spontaneously obeyed. No questions could be put, no explanations given
in the crash, and they threaded on amid numerous greetings in a place
where Milanese society had habitually ceased to gather, and found itself
now in assembly with unconcealed sensations of strangeness. A card lay
on the table of the countess's private retiring-room: it bore the name
of General Pierson. She threw off her black lace scarf. 'Angelo
Guidascarpi is in Milan,' she said. 'He has killed one of the
Lenkensteins, sword to sword. He came to me an hour after you left;
the sbirri were on his track; he passed for my son. He is now under the
charge of Barto Rizzo, disguised; probably in this house. His brother is
in the city. Keep the cowl on your head as long as possible; if these
hounds see and identify you, there will be mischief.' She said no more,
satisfied that she was understood, but opening the door of the box,
passed in, and returned a stately acknowledgement of the salutations of
two military officers. Carlo likewise bent his head to them; it was like
bending his knee, for in the younger of the two intruders he recognized
Lieutenant Pierson. The countess accepted a vacated seat; the cavity of
her ear accepted the General's apologies. He informed her that he deeply
regretted the intrusion; he was under orders to be present at the opera,
and to be as near the stage as possible, the countess's box being
designated. Her face had the unalterable composure of a painted head
upon an old canvas. The General persisted in tendering excuses. She
replied, 'It is best, when one is too weak to resist, to submit to an
outrage quietly.' General Pierson at once took the position assigned to
him; it was not an agreeable one. Between Carlo and the lieutenant no
attempt at conversation was made.

The General addressed his nephew in English. 'Did you see the girl
behind the scenes, Wilfrid?'