It was scarcely eight o'clock in the morning when Signor Deodati was on
his way to the residence of Mr. Van de Werve.

The old merchant was walking very slowly, with his eyes cast down. From
time to time he shook his head, as if disturbed by painful thoughts. His
countenance expressed dissatisfaction rather than sorrow; indeed, it might
even be said to indicate angry and bitter feelings.

The servant who opened the door ushered him into a parlor and went to call
his master. Deodati threw himself into a chair, covered his face with his
hands, and was so absorbed in thought that he was not aware of Mr. Van de
Werve's entrance.

"Good morning, signor," said the Flemish noble, saluting him. "Your early
visit encourages me to hope that you have news of our poor Geronimo."

"Bad news, Mr. Van de Werve, bad news," said the old man, with tearful
eyes. "Sit down near me, for I have not power to raise my voice."

"I notice, signor, that you are very pale. Are you ill?"

"My emotion has its origin in something worse than illness. Day before
yesterday Signor Turchi asserted in your presence that Geronimo had lost a
considerable sum at play, and that he had fled the country to escape my
just indignation. Great as was my confidence in Turchi, I could not credit
the truth of this revelation. I determined to seek in my nephew's accounts
the marks of his ingratitude, or rather the proofs of his innocence. I
passed a portion of the night in calculating over and over again; for the
invariable result was so frightful that my mind and heart refused to
accept the evidence of my senses. The sum lost in gambling by my nephew is
incredible."