I had never supposed that Arthur had robbed the body of his dead enemy.

'If this be proved, Signor l'Avvocato,' I said, after some time of silence, 'what punishment will fall upon this man?'

'The salt mines will not be enough for him,' the advocate answered. 'He will probably be shot. You see, signor, he has denied his nationality, and that of itself will embitter the national feeling against him.'

'Then,' I answered, 'these suspicions must not be bolstered by false proofs. This man has, perhaps, robbed a dead body, but he has not committed murder.'

'Signor Calvotti,' said the advocate, the black fire burning slowly in his eyes, and a slow flush creeping to his pale forehead whilst he spoke, 'what mystery surrounds your share of this matter I can only faintly guess. But I know that it is not a mystery to you. I have found out this, at least, since I have been here—that you know the murderer, and that you determine to shield him, even at your own expense. Now, I warn you that if you deny me your confidence, I will convict the real man, whosoever he may be.'

He fixed those slow-burning eyes upon me as he said this, and waited for an answer. I responded to his words and to the fixity of his gaze by silence.

'Give me your confidence, and I will serve your turn,' he said again. 'Are you the guilty man?'

'I? No.'

'Signor Calvotti,' he began again, after another pause, during which his eyes were shadowed by his drooping brows, 'you shall trust me yet. Any secret suspicion given to me is buried in the grave. Any secret certainty of knowledge is buried equally. A confession of your own guilt, the declaration of a friend's, shall be entombed here'—he laid his hand upon his breast—'and know no resurrection.'

I answered nothing, and he rose to go.

'That which you hide,' he said as a last word,' I will discover for myself. Given freely, it would be used for your own cause. Wrested from mystery, it shall be used for mine.'

'Come here again,' I answered, 'three hours later, and I will answer you in one way or the other.'

'Good,' he responded, and signalled for the door to be opened. Ratuzzi himself answered the loud knock he gave, and my friendly gaoler asked me how I fared, and if I stood in need of anything.

'Nothing just now but time to think a little.'

He closed the door, and locked and chained and bolted it, and then I heard the footsteps of the two grow fainter and fainter until silence came. Then I lit my pipe and poured out a glass of wine—for in these respects I am allowed what I choose—and sat down to think. But I found it hard to give my thoughts to anything. There was a hollow somewhere in my mind into which all serious thoughts fell jumbled. I felt neither pained nor confused, but only vacuous. I battled with this feeling until I subdued it. Then I grasped the situation firmly. What object have I, here and now, and everywhere and always, next to the rectitude of my own soul? There is only one answer to that question: Cecilia's happiness! How to secure that here?—how to save it from the horrible perils which everywhere surround it? Is it to be done by securing her union for life with her brother's murderer? If I know one thing of Arthur Clyde—whom I know well—it is this: that such a crime as that I charge him with, committed under whatsoever provocation, will weigh him down for ever, and make life a perpetual hell to him. The hideous injustice of a union with such a man she must not suffer, whatsoever else she suffer. And that she, like the rest of us, must suffer, is too clear. But of this I am assured: To learn that her lover is her brother's murderer, and not only that, but that by his silence he accuses a friend who is innocent, would break her heart beyond all the remedy of hope and years. That shall not be.

It seemed little more than an hour when I heard footsteps again approaching my door. They paused on reaching it, and the jar of bolt and chain and lock succeeded. The door opened and closed again. I did not turn or look round until a hand was laid on me, and a voice, strange to me for a year, called me by my name. Then I was indeed amazed.

'Mr. Gregory! You here?'

'My poor fellow! I reached Naples last night, and found the town ringing with the news of an arrest for murder. But what I can't understand is, that now they've got the real fellow, they don't let you go.'

'Never mind me,' I answered. 'Do they know in England—Miss Grammont and Cecilia?'

'They are with me here,' he answered quickly. 'They know that you are arrested for murder, and scout the idea, of course. But they don't know of their brother's death yet. I want to run them both away and let them learn the news more tenderly than they will do here, but I must see you through this miserable business. How did the fools come to suspect you, of all men in the world?'

'Suspicion was natural,' I answered. 'I was found near the spot directly after the discovery of the body.'

'What brought you there?'

'I was on my way home to Posilipo. The night was fine, and I was in a mood for walking.'

'But you were found insensible, or something of the sort, weren't you?'

'I was standing still in the road, looking at the moonlight on the bay, when I heard a terrible cry. Before I could move, a man came racing down the road as if he were flying for his life. He ran against me, and we fell together. I fainted, and never fully recovered consciousness until I found myself here.'

