His hand shook as he laid it on her heart, bending low. Then he started
violently and stood bolt upright, as an unearthly howl rent the air.

Nino, Ercole's queer dog, was close beside him, his forepaws planted on
the upper step of the verandah, his head thrown up, his half-open jaws
showing his jagged teeth, his rough coat bristling like spikes of
bearded barley.

And Ercole, still a hundred yards away amongst the trees, shook his head
and hurried forward as he heard the long-drawn note of brute terror.

"Somebody is dead," he said to himself.




CHAPTER V


For a few weeks all Italy was profoundly interested in the story of
Marcello Corbario's disappearance and of his mother's almost
unaccountable death. It was spoken of as the "double tragedy of the
Campagna," and the newspapers were full of it.

The gates of the beautiful villa on the Janiculum were constantly
assailed by reporters; the servants who came out from time to time were
bribed, flattered, and tempted away to eat sumptuous meals and drink the
oldest wine in quiet gardens behind old inns in Trastevere, in the hope
that they might have some information to sell. But no one gained
admittance to the villa except the agents of the police, who came daily