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