'Who do you suppose the man to be? No clue to him, I suppose, in your own mind? What do the authorities say to this?'

'I have offered no defence, and made no statement.'

'God bless my soul, what folly! When you might have been out of custody the next day! How very absurd!'

'I was stunned, remember. There were good reasons for silence. The trial takes place in a fortnight.'

'A fortnight! But you can't stop here a fortnight!'

'I must!' I answered, smiling even then at his impetuosity. 'I am remanded for trial.'

'You bear it well, Calvotti,' he said, taking me by both shoulders, and looking kindly at me.

'I do not feel my own share much,' I told him truly. 'I am most aggrieved for the others. It is a terrible business.'

'Give me young Clyde's address. I must bring him to comfort Cecilia when she learns the truth. She was fond of that poor scapegrace, with all his faults and follies. He paid bitterly for em'—poor ne'er-do-weel!—very bitterly.'

'Bitterly, indeed,' I answered absently, looking for a way to escape from a renewed mention of Clyde's name, and finding none.

'I shall come to see you as often as they'll let me, and stay as long as I can. But now I must go for the present. Let me see—Clyde's living at your place, isn't he?'

'Yes,' I answered, 'he was living at the address from which I always dated.' 'Has he been here to-day?' Oh! It was all too bitter, and I could endure no longer. I turned my face away. My old patron laid a gentle hand upon my shoulder, and strove to turn me round. I cast myself upon the bed, and broke into tears. Gran Dio! I am not ashamed. But that outbreak cost me bodily agony, and I wept and sobbed whilst I cursed myself for weeping. Sacred Heaven! how I wrestled with this devil of weakness, which held me so strongly. When I had fought him down, he leapt upon me afresh, and subdued me by sheer torture until I let nature take her way, and cried like a woman! Then, when it was all over, I stood up and spoke with a new resolve.

'Sir, you are a just man and a wise man, and you shall know the whole truth. But first you shall swear to me that what I tell you is for ever buried in your own heart!'

He looked at me with stern inquiry.

'I am not an informer,' he said, 'and you may speak safely.'

I stepped towards him, but he waved me back, and himself took a backward step.

'There is a reason for my silence, but with you that reason dies. I have your promise, and I trust it. The man who overthrew me in the lane, whose hands and face were red with Grammont's blood, was——'

'Go on,' he said, standing there still in rough-hewn dignity, though his lips trembled and his face was pale.

'That man,' I said, 'was Arthur Clyde.'

'Ah!' The sound escaped him without his knowing it. A minute later he asked, 'What was the ground of quarrel?'

I told him then the story of Clyde's meeting with Grammont, and of Arthur's passion afterwards, and of our next encounter with Grammont at the end of the Chiaja on the day of the murder.

'And you are sacrificing yourself that Clyde may escape, trusting to chances to clear yourself?'

I answered nothing.

'What is your motive in all this?' he asked me.

What right had I to withhold it, then? what right to be ashamed of the truth? Yet I paused.

'It is not friendship for Clyde. What is the motive?'

'I was silent because I waited here for events to decide what I could not decide for myself.'

'And what was that?'

'How to give Cecilia least pain.'

'Are you in love with Cecilia?' he asked me.

'No,' I answered honestly, 'I am not in love with Cecilia, but she is dearer to me than anybody in the world. I could not love my sister or my mother more tenderly.'

'H'm!' he said in his old way, when thinking. 'And what have events led you to?'

'They lead me nowhere,' I cried; 'I am helpless.'

'And so Clyde has never been here, of course. Has he escaped?'

'I cannot say.'

'It is a terrible business, Calvotti, but it is better so. You have done right. You have done well. You have done nobly. There is no evidence against you which is not so flimsy that a fly could break through it. Clyde will disappear. If he should come back again, I will warn him off—trust me. Time will console Cecilia, and you will have averted a tragedy. Here is somebody at the door.'

Chain and lock creaked and jangled. The door swung inwards, and Ratuzzi appeared with the advocate.

'Signor l'Avvocato,' I said, 'this gentleman will tell you everything it concerns you to know. Or—stay. Do you speak English?'

'I speak no language but my own,' said the young advocate.

'My dear Calvotti,' said my old patron, in Italian smoother and more choicely worded than his English, one language is pretty much the same to me as another, so long as it is a language, and is spoken in Europe. I have been a mercantile adventurer in Europe for more than thirty years, and have found a knowledge of languages a necessity.'

