shop.

"Diabolo!"

The exclamation came from the man who had fallen while endeavoring to
embrace the hostess, and who since, to all appearance, had been in a
drunken sleep. A very remarkable change had come over him. He was
sitting bolt upright on the floor, shaking the sawdust from his hair,
and his dark eyes were no longer vacant, but bright and full of
excitement. He peered cautiously over the counter. The woman who had
repelled his advances was still loitering near the looking-glass. Then
he stole softly on to his feet, and walking on tip-toe, and without the
slightest difficulty, left the place. Outside he simulated once more the
walk of a drunken man, and staggered down the street and out of sight.

Presently the hostess of the place, having arranged her head-dress to
her own satisfaction, came out behind the counter. She leaned over and
looked for her drunken admirer. After all, he had money in his pocket,
and he was not such a bad fellow. She would take him into her little
room behind, and let him sleep for a while more comfortably. But--but
where was he? He was not there. She turned the light higher and looked
around. There was no one in the room at all. Two hopelessly drunken men
and the stranger had left the place without making the slightest sound,
or without calling for more drink. It was incredible. But it was true.
The wine-shop keeper had never been so surprised in her life. Not only
was she surprised, but she was frightened. The thing was beyond belief.
The sweat broke out upon her forehead, and she crossed herself. The
devil himself must have come and fetched them away, and, if so, why
should he not fetch her. She was wicked enough. What a horrible thought.

Half a dozen men, the crew of a fishing boat, suddenly entered the
court, filling the air with their voices, and descended the steps. She
came to herself while serving them, and commenced to forget her fright.
But she did not mention that little occurrence, and the very thought of
a drunken man for days afterwards made her shudder.

CHAPTER V

TREACHERY

It was almost midnight, and Palermo lay sleeping in the moonlight. The
concert was over, and the people who had shouted themselves hoarse with
enthusiasm had dispersed at last to their homes. The last of the
broad-wheeled, heavily-built carriages had rolled away through the white
streets of the town. One by one the promenaders had left the Marina, and
all sound had died away. There