Loe raamatut: «The Day of Temptation», lehekülg 14
Chapter Twenty Six
The Palazza Funaro
Days had lengthened into weeks, and it was already the end of February. In Florence, as in London, February is not the most enjoyable time of the year, and those who travel south to the Winter City expecting the sunshine and warmth of the Riviera are usually sadly disappointed. At the end of March Florence becomes pleasant, and remains so till the end of May; while in autumn, when the mosquitoes cease to trouble, the sun has lost its power, and the Lungarno is cool, it is also a delightful place of residence. But February afternoons beside the Arno are very often as dark, as dreary, and as yellow as beside the Thames; and as Gemma sat after luncheon in her cosy room, the smallest in the great old palazzo in the Borgo d’Albizzi which bore her name, she shuddered and drew a silken shawl about her shoulders. It was one of the show-places of Florence; one of those ponderous, prison-like buildings built of huge blocks of brown stone, time-worn, having weathered the storms of five centuries, and notable as containing a magnificent collection of works of art. Its mediaeval exterior, a relic of ancient Florence, was gloomy and forbidding enough, with its barred windows, over-hanging roof, strange lanterns of wonderfully worked iron, and great iron rings to which men tied their horses in days bygone. Once beyond the great courtyard, however, it was indeed a gorgeous palace. The Funaros had always been wealthy and powerful in the Lily City, and had through ages collected within their palace quantities of antiquities and costly objects. Every room was beautifully decorated, some with wonderful frescoes by Andrea del Sarto, whose work in the outer court of the Annunziata is ever admired by sight-seers of every nationality, while the paintings were by Ciro Ferri, Giovanni da Bologna, Filippo Lippi, Botticelli, and Fra Bartolommeo, together with some frescoes in grisaille with rich ornamentation by Del Sarto’s pupil Franciabigio, and hosts of other priceless works.
It was a magnificent residence. There were half a dozen other palaces in the same thoroughfare, including the Altoviti, the Albizzi, and the Pazzi, but this was the finest of them all. When Gemma had inherited it she had at once furnished half a dozen rooms in modern style. The place was so enormous that she always felt lost in it, and seldom strayed beyond these rooms which overlooked the great paved courtyard with its ancient wall and curious sculptures chipped and weather-worn. The great gloomy silent rooms, with their bare oaken floors, mouldering tapestries, and time-blackened pictures, were to her grim and ghostly, as, indeed, they were to any but an art enthusiast or a lover of the antique. But the Contessa Funaro lived essentially in the present, and always declared herself more in love with cleanliness than antiquarian dirt. She had no taste for the relics of the past, and affected none. If English or American tourists found anything in the collections to admire, they were at liberty to do so on presenting their card to the liveried hall-porter. At the door the man had a box, and the money placed therein was sent regularly each quarter to the Maternity Hospital.
She spent little time in her grim, silent home; for truth to tell, its magnificence irritated her, and its extent always filled her with a sense of loneliness. The housekeeper, an elderly gentlewoman who had been a friend of her dead mother’s, was very deaf, and never amusing; therefore, after a fortnight or so, she was generally ready to exchange the Funaro Palace for the Hotel Cavour at Milan, the Minerva at Rome, or the hospitality of some country villa. Hotels, or even small houses, were not so grim and prison-like as her own great palazzo, the very walls of which seemed to breathe mutely of the past – of those troublous times when the clank of armour echoed in the long stone corridors, and the clink of spurs sounded in the courtyard below where now the only invaders were the pigeons.
The furniture of the small elegant room in which she sat was entirely modern, upholstered in pale-blue silk, with her monogram in gold thread; the carpets were thick, the great high Florentine stove threw forth a welcome warmth, and the grey light which filtered through the curtains was just sufficient to allow her to read. She was lying back in her long chair in a lazy, negligent attitude, her fair hair a trifle disordered by contact with the cushion behind her head; and one of her little slippers having fallen off, her small foot in its neat black silk stocking peeped out beneath her skirt. On the table at her elbow were two or three unopened letters, while in a vase stood a fine bouquet of flowers, a tribute from her deaf housekeeper.
