and this being impossible, there was a
vast deal of wrangling in my vestibule last night. I caught the purport
of several words, and----"

"And of several names?" asked Caligula in the same even voice.

"I heard one name spoken in particular, O Caesar."

"Tell me."

"That of the Augusta, thy kinswoman," said Caius Nepos, after a slight
moment of hesitation.

"Of Dea Flavia?"

"Even hers."

"But she is a woman, and cannot lead an army," said the Emperor, whose
voice sounded hollow and distant, as if it came from out the depths of a
grave.

"Nor was that suggested, O Caesar."

"What then?"

"The conspirators, methinks, have agreed amongst themselves that the
future husband of Dea Flavia Augusta--whoever he might be--should be the
successor of the murdered Caesar."

"Whoever he might be," repeated the Emperor, mechanically echoing the
other's words.

"Aye! The Augusta, I understand, favours no one as yet."

"She hath made no choice ... to thy knowledge?"

"No, no ... her choice was to be made after ... afterwards."

"Her choice to be made by her--or by them?"

"That I know not, great Caesar. The Augusta, I feel sure, was not a
consenting party to the treachery. The traitors would use her for their
own ends."

After this there was silence for a while. Caligula still sat staring
with wide-open eyes before him, whilst the slaves held their breath,
staring fascinated on that terrible whip, lying momentarily forgotten.

Caius Nepos, pale as a withered maple leaf, was from time to time
moistening his dry lips with his tongue.

The minutes sped on. Who shall say what fiendish thoughts were coursing
through the mad tyrant's brain?

At last he rose, and resumed his walk up and down the room. But no
longer did he rave now, no longer did he strike about him like one
bereft of reason. His face, though flushed and streaming with
perspiration, was set and calm; his footsteps across the carpets were
measured and firm. He had cast his whip aside and his hands were
clenched behind his back, and on his brow there had appeared a deep
furrow, the sign of concentrated thought.

Then at last he paused in his walk and stood in the centre of the room
facing the informer.

"I thank thee, good Caius Nepos," he said, "for thy loyalty to me.
To-morrow, mayhap, I shall think of a reward in accordance with thy
service, but for the nonce I would wish to be alone. I have much to
think of. The present crisis demands of me t