n all dead, he lived with
his grandchildren, and was one of the poor human rats who stay indoors
all day and come out with a lantern at night to scour the gutters of the
city for the refuse of cigar-ends.

"Come another night, John," said Bruno.

But David Rossi would not send him away empty, and he was going off with
the sparkling eyes of a boy, when he said:

"I heard you in the piazza this morning, Excellency! Grand! Only sorry
for one thing."

"And what was that, sonny?" asked Bruno.

"What his Excellency said about Donna Roma. She gave me a half-franc
only yesterday--stopped the carriage to do it, sir."

"So that's your only reason...." began Bruno.

"Good reason, too. Good-night, John!" said David Rossi, and Joseph
closed the door.

"Oh, she has her virtues, like every other kind of spider," said Bruno.

"I'm sorry I spoke of her," said David Rossi.

"You needn't be, though. She deserved all she got. I haven't been two
years in her studio without knowing what she is."

"It was the man I was thinking of, and if I had remembered that the
woman must suffer...."

"Tut! She'll have to make her Easter confession a little earlier, that's
all."

"If she hadn't laughed when I was speaking...."

"You're on the wrong track now, sir. That wasn't Donna Roma. It was the
little Princess Bellini. She is always stretching her neck and
screeching like an old gandery goose."

Dinner was now over, and the boy called for the phonograph. David Rossi
went into the sitting-room to fetch it, and Elena went in at the same
time to light the fire. She was kneeling with her back to him, blowing
on to the wood, when she said in a trembling voice:

"I'm a little sorry myself, sir, if I may say so. I can't believe what
they say about the mistress, but even if it's true we don't know _her_
story, do we?"

Then the phonograph was turned on, and Joseph marched to the tune of
"Swannee River" and the strains of Sousa's band.

"Mr. Rossi," said Bruno, between a puff and a blow.

"Yes?"

"Have you tried the cylinder that came first?"

"Not yet."

"How's that, sir?"

"The man who brought it said the friend who had spoken into it was
dead." And then with a shiver, "It would be like a voice from the
grave--I doubt if I dare hear it."

"Like a ghost speaking to a man, certainly--especially if the friend was
a close one."

"He was the closest friend I ever had, Bruno--he was my father."

"Father?"

"Foster-father, anywa