Since the day she had parted from Count Castellani in the hall of the Embassy in Grosvenor Square she had travelled a good deal. She had been down to Rome, had had an interview with the Marquis Montelupo, and a week ago had unexpectedly arrived at the palazzo. As she had anticipated, when she broke her journey at Turin, on her way from London to Rome, and signed her name in the visitors’ book at the hotel, a police official called early on the following morning to inform her that she must consider herself under arrest. But the words scribbled by Montelupo upon his visiting-card had acted like magic, and, having taken the card to the Questura, the detective returned all bows and apologies, and she was allowed to proceed on her journey.
Nearly nine months had elapsed since she last set foot within her great old palazzo, and as she sat that afternoon she allowed her book to fall upon her lap and her eyes to slowly wander around the pretty room. She glanced at the window where the rain was being driven upon the tiny panes by the boisterous wind, and again she shuddered.
With an air of weariness she raised her hand and pushed the mass of fair hair off her brow, as if its weight oppressed her, sighing heavily. The events of the past month had been many and strange. In Rome she had found herself beset by a hundred pitfalls, but she had kept faith with the Marquis, and the terms she had made with him were such as to give her complete satisfaction. A crisis, however, was, she knew, imminent; a crisis in which she would be compelled to play a leading part. But to do so would require all her ingenuity, all her woman’s wit, all her courage, all her skill at deception.
Suddenly, as she was thus reflecting, Margherita, her faithful but ugly woman, who had been with her at Livorno, opened the door, and, drawing aside the heavy portière, said —
“The signore!”
“At last I at last!” she cried, excitedly jumping up instantly. “Show him up at once.” Then, facing the great mirror, she placed both hands to her hair, rearranging it deftly, recovered her lost slipper, cast aside the wrap, and stood ready to receive her visitor.
Again the door opened. The man who entered was Charles Armytage.
For a few moments he held her in fond embrace, kissing her lips tenderly again and again; while she, in that soft, crooning voice that had rung in his ears through all those months of separation, welcomed him, reiterating her declarations of love.
“I received your telegram in Brussels two days ago, and have come to you direct,” he said at last. “I did not go to the Post Office every day, hence the delay.”
“Ah! my poor Nino must be tired,” she cried, suddenly recollecting. “Here, this couch. Sit here; it will rest you. Povero Nino! What a terrible journey – from Brussels to Florence!”
He sank upon the divan she indicated, pale, weary, and travel-worn, while she, taking a seat beside him, narrated how she had left Lyddington for London, and afterwards travelled to Rome. Feeling that the glance of the woman he worshipped was fixed upon him, he raised his head; and then their eyes met for a moment with an expression of infinite gentleness, the mournful gentleness of their heroic love.
“Why did you go to Rome?” he asked. “You always said you hated it.”
“I had business,” she answered. “Urgent business; business which has again aroused hope within me.”
“Still of a secret nature?” the young Englishman hazarded, with a quick glance of suspicion.
“For the present, yes,” she replied in a low, intense voice. “But you still love me, Nino? You can trust me now, can’t you?” and she looked earnestly into his face.
“I have already trusted you,” he replied. “Since that night I left you at Lyddington my life has indeed been a dull, aimless one. You have been ever in my mind, and I have wondered daily, hourly, what was the nature of the grave mysterious peril which you say threatens both of us.”
“That peril still exists,” she answered. “It increases daily, nay hourly.”
“You are still threatened? You, the wealthy owner of this magnificent palazzo!” he exclaimed, gazing around the pretty room bewildered. “Often when I was in Florence, in those days when we first met, I passed this great building. Little, however, did I dream that my Gemma, who used to cycle with me in the Cascine, was its owner.”
She laughed. “I had reasons for not letting you know my real name,” she replied. “It is true that I have money; but wealth has brought me no happiness – only sorrow, alas! – until I met you.”
“And now you are happy?” he asked earnestly.
“Ah! yes, I am happy when you are beside me, Nino,” she responded, grasping his hand in hers. “I never thought that I could learn to love you so. I am still nervous, still in dread, it is true. The reason of my fear is a strange one; I fear the future, and I fear myself.”
“Yourself?” he echoed. “You told me that once before – long ago. You are not very formidable.”
“Ah, no! You don’t understand,” she cried hastily. “I fear that I may not have the strength and courage to carry through a plan I have formed to secure your safety and my own liberty.”
“But I can assist you,” he suggested. “Your interests are mine, now, remember,” he added, kissing her.
“Yes,” she said, looking up into his eyes. “But to render me assistance is not possible. Any action on my part must necessarily imperil both of us. No, I must act alone.”