'Then, sir,' I said in English, 'deal with this gentleman according to your discretion. If you think it wise, let him know all.'

'Trust to me,' he answered, and bade me a cheery adieu.

In another hour the advocate was back, again.

'Signor Calvotti,' he exclaimed, holding out his hand for mine, 'I did not know that I had a hero to defend. But I know it now. You are in no danger. It is weary waiting, but two weeks do not make up eternity; and we shall march out of the court with the drums beating.'

I could not share his joy. The weight which is upon me now oppressed me then; and when the door closed upon the advocate, I could only sit upon my bed and think, with a heart that ached and burned, of the terror which waited on Cecilia.



CHAPTER VI.—THE END.

Whilst I lay waiting for the day of trial, I learned from my counsel that my fellow-prisoner was identified as one Giovanni Fornajo, an old companion of Charles Grammont. This man was known to have rifled his dead friend's clothing, and the popular impression appeared to be that I had either committed the murder from some other motive than cupidity, or had been disturbed, and that this poor scoundrel had striven to profit by my crime. Against us both the popular feeling was intense. It was noted by the crowd that both Fornajo and myself were naturalised British subjects, and that fact alone might have created considerable prejudice against us, because to the ignorant mind it bespoke the repudiation of our native land—a thing from which I am utterly afar in my own mind. I am proud of Italy, and I am proud of Naples, and I have no idea of pretending to be other than a Neapolitan. One can be cosmopolitan without losing one's patriotism, I venture respectfully to hope. But I would not have cared then to set myself right with the populace of my native city, either on that or any other point, though I could have done it with a word. It was natural and illogical to scorn the people for believing in my guilt, whilst I allowed them to believe it. Yet I felt against them a sort of lofty anger, and felt myself affronted to think that anybody could regard me as being even likely to commit a murder. Ratuzzi was kind throughout, even when he believed me guilty; and Mr. Gregory after his first visit never failed me. I asked him news of Clyde, but he had no news to bring me until two days before my trial, when he came into my cell with a grave but not uncheerful countenance.

'Calvotti,' he said, 'can you tell me with any precision the hour at which you saw Arthur on that fatal night?'

'I can only guess the time,' I answered. 'But why do you ask?' I questioned in my turn.

'Because,' he replied, 'I believe it possible that you may have mistaken somebody else for Arthur, and because I have evidence that he could not be near the place at the time at which we know that the murder must have been committed.'

For one moment hope beamed within my heart, but in a second, like a scene beheld by the light of heaven's fire, the sight of that horror-stricken, blood-stained face was with me. I could read again every line and tint of it, and I knew it too well to be mistaken.

'My friend,' I said sorrowfully—'my best friend—do not comfort yourself with any false hope on that matter. I saw him, and there is no hope of a doubt in all my mind.'

'Arthur,' he replied, 'is lying ill of fever at this moment in your house at Posilipo. Your housekeeper tells me that she saw him enter his room. He made her understand that he was unwell, and that he wished to lie down. She gave him a cup of coffee, and he retired to his room. Next morning she found him there raving with fever and lying on the floor. Only one point in her narrative accords with your belief, and that is, when she raised him she found him badly cut across the forehead, and found that his arms were bruised as if by a fall. The doctor who attends him tells me that the crisis is over, but sternly forbids that any questions should be asked him at present. The patient must see nobody for a week to come, but I have hopes that we shall yet clear up a terrible mystery, and shall find that Arthur is as innocent as I believe you to be.'

I told him I would give all in my world to share his hopes. How could I doubt my own eyes? A vision, moreover, does not dash against a man and knock him down and stun him for hours. In all that Mr. Gregory could tell me I found no hope, but only vague suspicions of a plan to divert suspicion. Yet I found some comfort in one belief which would intrude itself upon me. He was yet guilty though this story of the fever were all true, but if it were true he was less base than I had feared, and had not willingly left one who loved him to suffer for his crime. Mr. Gregory went away sensibly subdued by my fixed refusal to accept the hope he offered.

'There is a mystery in all this, Calvotti,' he said at parting, 'and it must be cleared.'

'There is no mystery to my eyes,' I answered, 'and you will find before long that I am right, though I would give the world to know that I am wrong.'

