lose time when time was precious. His ardent temper loved difficulties,
even when they were not his own. Bold, untiring, discreet, and loyal, if
there were anything to be done in Gianluca's case, he was the man to do
it.

Bosio Macomer was somewhat surprised that morning, when his old servant
informed him that Taquisara was at the door. He knew him but slightly in
the way of acquaintance, though very well by name and reputation, and he
wondered what had brought him at that hour. He was inclined to say that
he could not receive him, offering as an excuse that he was ill, which
was almost true. But he reflected that such a man must have a good
reason for wishing to see him. He remembered, too, that the Duca had
spoken of him as Gianluca's friend, and in the terrible position in
which Bosio himself was placed, it seemed to him possible that one of
Gianluca's friends might help him,--how, he had not the power of
concentrating his mind enough to guess,--and he ordered the servant to
admit him.

Bosio had not slept that night. He had spent the six hours between
midnight and the December dawn in his easy-chair before the fireplace.
Once or twice, towards morning, he had felt sleep creeping upon him
through sheer physical exhaustion, but he had fought it off, afraid to
lose one of the precious moments which he still had before him in which
to think over what he should do. They were few enough, for a man of his
nature.

He knew the absolute truth of all that Matilde had told him, and he had
even suspected much of it before she had first spoken. He knew that his
brother had secretly ruined himself in financial speculations, in which
he had employed Lamberto Squarci as his agent, and that, with Squarci's