r livelihood now, that's clear. I
mean to tell him so."

"You intend to see him--to speak with him?"

"What, sir, do you doubt it? Is it because my wife rejects me that I
am to be lost to the ties of parental affection?" He said this with a
coarse and undisguised mockery, and then, suddenly changing to a tone of
earnestness, added, "We shall have to link our fortunes now, and there
are not many men who can give an adventurer such counsels as I can."

"From what I know of the Bramleighs, they would willingly befriend him
if they knew how, or in what way to do it."

"Nothing easier. All men's professions can be brought to an easy
test,--so long as money exists."

"Let me know where to write to you, and I will see what can be done."

"Or, rather, let _me_ have _your_ address, for my whereabouts is
somewhat uncertain."

Cutbill wrote his name and Cattaro on a slip of paper, and the old
fellow smiled grimly, and said, "Ah! _that_ was your clew, then, to this
discovery. I knew Giacomo died there, but it was a most unlikely spot to
track him to. Nothing but chance, the merest chance, could have led to
it?"

This he said interrogatively; but Cutbill made no reply.

"You don't care to imitate _my_ frankness, sir; and I am not surprised
at it. It is only a fellow who has worn rags for years that does n't
fear nakedness. Is my son travelling alone, or has he a companion?"

"He had a companion some short time back; but I do not know if they are
together now."

"I shall learn all that at Rome."

"And have you no fears to be seen there? Will the authorities not meddle
with you?"

"Far from it. It is the one state in Europe where men like myself enjoy
liberty. They often need us,--they fear us always."

Cutbill was silent for some time. He seemed like one revolving some
project in his mind, but unable to decide on what he should do. At last
he said,--

"You remember a young Englishman who made his escape from Ischia last
June?"

"To be sure I do,--my comrade."

"You will be astonished to know he was a Bramleigh,--a brother of the
owner of the estate."

"It was so like my luck to have trusted him," said the other, bitterly.

"You are wrong there. He was always your friend,--he is so at this
moment. I have heard him talk of you with great kindliness."

A careless shrug of the shoulders was the reply.

"Tell him from me," said he, with a savage grin, "that Onofrio,--don't
forget the name,--Onofrio is dead. We