And about that blood-thirsty talk of
yours, about vengeance and such like, you just take my tip and chuck it.
We think more of life here than they does in furrin parts, and hangin'
ain't a pleasant death. Take my tip, guv'nor, you chuck it!"

The Count pushed the mug away, and rose to his feet. He had not heard a
word. There was a terrible buzzing in his head and ears.

"I am a foolish old man, I fear," he said unsteadily. "I ought to have
considered. Five-and-twenty-years! Ah, yes, it is a long time ago.
Professor, will you send your servant for a carriage? I will go away."

He stood quite still, talking softly to himself, with the tips of his
fingers still resting lightly upon the table, and a far-away look in his
eyes. Signor Bartlezzi himself ran hatless to the nearest cabstand, and
in a few minutes the rattle of a vehicle was heard outside, and the
Professor returned breathless. The Count rose at once.

"I wish you good-night, gentlemen," he said mildly. "You have been very
patient with me. Five-and-twenty years! It is a long while--a long
while! Five-and-twenty years! Good-evening, gentlemen. Professor, I will
take your arm to the door. My sight is a--little dim. Thank you. How
dark it is. The Hotel Continental, if you please. Thank you, Professor."

And so he went away.

CHAPTER XIII

BETWEEN LIFE AND DEATH

For three days Count Leonardo di Marioni abode in his sitting-room at
the Hotel Continental, living the life of a man in a dream. So far as
the outside world was concerned, it was a complete case of suspended
animation. Of all that passed around him he was only dimly conscious.
The faces of his fellow creatures were strange to him. He had lost touch
with the world, and the light of his reason was flickering; almost it
seemed as though it would go out indeed, and leave him groping in the
chaos of insanity. Mechanically he rose late in the morning, ate what
was brought to him, or ordered what was suggested. All day long he sat
in a sort of dreamless apathy, living still the life of the last
five-and-twenty years, and finding no change, save that the chair in
which he sat was softer, and the fire over which he stretched his
withered palms was a new experience to him. There were things even which
he missed in the freedom--if freedom it could be called. He missed the
warm dancing sunlight which, day by day, had filled the shabby
sitting-room of his confinement. He missed that patch of deep blue sk