Then came the day. I had little fear of being found guilty, and I had, indeed, but very little care to be acquitted. When I thought of myself, it was as though I reflected on the affairs of some troublesome stranger, of whose interest I was weary. I am not learned in law forms, and I cannot tell you the precise forms of the several indictments against me. These things are managed in Italy pretty much as they are in England, except that here you have no accusatore pubblico. The place of that functionary would, in an English Court, be filled by a temporarily appointed counsel for the Crown. When I was placed in the dock, I looked about with an interest no more vivid than that of any spectator there. Mr. Gregory sat beside my counsel, and nodded to me gravely. There was no one else whom I knew, although the place was crowded. There was a murmur on my entrance, and I heard many words of hatred and loathing muttered here and there. For a moment no one spoke or moved, and the Court seemed to await something. I saw what that something was when Giovanni Fornajo was placed in the dock by my side, and we were jointly and severally arraigned. The accustore pubblico arose, and, gathering his gown about him, spoke.

Had I been one of the crowd who listened, I should have believed myself guilty. The evidence against me, as he set it forth, seemed a web closely woven enough to hold anything. I had been seen by two or more people engaged in a quarrel with the deceased in the Basso Porto. I had been seen on the Chiaja with him at a time when he was the worse for drink, and when my conduct and appearance were so suspicious that a perfect stranger was impelled to watch me for two hours lest I should do the man a mischief in his drunken sleep. Two or three hours later, this perfect stranger to us both had found the dead body of Charles Grammont in the road with all the pockets of his garments turned inside out, and had put the body into a cart he was then driving from Posilipo to Naples. A hundred yards nearer the city he found me lying bruised as if in a struggle, and with the marks of a hand wet with blood upon my white shirt-front. The marks of the hand had been found to correspond in size with the hand of the deceased. My companion in the dock was probably, so the accusatore said, an accessory before the fact, and it was probable that, whilst I had committed the crime to gratify my own evil passion for revenge, I had engaged this desperate and notorious character to pillage the body in order to give the murder the appearance of having been committed from a purely sordid motive. He set forth all his facts and all his theories about them with great calmness, but when he came to the close of his indictment he burst into an impassioned protest against certain articles which had appeared in a French journal on the question of Italian Brigandage, citing this case as an argument to show that crimes of violence were committed by born Neapolitans within the city radius, and expressing a sarcastic wonder that the authorities should have troubled themselves to arrest the criminals though the proofs against them both were overwhelming.

'Thus it is,' said the accusatore, speaking with a stern passion of emphasis, 'that these traitors to their country first cast off their natal ties in order to lead lives of unrestricted profligacy abroad, and having, in other lands, done all within them to disgrace the land of their birth, return to it to inflict a wound still deeper upon the national reputation; and thus it is that these villains, though they once did their country the honour to repudiate it, return to lay a final disgrace upon it.'

He pressed with a passionate insistence for the extremest rigour of the law against us both, and it was plain from the angry murmurs of the court that this appeal to the national sentiment had told heavily against me. Then he called his witnesses. The first three were from the Basso Porto—fit inhabitants of the place. They told substantially the same story, and all swore that I was engaged in an angry broil with Grammont and another Englishman whom they did not know. They admitted that the conversation was carried on in English, but my advocate's half-contemptuous cross-examination could not set aside the fact that a quarrel, in which I had taken some part, had taken place. After these three, Matthew Hollis was called, and the man whom I had watched upon the quay presented himself. He told, in fair though foreign-sounding Italian, a plain story. He had been an engine-fitter, and had worked in France and Italy. He was settled down in business on his own account in Naples, and on the day to which his story related had work to do at Posilipo. On his way thither he observed Grammont and myself, and suspected me of evil designs and watched me. He told how I tried to get rid of him by sending him upon a message to the Caffe d' Italia, and how he declined to leave the place. He related how, having seen us part, he had gone his way to Posilipo, and how, returning thence in the evening with a workman of his own, he had found the dead body of Grammont on the road, and had found me lying insensible at a little distance from it. A close cross-examination only served to prove the absolute solidity of this man's story. Then an officer produced a bundle, and, untying it, displayed the shirt I had worn, with the rust-coloured mark of a hand distinct upon the front. 'Did that mark correspond with the size of the hand of the murdered man?' So asked the accusatore pubblico. 'Yes,' answered the official, 'accurately.' 'Did it correspond with the hand of the prisoner Giovanni Calvotti?' 'No,' he responded, and stated truly that I was a man of much larger build than Grammont, and my hand at least an inch longer. So far as I was-concerned the case closed with his evidence, and the case against Fornajo was then gone into. There is no need to go over that ground: again. All that was proved against him was; the possession of Grammont's money. He failed totally to establish an alibi, and so far as participation in the crime went the evidence; seemed clear enough against him.

