were assisting under the direction of a short fat man, whose duty it was to instruct each what he should do—to pull one and push another into place, to whisper how the book was to be held, to indicate to the cardinal where he should read, to show the boy-server where to stand for the censing, and when to hand the censer to the cardinal; at all these varied movements Sylvia Brodrick stared with a riveted attention which assured her sister that she was interested. She was, therefore, the more amazed when Sylvia turned upon her with a whisper which was almost a cry—

“Let us go! Please let us go! I can’t bear it!”

Donna Teresa was always prompt. She immediately edged her way out, asking no questions until they reached more open space at the end of the church, where her quick eye caught sight of a vacant chair.

“Sit down, Sylvia. What is the matter? Are you ill?”

The other shook her head.

“I couldn’t stay, it was too dreadful!”

She spoke in a frightened voice, and Teresa flung a hasty glance round to see what had alarmed her.

“Do tell me,” she said encouragingly.

“Oh, all,” said Sylvia sighing. “That cardinal sitting on a stool like a red idol, having his clothes pulled about and arranged, and that little fat man. All!”

Teresa was half relieved, half provoked.

“Was that it?” she said, raising her eyebrows. “I thought you were interested.”

“I couldn’t bear it,” said Sylvia dolorously. “But if you really like to stay, I can go home by myself of course.”

Donna Teresa scarcely heard the words; her vigorous, somewhat impatient personality found itself every now and then brought up suddenly and unexpectedly against what could only be compared to a dead wall in her sister’s nature. She resented it, and then, as usual, smitten with remorse, and acknowledging some emotion which she was sure was more delicate and subtile than her own, began impetuously to carry out Sylvia’s wishes.

“Dear, we will go together,” she said, “only I am afraid we must get back to the big entrance. You needn’t look at poor Cardinal Simone, you know,” she added, her smile broadening as she noticed that Sylvia was indeed keeping her head carefully turned in an opposite direction. The sisters were only able to make slow way, for the throng was thick, and Teresa could never help becoming alertly interested in what was about her. She moved on, however, determinedly, until, when pushing out the heavy leathern door-pad, a man jostled her rudely, passed, and ran down the steps. Teresa, sure of what had happened to her, cried, “Oh!” and felt for her purse. It was gone. She exclaimed hastily to Sylvia, “There is Mrs Scott, join her,” and flew after the thief, who was already out of sight.

By the time she reached the corner he was not far away, and her light steps quickly overtook him. He glanced over his shoulder, hesitated, and when she exclaimed indignantly, “You have my purse!” held it out silently. Teresa caught it, but hers was not a nature to let wrong-doing go free, and she promptly appealed to the bystanders. A crowd in Rome will gather with inconceivable swiftness, so that in a moment a dozen persons were hanging round, by no means actively engaged in assisting law and order, rather, indeed, sympathising with the other side, but sufficiently amused and curious to see what would come of this accusation by a young and solitary lady, to put, for the moment, a few apparently undesigned obstacles in the way of escape. These would have soon vanished if two municipal guardie had not unexpectedly found themselves where they were wanted, and to them with instinctive though often disappointed confidence, Teresa breathlessly appealed.

“This man has just stolen my purse as I came out from San Martino,” she said.

“But the signorina holds it,” returned one of the guardie, glancing at it indifferently.

“As you see,” broke in the young man violently. “I pick up this devil of a purse in the church, the signorina pursues, I hand it to her at once, and this is how she repays me! Ecco!” and he opened his hands and looked round insolently. Teresa was becoming more angry.

“He gave it to me—yes! But it is probable he first emptied it. As you see,” she added in her turn, holding it out after brief examination.

“Signorina—” the guardia began again, shrugging his shoulders.

She stopped him haughtily—

“The Marchesa di Sant’ Eustachio, if you please.”

The mention of her name caused a visible stir of interest, and the police looked uneasy. The one who had not spoken drew her on one side.

“Eccellenza,” he said civilly, “it is all doubtless as you say; but, permit me, had you anything in your purse which you could identify?”

“I had next to nothing. Four or five lire, perhaps. But how can you doubt, when it is so perfectly clear?”

“A hundred pardons, eccellenza; it is a great pity you did not catch him in the act. Then! As it is—you heard his story—who knows?”

And he also spread his hands.

By this time Teresa was pale, and very angry indeed, for she saw that the guardie were afraid.

“If you let him go,” she remarked quietly, “I shall certainly report you.”

The officer still hesitated, and the situation was becoming embarrassing, when a man’s voice said in English—

“Can I be of any use?”

The marchesa turned impetuously.

“Oh, Mr Wilbraham, I am so glad to see you! Please back me up.”

“Of course, of course,” said Wilbraham hastily. “Let me first get you out of this crowd,” he added, looking round him with an Englishman’s horror of anything approaching to a scene.

“Not yet,” said Teresa. “That man took my purse in the most barefaced manner, and they are evidently afraid of him, and inclined to let him go.”

“I’ll see to it, only let me put you into a cab.”

“Thank you,” she was beginning stiffly, when the guardia once more came to her side.

“With your excellency’s permission we will take his name and address, and keep him under supervision. We can then lay our hands upon him if required.”

“It is not likely that he will give you the right particulars,” said Donna Teresa scornfully.

“Eccellenza, it is a mere form. He is very well known.”

“As you please. I cannot oblige you to do your duty, only you must understand that I shall complain to the questura.”

She turned sharply away, without flinging a glance upon Wilbraham, but when she had gone a few yards she heard one woman say to another—

“Ah, they would not arrest him—not they!”

Teresa stopped.

“Who is he?”

The woman hesitated.

“Eh, madama?”

“So you are afraid, too!” said Teresa imperiously. “Don’t you see it is over?”

The second woman, who was younger, broke in with an expressive gesture.

“Eh, that it true! It is over, poor fellow, thanks to the Madonna! As for who he is, he is the Cesare who shot his sister a little while ago.”