeping my wife up——"

She started and sprung back.

"Your wife!" she gasped. "Has she—has she come back?"

Blair turned pale, then forced a smile.

"My wife has not left me that I know of," he said. "I married Miss Violet Graham; you knew her, Lottie?"

"Violet Graham!" she panted. "Violet Graham! Oh!" and she put her hand before her eyes.

"Yes, and she is with me here at Naples, she and Austin Ambrose," he said. "He will be glad to see you and tell you that there is some mistake in your idea that he had refused to help you."

"She and he here!" she exclaimed hoarsely. "What does it mean? I can't think! I can't see what he wanted! It is all dark—all dark! Blair!" she exclaimed, seizing his arm. "That man—I tell you—I warn you! Oh, Blair, Blair! Take care! He means——" She broke off and almost groaned. "I don't know what he is working for, what he is plotting, but it is no good—no——" She stopped again and drew her shawl round her.

"Whom are you talking about Lottie?" he asked. "Not Austin! Why, he was a friend of yours, and is one of the best fellows alive! My poor girl, what 'bee have you got in your bonnet?' What do you mean?"

"Nothing, nothing!" she said, breathlessly. "I am half mad with cold and hunger——"

"Yes, yes," he said, gently. "See here, Lottie; here is some money—get food and a lodging for to-night. Go to the Hotel Nationale. I will come to you to-morrow and you shall tell me all about it," and he held out some English sovereigns.

She looked up at him with a kind of wild horror, then with a cry of remorse, a cry that rang in his ears for hours afterward, she sped away. He threw off his cloak, and started after her, but she had gained one of the entrances to a network of dark and narrow courts, and Blair lost her as completely as if the pavement had opened and swallowed her up.

Lottie was not far off. Hidden in one of the deep doorways, she had watched him relinquish the pursuit; then, as if compelled to follow him, she crept out, and gained the large street again.

As she passed the Palace Augustus, the guests of the conversazione were coming out, and she drew back into the shadow of the doorway to let them pass.

They were all talking in an excited fashion, and two Englishmen, pausing quite close to the trembling girl, were speaking loudly enough for her to hear.

"Rum kind of thing this affair to-night," said one.

"Isn't it? But it's just what one expects in Italy. Gives quite a foreign flavor to the evening," and he laughed cynically. "Fancy two men fighting a duel on such a paltry excuse as that! Why, I didn't hear anything particularly offensive, did you?"

"Not half so offensive as one hears fifty times over at a political meeting in England."

"But then these Italians are all fire, aren't they? And glad of the excuse for a shindy, eh?"

"Poor Blair!" rejoined the other, with a sigh. "Seems rather hard when you are an earl, with goodness knows how many thousands a year, and a charming wife, to be spitted by a fire-eating Italian. But, there, we all prophesied that Blair Leyton would come to a violent end; either a cropper in the field, or the racecourse."

"That's all right and consistent enough, and would appear to be the logical conclusion of such a man; but to be pierced through the heart with one of those confounded needles! Bah! And he is such a fine fellow, too! Never saw a better made man! Don't wonder all the women of his set were mad about him!"

"Yes, Blair is a good type of our best men," said the other. "But he may not fall: he used to fence awfully well in the old days, at Angelo's fencing-school, don't you know."

"I dare say, but fencing at Angelo's is a very different thing to crossing swords with a man like Rivani, especially when he means mischief, and if Rivani didn't mean mischief to-night, then I'm no judge of a man's looks."

They passed on, and left Lottie amazed in her ambush.

Blair and Prince Rivani to fight a duel! She had been in Naples long enough to have heard of Prince Rivani's reputation as a swordsman. Blair was as good as a dead man when he stood opposite the prince's gleaming steel.

What should she do? What could she do?

Half wild, she stood wringing her hands, her black eyes gleaming with terror and despair, then, suddenly, worn out and exhausted by privation and the excitement of her meeting with Blair, and this subsequent discovery, she fell to the pavement in a deep faint.