“When?”
“Very soon. In a few days, or a few weeks. When, I know not. Very soon I must return to England.”
“To England!” he cried. “I thought you preferred your own Italy!”
“I have an object in going back,” she answered ambiguously.
“You’ll let me accompany you?”
She reflected for a moment; then, without responding, rose, rang the bell, and told the man-servant, who entered resplendent in the blue Funaro livery, to bring her visitor some wine.
“You must be half famished after your journey,” she exclaimed. She was standing before him in a white gown, white from head to foot. “I must really apologise for not being more hospitable, Nino.”
“I’m really not hungry,” he replied. Then he added, “You didn’t answer my question.”
“I was reflecting,” she responded slowly. “I don’t know whether it is wise at this juncture for you to return to England, into the very midst of your enemies.”
“You haven’t yet explained who my enemies are, beyond urging me to be wary of Malvano. True, that man has lied to me about you. He told me a silly, romantic, and wholly fictitious story regarding your parentage; but, after all, he may have been mistaken, especially as it was in answer to my inquiry whether he knew any one named Fanetti in Florence.”
“Malvano was well aware that I had used that name more than once,” his well-beloved replied. “He wilfully deceived you for his own purpose. He wished to part us.”
“Why? He is surely not in love with you?”
“Certainly not,” she answered, laughing at such an idea. “His object was not jealousy.”
“Then he is actually my enemy?”
“Yes,” she replied. “Avoid him. If you desire to return to England with me, I will allow you to do so with one stipulation. The moment we set foot in London we must part. If it were known that we were together, all my plans would be frustrated.”
“And I am to leave you to the mercy of these mysterious enemies of yours?” he observed dubiously.
“It is imperative. You must leave London instantly and go away into the country. Malvano must not know that you are in England. Go to your uncle’s in Berkshire, and wait there until I can with safety communicate with you.”
“But all this is extraordinary,” he said mystified, taking from her hand the glass of wine she had poured out for him. “I must confess myself still puzzled at finding you mistress of his magnificent palace, and yet existing in deadly fear of mysterious enemies.” He knew nothing of her connexion with the Italian Ministry of Foreign Affairs, and only regarded her as a wealthy woman whose caprice it had been to masquerade, and who had earned a wide reputation for gaiety and recklessness.
“Some day, before long, you shall know the whole truth, Nino,” she assured him in deep earnestness.
“When you do, you will be amazed – astounded, as others will be. I know I act strangely, without any apparent motive. I know you have heard evil of me on every hand, yet you still trust me,” and again she looked into his eyes; “yet you still love me.”
“Yes, piccina,” he answered, calling her once again by that endearing term she had taught him in those summer days beside the sea when he knew so little Italian and experienced such difficulty in speaking to her. “Yes,” he said, placing his arm tenderly round her waist, “I trust you, although evil tongues everywhere try to wound you.”
Only when beside this man she loved was she her real-self, true, honest, loving, and tender-hearted. To the world outside she was compelled to wear the mask as a cold, sneering, crafty, and coquettish woman, the cunning and remorseless adventuress who had won such unenviable notoriety in the political circle at Rome and in Florentine society.
“La Funaro is known by repute in every town throughout Italy,” she said brokenly. “My reputation is that of a vain, coquettish woman without heart, without remorse. But you, Nino, when you know the truth, shall be my judge. Then you will know how I have suffered. The foul lies uttered on every side have cut me to the quick, but under compulsion I have remained silent. Soon, however” – and her brilliant eyes seemed to flash with eagerness at the thought which crossed her mind – “soon I shall release myself, and then you shall know everything – everything.”
“On that day perfect happiness will come to me,” he said fervently. “I love you, Gemma, more deeply than ever man loved woman.”
“And I, too, Nino, love you with all my heart, with all my soul.”
Their lips met again in a fierce caress, their hands clasped tightly. He looked into her clear eyes, bright with unshed tears, and saw fear and determination, truth and honesty mirrored therein. Her tiny hand trembled in his, and then for very joy she suddenly burst into a flood of emotion.
“When shall we leave for England?” he asked at last, his strong arm still about her waist.
“In a couple of days. I have only waited here for you to join me,” she said, drying her eyes. “Life without you, Nino, is impossible.”
“So within a week we shall be in London?”