Then arose my advocate, with pale face and coal-black eyes.

'This world,' he said, 'is full of strange and curious contrasts, but I do not think that any contrast so strange as this has been seen by any man who now hears my voice. Side by side, companions in your thoughts of them, stand two men so utterly unlike each other in; appearance and character, that to see them thus commonly arraigned is in itself an amazement. The one a gentleman and descended from gentlemen, the other a person of the lowest class—the one famous in the annals of contemporary art, the other known for nothing but his love for vulgar dissipation. As they stand there before you they present a spectacle tragic and unique. As I know them—and as you will see them when I have called the one witness I have to call—they present a spectacle yet more amazing. One man stands there a monument of honour, a glory to his country, and a lesson to mankind. The other stands there a murderer in fact already, and in his heart a murderer again; since, knowing the innocence of the man beside him, he seeks at the expense of innocence to shield his own guilt from the sword of justice. It is my pride and my delight to-day to heal one broken and heroic heart, and it is my duty to bring one miserable criminal to justice.'

Whilst the young advocate spoke thus, I stood in amazed agony. Was he about to denounce Clyde in order to free me? It would be a professional tour de force, and the melodramatic power of the situation would have made him notorious for life. He looked round upon me slowly when he had ceased to speak, and I saw that his dark eyes were burning with triumphant fire. He sat down, and for a moment there was a dead hush in the crowded place, and then a buzz of excited speech, and then a clamour. In the midst of it an officer placed a chair before the judge, immediately between the judicial seat and the railed space in which I stood. If I had been amazed at the speech of the young advocate, you may guess how I felt when Arthur Clyde came forward and took the seat. His eyes met mine once, and I saw that they were brimmed with tears, and there was such a smile upon his face as I never saw before. Was I mad, or lost in some fantastic dream? This man voluntarily here, of all men—and smiling upon me! It was at once incredible and true. I waited, dizzy and breathless, to hear and see the end.

The customary oath administered, my advocate arose, and, in the midst of a deathlike silence, questioned Arthur Clyde. He first drew from him the story of the Basso Porto, and at its close begged to recall the three witnesses who had deposed to my participation in the quarrel. They came, and each identified Arthur as the third party in the fracas. Arthur gave his evidence in English, through the sworn interpreter of the court, and Mr. Gregory once or twice gave hints to the advocate when question or answer missed precise translation. He told of our second meeting with Grammont, and of his own departure. Then came a story which amazed me, and riveted the ears of every creature there. That story I reproduce from the columns of the 'Giorno.'

Advocate: Where did you go next?

Witness: To the Caffe d' Italia to await my friend.

Advocate: How long did you stay?

Witness: Only half-an-hour. I felt suddenly unwell, and walked again on the Chiaja.

Advocate: Did you see your friend again?

Witness: Yes. He was still engaged in talk with Mr. Grammont; and since I had no wish to meet him then, I walked along the road to Posilipo.

Advocate: Did anything happen upon the road?

Witness: I was violently sick, and, feeling very faint afterwards, lay down upon a slope at the side of the road under the shade of a tree, and rested there.

Advocate: What happened next?

Witness: I heard voices in the lane below me.

Advocate: Relate now what happened.

Witness: I saw two men—Mr. Grammont and another—talking together. They spoke in English. The man asked for money, and said he knew perfectly well that Mr. Grammont had more than four thousand pounds in English notes about him at that moment.

The Judge: What was Grammont's condition at this time?

Witness: He was partially sobered, as I should judge, but not altogether.

Advocate: Pray proceed with your story.

Witness: There was a good deal of angry talk between the two and Grammont's companion threatened that, if he were not allowed a part of the money, he would try to take all.

Advocate: Did Grammont take any notice of that threat?

Witness: He laughed, and the two walked on together.

Advocate: Did you see them again?

Witness: I passed them on my way to Posilipo, when they were laughing and chatting together quite amicably.

Advocate: Did you then see Mr. Grammont's companion clearly?

Witness: I did.

Advocate: Can you point him out?

Witness: That is the man (rising and pointing to the prisoner Fornajo).

Advocate: Continue your narrative.

