While I was wondering which was the best way to approach this somewhat delicate matter, the door was flung open to its fullest extent and Petronella stalked majestically into the room. There was a wrathful look on her strongly marked features, and Bianca trembled in expectation of a storm. Both she and the Maestro were terribly afraid of Petronella, who ruled the household and looked after them as she would a couple of children, so now that she frowned they acted like children; and were cowed by her eagle eye. Petronella surveyed the three of us grimly, and, being satisfied that her entrance had produced an effect, spoke with a dramatic gesture that Rachel herself might have envied,--

"I am enraged to-day. Let no one speak to me." Neither the Maestro nor Bianca seemed inclined to accept this tread-on-the-tail-of-my-coat challenge, so Petronella looked from one to the other to see on whom she should pour out the vials of her wrath. Ultimately she chose Bianca.

"Ah, it is you, Signorina! it is you who enrage me. And for why? you ask. Holy Saints! you ask why. Because you sit there like a statue in the Duoma. Will that bring him back? say I. No, Signora, let the bad young man go. Ecco!"

"Guiseppe is not a bad young man," cried Bianca, rising angrily to her feet.

"Are you older than I am, piccola? No! Have you been married like I was? No! Then let me speak, child that you are. All men are bad--ask the Signor there! All men are bad!"

Petronella made a comprehensive sweep of her arms so as to indicate the whole masculine portion of the human race, and I, seeing an opportunity of finding out what was the matter, did not attempt to defend masculine depravity in any way, but artfully asked a question,--

"I can hardly say. I don't know what you are talking about!"

"Eh! has the Signore no ears? I speak of Guiseppe Pallanza!"

"What, the tenor at the Teatro Ezzelino?"

"Yes, Signore, he is the engaged one of the Signorina here, and----"

"Enough, enough, Petronella!" cried Bianca, her face flushing. "Do not trouble the Signor with these chatterings."

"Oh, it's no trouble," I replied quickly. "Perhaps I can help you, Signorina, if you require help!"

"Eh, eh!" assented Petronella approvingly, "the English have long heads, piccola. Tell him all and he will find out what others cannot find out. And you, Maestro, the colezione is ready."

She tenderly led the old man into the next room, and I was thus left alone with Bianca, who had retreated to the window, where she stood twisting her handkerchief with nervous confusion.

"Do not tell me, Signorina, if you would rather not," I said gently.

"Ah, Signore, if I thought you would be my friend!"

"Certainly I will be your friend."

"The Maestro is so old. Petronella is so foolish. We know none in Verona, and I can do nothing for my poor Guiseppe!"

"Your lover, Signorina?"

"Yes. I promised you should see him at Verona, but--now--ah now!--but perhaps you have heard him singing at the Ezzelino?"

"No; I have not been to the opera since my arrival here. What is the matter with him? Is he ill?"

"I know not! I know not! He is lost!"

"Lost?"

"Yes, Signore. My Guiseppe has disappeared and no one knows where he is!"

Could there be any connection between the disappearance of Guiseppe and the death of that young man I had seen in the fatal chamber? The thought flashed across me as she spoke, but I dismissed it as idle.

"And you want some one to look for Signor Pallanza?"

"Yes, yes!"

"Well, I will undertake the task."

"You, Signore!" she cried joyfully; "will you search for him?"

"Certainly, Signorina; I promised to be your friend. Now sit down, and tell me all about your lover and his disappearance. I may be able to do more for you than you think."

The fact is, that by some subtle instinct I connected the disappearance of this young man with the curious events of two nights before, and, leading Bianca to a seat, I prepared to listen attentively to her recital.

"Signore," she began in her flute-like voice, "I have been engaged to marry Guiseppe Pallanza for some months. He was a pupil of the Maestro, and we loved each other when we first met; but ah! Signore, he was poor then, and we could not marry, but now he is rich and famous."

"Yes, I have heard of the tenor Pallanza, but have never seen him on the stage."

"He has the voice of a god, Signore, and at La Scala, two seasons ago--oh, Signore, it was the talk of the whole city. The papers called him the New Mario, and he is so handsome--like an angel. After La Scala he went to Florence, to Naples, and then to Rome, where he sang in 'Faust' and 'Polyeuct' at the Apollo, then he came on here a week ago for the season at the Ezzelino; but now he is lost. Dio! how unhappy I am."

She covered her face with her hands, and wept quietly for a few minutes, and, impatient as I was to hear the particulars of the affair, I did not dare to disturb her grief. After a time she dried her tears, and went on again,--

"He came to Verona on Saturday, Signore, and we were so happy together talking about our marriage; and on Monday he sang in 'Faust' at the Ezzelino. I went to the theatre with Petronella, and that was the last time I saw him."

"Oh, then he disappeared on Monday night!" I asked quickly, feeling my heart begin to beat rapidly with excitement, for it was on Monday night that my extraordinary adventure had taken place.

"Yes, Signore. He was to come hereafter the opera, to tell the Maestro how he had sung--you know how anxious the Maestro is over his pupils, but he never came, nor the next day either; so this morning I went to ask at the Ezzelino, and they told me he had disappeared."

"It's curious I never heard of it. The disappearance of a popular tenor is not a common thing!"

"Signore, he sang on Monday and was to sing again to-night, so nothing was thought about him not coming to the theatre yesterday; but this morning they sent to his lodgings, to find that he had not been there since he left the Ezzelino after the opera on Monday."

