Rather than have that he will kill you on the day when I am free to be your wife! Oh! I know him well; I shall never, never be happy.

Yes, I know it well, it was Prada, Prada!" But sudden energy upbuoyed the wounded man, and he loyally protested: "No, no, it was not Prada, nor was it any one working for him.

That I swear to you.

I did not recognise the man, but it wasn't Prada--no, no!" There was such a ring of truth in Dario's words that Benedetta must have been convinced by them.

But terror once more overpowered her, for the hand she held was suddenly growing soft, moist, and powerless.