examined it carefully, and slipped it into his wallet with a
sort of mechanical chuckle. He glanced at the furnace next, and
recollected that the precious pieces Zorzi had made were in the
annealing oven. But that did not matter, for the fires would now go out
and the whole furnace would slowly cool, so that the annealing would be
very perfect. No one but he could enter the laboratory, now that Zorzi
was gone, and he could take the pieces to his own house at his leisure.
They were substantial proofs of Zorzi's wickedness in breaking the laws
of Venice, however, and it would perhaps be wiser to leave them where
they were, until the Governor should take cognizance of their existence.

His first disappointment turned to redoubled hatred of the man who had
caused it, and whom it was safer to hate now than formerly, since he was
in the clutches of the law; moreover, the defeat of Giovanni's hopes was
by no means final, after the first shock was over. He could make an
excuse for having the garden dug over, on pretence of improving it
during his father's absence; the more easily, as he had learned that the
garden had always been under Zorzi's care, and must now be cultivated
by some one else. Giovanni did not believe it possible that the precious
box had been taken away altogether. It was therefore near, and he could
find it, and there would be plenty of time before his father's return.
Nevertheless, he looked about the laboratory and went into the small
room where Zorzi had slept. There was water there, and Spanish soap, and
he washed his hands carefully, and brushed the dust from his coat and
from the knees of his fine black hose. He knew that his patient wife
would be waiting for him when he went back to the house.

He searched Zorzi's room carefully, but could find nothing. An earthen
jar containing broken white glass stood in one corner. The narrow
truckle-bed, with its single thin mattress and flattened pillow, all
neat and trim, could not have hidden anything. On a line stretched
across from wall to wall a few clothes were hanging--a pair of
disconsolate brown hose, the waistband on the one side of the line
hanging down to meet the feet on the other, two clean shirts, and a
Sunday doublet. On the wall a cap with a black eagle's feather hung by a
nail. Here and there on the white plaster, Zorzi had roughly sketched
with a bit of charcoal some pieces of glass which he had thought of
making. That was all. The floor was pa