“Yes,” she replied. “Soon, very soon, I hope, I may be free. But I have a task before me – one that is difficult and desperate. In order to secure your safety, and my own freedom from the hateful bonds which have fettered me these last two years, I am compelled to resort to strategy, to deception deep and cunning, the smallest revelation of which would wreck all our hopes.”
“How?”
“Exposure of my plans would cost me my life,” she answered, her face white and set, a shudder running through her slight frame.
“Your life?” he echoed, still mystified. “One would think you feared assassination!”
She made no answer, but, pale to her lips, she held her breath. The flunkey in blue re-entered the room, bearing a telegram upon a salver. His mistress took it and, tearing open the folded pale drab paper, read its contents.
“No reply,” she said; and the man, bowing, withdrew. “Nino,” she exclaimed in a voice of deep earnestness when the servant had gone, “you may think it extraordinary, but for your sake, because I love no other man but yourself, I have resolved to risk my life and free myself. This telegram makes it imperative that we should leave again for England to-night. You have shown trust in me; you do not believe all the idle tales gossips have littered. I love you, Nino. If I prove victor, I gain your affection, and happiness always with you. If I lose, then I die, unwillingly, but nevertheless in the confidence that to the end you trusted me.”
“No, no!” he cried fiercely. “You shall not die! You shall never be taken from me! I adore you, Gemma! God knows I love you, darling!”
“Then you will never doubt me – never!” she cried, clinging closely to him, and raising her beautiful face to his. “You will not doubt me even if, to gain my end, I feign love for another. To him, my kisses shall be Judas-kisses, my smiles mockery, my lips venom, my embrace the chilling embrace of death. Hear me?” she cried wildly. “I go to England with a purpose – a vendetta complete and terrible which I will accomplish by hatred – or, failing that, by love. Both will be equally fatal.”
Chapter Twenty Seven
On the Night Wind
“You still wear your ring, I see,” Malvano exclaimed with a merry twinkle in his eyes one morning a fortnight later, while Gemma was sitting at breakfast at Lyddington with Nenci and his wife. The thin-faced, black-haired man had rejoined his wife suddenly a few days before, and since Gemma had returned they had formed quite a merry quartette. She had satisfactorily explained her sudden disappearance, and had concocted a clever story of complications regarding her estate to account for her journey to Italy. Both men, knowing she was “wanted” by the Italian police, marvelled at her audacity in going back and her adroitness in evading arrest.
“I don’t always wear the ring,” she answered, raising her hand and contemplating it.
“Let me see,” exclaimed Nenci, who was seated beside her.
In response she handed it to him. It was unusually large for a lady, but of antique design. In the centre was a large oval turquoise, around which were set two rows of diamonds, all of beautiful colour and lustre, while the gold which encircled the finger was much thicker than usual, the whole forming a rather massive but extremely handsome ornament.
Nenci held it for a moment, admiring it with the eye of a connoisseur, for by trade he was a jeweller, although he had performed, among other duties, those of waiter in a City restaurant. He declared at once that the diamonds were dirty beneath their settings, and, rising from the table, scrutinised it closely at the window.
“I’ll clean it for you to-day, if you like,” he said, when he returned to his seat. “It is very dull and dusty.” She thanked him, and he placed it beside his plate. “Ah!” exclaimed the Doctor suddenly, with a glance full of meaning.
“That was the marriage ring, wasn’t it?”
Nenci glanced across at him quickly and frowned – a gesture of displeasure which Gemma failed to notice.
“Yes,” she answered rather harshly; “it was the marriage ring – if you like to so term it. I scarcely ever wear it, because it brings back too many painful memories. The bond has been galling enough – Heaven knows!”
“I thought you had no remorse. You always declared you had none,” Nenci remarked. “But since you’ve known that confounded lover of yours you’ve been a changed woman.”
“Changed for the better, I hope,” she retorted. “Do you think it possible that I can wear that ring without remembering a certain night in Livorno – the night when all my evil fortune fell upon me?”
Nenci laughed superciliously.
“Come,” he said. “You’re growing sentimental. That’s the worst of being love-sick. When a woman of genius loves, she always throws common sense to the winds.”
Her brows contracted for an instant, but, too discreet to exhibit annoyance, she merely joined his laughter, and, with skilful tact so characteristic of her, answered – “Ah, my dear Lionello, you seem to have forgotten our old Tuscan saying, ‘L’amore avvicina gli uomini agli angeli ed al Cielo; poichè il paradiso scende con l’amore in noi.’”
