ript after all, but the only man who knew its contents would
be removed, and Beroviero's sons would inherit what should come to them
by right. Against this project there was the danger that the murderer
might some day betray the truth, under torture, or might come back again
and again, and demand more money; but the killing of a man who was not
even a Venetian, who was an interloper, who could be proved to have
abused his master's confidence, when he should be no longer alive to
defend himself, did not strike Giovanni as a very serious matter, and as
for any one ever forcing him to pay money which he did not wish to pay,
he knew that to be a feat beyond the ability of an ordinary person.

One other course suggested itself at once. He could forestall Zorzi by
writing to his father and telling him what he sincerely believed to be
the truth. He knew the old man well, and was sure that if once persuaded
that Zorzi had betrayed him by using the manuscript, he would be
merciless. The difficulty would lie in making Beroviero believe anything
against his favourite. Yet in Giovanni's estimation the proofs were
overwhelming. Besides, he had another weapon with which to rouse his
father's anger against the Dalmatian. Since Marietta had defied him and
had gone to see Zorzi in the laboratory, he had not found what he
considered a convenient opportunity of speaking to her on the subject;
that is to say, he had lacked the moral courage to do so at all. But it
would need no courage to complain of her conduct to their father, and
though Beroviero's anger might fall chiefly upon Marietta, a portion of
it would take effect against Zorzi. It would be one more force acting in
the direction of his ruin.

Giovanni went away to his own glass-house, meditating all manner of evil
to his enemy, and as he reckoned up the chances of success, he began to
wonder how he could have been so weak as to offer Zorzi an enormous
bribe, instead of proceeding at once to his destruction.

Unconscious of his growing danger, Zorzi fed the fire of the furnace,
and then sat down at the table before the window, laid his crutches
beside him, and began to write out the details of his own experiments,
as the master had done for years. He wrote the rather elaborate
characters of the fifteenth century in a small but clear hand, very
unlike old Beroviero's. The window was open, and the light breeze blew
in, fanning his heated forehead; for the weather was growing hotter