hought of Paolo standing beside him, ordering him to do this or that
against his will, until he began to doubt his own judgment in regard to
what he was doing. He wondered whether he should feel the same thing
when Paolo was dead. Again he looked behind him, and the idea that he
was not alone gained force. Nevertheless the room was bright, brighter
indeed in the afternoon than it ever was in the morning, for the window
was towards the south, and though the first rays of the sun reached it
at about eleven in the morning, the buildings afterwards darkened it
again until the sun was in the west. Moreover to-day, the weather had
been changeable, and it had rained a little about noon. Now the air was
again clear, and the workshop was lit up so that the light penetrated
even to the ancient cobwebs in the corners, and touched the wax models
and casts on the shelves, and gilded the old wood of the door opposite
with rich brown gold. Marzio had a curtain of dusty grey linen which he
drew across the lower part of the window to keep the sunshine off his
work.

He was impatient with himself, and annoyed by the persistency of the
impression that Paolo was in some way present in the place. As though to
escape from it by braving it he set himself resolutely to consider the
expediency of destroying his brother. The first quick impulse in the
morning had developed to a purpose in the afternoon. He had constructed
the probable occurrences out of the materials of his imagination, and
had done it so vividly as to frighten himself. The fright had in some
measure cooled his intention, and had been now replaced by a new element
in his thoughts, by the apprehension for the future if the deed were
accomplished. He began to speculate upon what would happen afterwards,
wondering whether by any means the murder could be discovered, and if in
that case it could ever be traced to him.

At the first faint suggestion that such a thing as he was devising could
possibly have another issue than he had supposed, Marzio felt a cold
sensation in his heart, and his thoughts took a different direction. It
was all simple enough. To get Paolo into the workshop alone--a
blow--the concealment of the dead body until night--then the short three
hundred yards with the hand-cart--it seemed very practicable. Yes, but
if by any chance he should meet a policeman under those low trees in the
Piazza de' Branca, what would happen? A man with a hand-cart, and with
somethin