“She’s had you there,” exclaimed the Doctor merrily. “Gemma isn’t the person upon whom to work off witticisms.” As he sat at table, Malvano looked the very picture of good health and spirits, ruddy, well-shaven, and spruce in his rough tweed riding-coat and gaiters, for, the roads being heavy and wet, he had resolved to ride his round that morning instead of driving. Only the day previous he had been attending upon the customers at the Bonciani, his ears ever open, and, arriving back at Lyddington by the last train from London, he had been a long time closeted with Nenci, prior to going to bed. The two men had held a long consultation, the nature of which Gemma was unable to determine, but it was evident from her close observation of their demeanour that morning that they had resolved upon some line of immediate action.
La Funaro was now playing a dangerous game.
Calm, silent, watchful, ever ready to listen to their nefarious plans, and even making suggestions of deeper cunning and a vengeance more terrible, she had remained there acting a double part with a skill that few other women could accomplish. But her previous training in the wiles of diplomacy and espionage under the crafty, far-seeing Montelupo now held her in good stead. She could conceal all her woman’s pity and forbearance, all her repugnance at the terrible plans which were so calmly discussed, and with them grow enthusiastic at the thought of what was to follow. Hers was a strange personality, a curious blending of the grave with the gay. The mask she wore as a heartless, abandoned woman was absolutely without a flaw.
That day Nenci spent most of his hours in the Doctor’s study, the room wherein no one was allowed to enter. Sallow-faced, unshaven, wild-haired, he was so striking a figure that the Doctor had advised him not to go into the village, as his presence would at once be remarked. Therefore, when Malvano was absent, he amused himself in chatting to the assistant at work making up mixtures in the dark little room beyond the surgery, in reading in the room, half-study half-laboratory, which Malvano reserved to himself, or in strolling about the extensive grounds walled in against the vulgar gaze.
Gemma that day idled over magazines and newspapers in the morning-room until luncheon, when the Doctor came in, cold and half famished, with an appetite which did justice to his truly British appearance. Afterwards she passed the afternoon in desultory gossip with Mrs Nenci, while the two men went to smoke; and in the evening, when coffee was served in the drawing-room, she played and sang to them “Duorme, Carmé,” “Surriento bello!” the humorous “Don Saverio,” and other pieces, while Malvano, in his usually buoyant spirits, fetched his mandolino and accompanied her, until the sweet music and the passionate words brought back to each of them memories of their own fair, far-off land.
About ten, Mrs Nenci and Gemma retired, and that night the woman, whom, all Italy knew as “La Funaro,” knelt in the silence of her chamber long and earnestly before her ivory crucifix, praying for courage and for release. Meanwhile, the two men proceeded to the Doctor’s study, turning the key in the door after them. The small place, with its shutters closed and barred, smelt overpoweringly of pungent chemicals, the centre table being laden with bottles, test-tubes, retorts, a crucible beneath which a small spirit-lamp was burning, and a host of sundries, which plainly showed that experiments were in progress. At the wall opposite was a side-table upon which a small vice had been fixed, while beside it lay several files and other tools.
Both men threw off their coats and turned up their shirt-cuffs. Malvano taking his seat in the centre of his chemical appliances, while his companion commenced work at the small side-table.
Nenci was smoking a cigarette when they entered, but at sign of the Doctor at once extinguished it.
“Have you given Gemma back her ring?” Malvano inquired as they sat down to work. The reason the Doctor always locked himself within that room was evident. He was making experiments in secret.
“Yes; I gave it her just before dinner,” the other answered.
“You cleaned it – eh?” the Doctor said, with a grim smile.
“Yes,” the other replied briefly.
“It seems a pity – a great pity!” Malvano exclaimed in a tone of regret. “Is there no other way?”
“None,” Nenci answered firmly. “She knows too much. Besides, I have suspicions.”
“Of what?”
“That she may play us false,” the sallow-faced man replied. “Remember, she still loves that man Armytage – the devil take him!”
“Well,” Malvano sighed, “it’s the only way, I suppose; but it’s hard – very hard on a woman whose life has been wrecked as hers has.”
“Misericordia! My dear fellow,” cried Nenci impatiently. “Surely you won’t turn chicken-hearted after all this time? You’ve never shown the white feather yet.”