"The papers will be full of it to-night!"

"Ah! that will not bring him back," said poor little Bianca in a melancholy tone, shaking her small head, which drooped like a faded flower.

I was now certain that my adventure on Monday night had something to do with the disappearance of Guiseppe Pallanza, and doubtless the young man I had seen in the deserted palace was the missing tenor; but the antique dress, the amorous rendezvous--these needed some explanation.

"Was he in love with any one, Signorina?"

It was a cruel but necessary question which angered Bianca, who threw back her little head with great haughtiness.

"Signore, he loved me and no one else."

"Had he any reason for disappearing?"

"Signore!"

"Forgive me if I appear rude," I said in a deprecating tone; "but indeed, Signorina, to find out all I must know all."

"Well, Signore, I am telling you all," she replied petulantly. "It was most strange his going away from the theatre."

"How so?"

"He left the Ezzelino in his stage-dress!"

"Ah!"

I jumped to my feet in a state of uncontrollable excitement, for I saw at once that I was on the right track. The antique dress was explained now! it was the dress he wore in the last act of "Faust."

"But surely, Signorina, that was very extraordinary," I said, pausing in my walk; "no one would walk the streets of Verona in a dress like that."

"I can explain that, Signore. When Guiseppe came from Rome, a friend came with him who was very ill--a baritone singer, who was in the same company at the Apollo. I was told at the Ezzelino that just before the last act of the opera, Guiseppe received a note saying that his friend was dying, so as soon as the curtain fell, he threw on a cloak which hid his dress, and went away as quickly as possible, so as to see his friend before he died."

"Oh! and is the friend dead yet?"

"I do not know, Signore."

The story of the dying friend might be true, yet to me it seemed highly improbable, and I guessed that the people at the theatre had told this fiction to pacify the fears of Signorina Angello, to whom they knew that Pallanza was engaged. The real truth of the matter was doubtless that the letter came from the woman I had followed, asking him to meet her at the deserted Palazzo Morone, and he had gone there innocently enough to be poisoned as I had seen. This explained a great deal, but it did not explain why the meeting should have taken place at such an extraordinary spot, and why the woman should have come from a burial-ground to keep the appointment. Taking all the circumstances into consideration, I was certain that it was Pallanza I had seen murdered on Monday night, but in order to be quite sure of his identity, I asked Bianca if she had any photograph of her betrothed.

"Of a surety, Signore," she replied, and going to an album on the table, brought me a cabinet portrait. "This is Guiseppe as Faust, the dress in which he left the theatre."

It was as I surmised. The portrait was coloured, and I saw an exact representation of the young man I had beheld at the Palazzo Morone. The typical Italian face with the black curly hair, dark eyes, small moustache and sallow skin; the slender figure arrayed in a doublet of blue velvet, slashed with white satin; the azure silk cloak, the poniard and the high riding-boots--nothing was wanting; the successful tenor of the portrait was the man who had taken poison from the hand of the lady of the sepulchre. Still it was no use telling Bianca of my suspicions until I had discovered the whole secret; and besides, as Guiseppe was dead, I naturally shrank from being the bearer of such bad news. I suppose my face betrayed my thoughts, for I saw the Signorina watching me anxiously; so to lull any fancies she might have, I made the first remark that came into my head,--

"I never saw Faust in riding-boots before!"

"Ah, Signore!" replied the girl with a fond look, "Guiseppe was an artist as well as a singer, and designed his own dresses. He said that as Faust in the last act was going to fly with Marguerite, and Mephistopheles speaks of the horses waiting, it is natural that he should wear a riding-dress."

This explanation was quite satisfactory, and having thus learned the identity of the young man whom I had seen murdered, I prepared to go, when another idea entered my head, and, going over to the piano, I began to play by ear the strange air I had heard at the Palazzo Morone. Bianca gave a cry of surprise as she heard the melody, and came over to the piano with a puzzled look on her face.

"Ah, you know it, Signorina?" I said, turning round quickly.

"Yes! in fact I gave it to Guiseppe. It is an old air by Palestrina, which I found among the music of the Maestro, to which Guiseppe set words. He is very fond of it and sings it a great deal. Ah, Signore, you must have heard him sing it, for no one else has a copy."

I turned off the matter with a careless remark, not caring to tell Bianca where I had heard it; and now being quite certain that I would be able to unravel the whole mystery, I wanted to get away as quickly as possible in order to arrange my plans.

"Addio, Signorina," I said, giving her my hand. "When I see you again I may be able to give you news."

"Good news?"

"Yes, I hope so, Signorina," I replied hurriedly as Petronella appeared at the door. "Do not anticipate evil, I beg of you. I have no doubt Guiseppe is quite well."

"Oh, I hope so! I trust so! Addio! Signor Hugo, you will come back soon?"

"To-morrow, Signorina."

"Ah! I see you have brought back the smiles," said Petronella's gruff voice as she ushered me out. "What do you think of this evil one going away, Signore? I was going to have four masses if he is dead, but those priests are such thieves. Ecco!"

"Why should you think he is dead, Petronella?"

"Eh, Signore, he loves the piccola so much that nothing but death would keep him away."

"Except----"

"I know what you would say, Signore, except a woman. Well, maybe men are all bad. I've been married, Signore--I know, I know."

"Well, I don't think I'm particularly bad, Petronella."

"Eh! then you're not a true man, Signore," retorted Petronella, closing the argument and the door at the same time.