Witness: I went on to Posilipo, and there took a cup of coffee and retired to my bedroom. Feeling then a little better, and thinking that my friend Calvotti would wonder at my absence, I walked back towards the city, hoping to meet him. It was then broad moonlight. Where I had last seen Grammont and the prisoner Fornajo I saw them both again. Grammont was lying motionless upon the ground, and Fornajo was bending above him. I suspected foul play, and ran forward. Fornajo arose and turned upon me. I don't know who first attacked the other. We struggled together, and he broke away. I then turned to Grammont.

The Witness here gave signs of deep emotion.

Advocate: Had any suspicion of murder up to this time occurred to you?

Witness: None.

Advocate: I must trouble you by reviving a painful memory. You had a brother who died in your childhood?

Witness (speaking with a great effort): I had.

Advocate: How did he die?

Witness: By his own hand.

Advocate: I must ask the indulgence of the court for this gentleman, who is recovering now from the effects of recent fever, and who acts against the advice of his doctor by coming to do his duty here. (To the Witness): Who first discovered the body of your brother?

Witness: I did.

Advocate: I will try you as little as I can. Compose yourself. That discovery naturally shocked you terribly?

Witness: Terribly.

Advocate: And left upon your mind an indelible impression?

Witness: An indelible impression.

Advocate: When you first turned to Mr. Grammont, what did you do?

Witness: I stooped down and took his head in my hands.

Advocate: And what did you see?

Witness: That his head was nearly severed from his body.

Advocate: And what effect had this spectacle upon you?

The Witness returned no answer to the interpreter, and on the question being repeated: fainted, and was removed from court.

The Judge: Is it necessary to prolong this painful scene?

Advocate: With all submission to the Court—for one moment only. (After a pause, the Witness returned.) Are you strong enough to go on, Mr. Clyde?

Witness: I think so.

Advocate: We are then to understand that at this terrible sight the shock given you in your childhood by the discovery of your brother was revived?

Witness: Yes.

Advocate: What did you do?

Witness: I am not quite clear, but I remember running from the place.

Advocate: Did you see any living man near there?

Witness: Yes. I ran against a man close by. We fell together.

Advocate: In what condition were your hands?

Witness: They were covered with blood.

The Advocate here asked for the shirt of the prisoner Giovanni Calvotti. It was produced.

Advocate: You observe upon the breast of that shirt the mark of a hand?

Witness: Yes.

Advocate: Lay your hand upon it, and see if it corresponds in size?

Witness: Exactly.

Advocate: One question more. Was Mr. Grammont dead when you saw him?

Witness: I believe that he was not quite dead. I believe that I saw his hand move upon his breast.

Advocate: One word more. Could you identify the man against whom you ran?

Witness: I was too agitated at the time to recognise him.

In this wise the story came out. Ah me! how I accused myself in my heart for my suspicions. The tears of joy were in my eyes so thickly that I could scarcely see. I had my friend back again, and my love was saved this overwhelming horror which had seemed to threaten her.

The Public Accuser rose and cross-examined Arthur Clyde, for form's sake, I suppose. But the jury professed themselves satisfied with the evidence before them, and before I quite knew what had happened I was in a chariot in the street—a chariot with no horses at all, but a thousand men, to draw it. The story was abroad. The city rang with it. I had risked my life to save a friend from suspicion, and those who cursed me in the morning cheered me in the afternoon, until they were too hoarse to cheer me longer. Happily, Cecilia's name was kept out of this noisy chorus of applause which roared so in my ears. I was glad and excited, and had no objection to be made a hero. As soon as I could be rescued, Mr. Gregory bore me away to Posilipo, where I found Arthur quite worn out with the fatigue and excitement of the day. Those influences retarded his recovery for a week or two, but before the autumn came he was well and strong again. I begged hard of Mr. Gregory and the Advocate, and at last they came to agree with me, and to this day Arthur does not know of my suspicions of him. He regards my reception by the populace as a curious illustration of the excitability of an Italian mob—as no doubt it was.

Giovanni Fornajo, otherwise John Baker, went to the Sardinian salt mines for the term of his natural life, and is serving there now.

I am godfather to Cecilia's boy, and I am an Italian old bachelor. I shall never marry, but I am contented. My last news is that my old patron, at the age of fifty-five, has proposed to Miss Grammont, and that she has not refused him.

If you will look into the little churchyard at Posilipo you will find a flat marble slab with a name on it, and no more. The name it bears is that of Alberto Lezzi, who but for his early death would have been one of the great legal orators of Europe. The case which first brought him into note was mine. I have not told you his name before, but my advocate was the great Alberto Lezzi. It was his hand which averted the tragedy of my life, and it is to his memory that I dedicate this story.

THE END