The doctor remained silent, and turning in his chair, bent over the small crucible beneath which the blue flame was burning; while his companion, casting a keen half-suspicious glance in his direction, also turned to the small vice fixed to his table and commenced work.
A long time elapsed in almost complete silence, so intent were both on what they were doing. Once – only once – did Malvano refer again to the subject of Gemma’s ring.
“Is she actually wearing it now?” he inquired.
“She did at dinner, I noticed,” Nenci answered. “But whether she wears her rings at night, I don’t know,” he laughed.
“Isn’t it – well – dangerous?”
“Dangerous! Not at all,” his companion replied impatiently. “She suspects nothing, absolutely nothing.”
Again they lapsed into unbroken silence.
Fully an hour went by, when Nenci rising, still in his shirt-sleeves, folded his arms, and exclaimed in a tone of satisfaction and confidence —
“At last, my dear fellow! I’ve worked it out completely. Failure has become absolutely impossible.” Malvano, still seated in his chair, leaned back and contemplated with admiration the object which his companion had placed before him – an exquisite little marble bust of King Humbert of Italy. It was only about eighteen inches high, but a faithful and beautifully executed copy of that celebrated head by the renowned Pisan sculptor, Fontacchiotti, which is so prominent a figure in the centre of the great reception hall of the Quirinal at Rome. Plaster replicas of this bust can be bought everywhere throughout Italy for half a franc, and are to be found in most houses of the loyal, while larger ones stand in every court of justice. But this miniature reproduction before the Doctor was really an admirable work of art, one such as connoisseur would admire.
Nenci had not chiselled it, but had apparently been doing something to its small base of polished malachite. The hand that had succeeded in reproducing the features so exactly was without doubt a master-hand. On the table where the sallow-faced man had been working stood two other busts exactly similar in every detail, both in little cases of polished wood, lined with crimson velvet, and each bearing the royal monogram in gilt upon its base, exactly similar to the one in the Quirinal.
“It’s excellent. The Gobbo has certainly turned them out marvellously well,” the Doctor observed.
“He’s a genius,” the other said enthusiastically. “The reproduction is so exact that detection is absolutely impossible. Look!” And taking up a photograph of a miniature bust standing upon a carved shelf against a frescoed wall, they both compared it with the one before them. “Do you see that small chip in the base?” Nenci said, pointing to the picture. “The Gobbo has even reproduced that.”
“A wonderful piece of work,” Malvano acquiesced. “Very neat, and very pretty.”
“After it leaves our hands it won’t want many servants to keep it dusted,” his companion observed grimly. “You see, the base being circular is made to move,” he added, taking the little ornament in his hand. “You twist it slightly – so, and the thing is done. You see those two scratches across the stone. The base must be so turned as to join them. And then to the very instant – well – ” And he broke off without concluding his sentence.
“It will strike the half-hour, eh?” the Doctor suggested with a laugh.
The other raised his shoulders and outspread his palms. Then, regarding his handiwork with the keenest satisfaction, he thrust his hands deep into his pockets, and, leaning against the mantelshelf, gaily hummed the popular Neapolitan chorus —
“Pecchè. Ndringhete-ndringhete-ndrà
Mmiez’ ’o mare nu scoglio nce sta!
Tutte venene a bevere ccà,
Pecchè. Ndringhete-ndringhete-ndrà.”
The Doctor, with fingers stained yellow by the acids he had been mixing, the fumes of which filled the small den almost to suffocation, took up the beautiful little bust and examined its green polished base with critical eye, turning it over and over, and weighing it carefully in his hand.
“Devilish cunningly contrived,” he said. “It’s a pity it must be sacrificed. But I suppose it must.”
“Of course,” Nenci said quickly. “We must complete our experiments and ascertain that it actually strikes true. Is it quiet enough yet to try, do you think?” Malvano rose. The trousers he wore were old and burned brown where corrosive liquids had fallen upon them, his hair was ruffled, and his face dirty, as if smoke-blackened.
“I hope the thing won’t create too much fuss,” he said in an apprehensive tone.
“Leave all that to me,” his companion answered confidently; and taking the bust, he carefully unscrewed its malachite base, revealing a cavity wherein rested a small square receptacle, oblong and deep, something of the shape of a large-sized snuff-box. It was secured in its place by two springs, which, when released, allowed the box to fall out. Taking it up and opening it, he said to his companion —
