ded, but the latter
had trustworthy and regular news of him from some one else. Twice a
week, wherever he might be, a square envelope came by the post addressed
in a rather cramped feminine hand, the almost unmistakable writing of a
woman who had seen better days and had been put to many shifts in order
to keep up some sort of outward respectability. The information conveyed
was tolerably well expressed, in grammatical Italian; the only names
contained in the letters were those of towns, and hotels, and the like,
and Marcello was invariably spoken of as "our dear patient," and Regina
as "that admirable woman" or "that ideal companion." The writer usually
said that the dear patient seemed less strong than a month ago, or a
week ago, and expressed a fear that he was slowly losing ground.
Sometimes he was better, and the news was accompanied by a conventional
word or two of satisfaction. Again, there would be a detailed account of
his doings, showing that he had slept uncommonly little and had no
appetite, and mentioning with a show of regret the sad fact that he
lived principally on cigarettes, black coffee, and dry champagne. The
ideal companion seemed to be always perfectly well, showed no tendency
to be extravagant, and gave proof of the most constant devotion. The
writer always concluded by promising that Corbario's instructions with
regard to the dear patient should be faithfully carried out in future as
they had been in the past.

This was very reassuring, and Folco often congratulated himself on the
wisdom he had shown in the selection of Settimia as a maid for Regina.
The woman not only did what was required of her with the utmost
exactitude; she took an evident pleasure in her work, and looked forward
to the fatal result at no very distant time with all the satisfaction
which Corbario could desire. So far everything had gone smoothly.

CHAPTER XI

It was high summer again, and the Roman shore was feverish. In the hot
afternoon Ercole had tramped along the shore with his dog at his heels
as far as Torre San Lorenzo to have a chat with the watchman. They sat
in the shade of the tower, smoking little red clay pipes with long
wooden stems. The chickens walked about slowly, evidently oppressed by
the heat and by a general lack of interest in life, since not a single
grain of maize from the morning feed remained to be discovered on the
disused brick threshing-floor or in the sand that surrounded it. From
som