g jagged edge remained.
There could be only a second or two more of this unnatural gloom. His
heart was thankful for it. Ah! what was that? He bit his tongue hard, or
he would have called out. Either he was dreaming, or that was the warm
panting breath of a human being upon his cheek.

He sprang up, with his arm stretched out as though to defend himself,
and holding his breath; but there was no sound, save the dull murmur of
whispered conversation around. One glance more at the cloud. How slowly
it moved. Ah! thank God! the light was coming. Already the shadows were
moving away. Voices were being raised; figures were becoming distinct;
in a moment the moon would be free.

It was all over. Laughing voices once more filled the air. The waiters
were running about more busily than ever; people rubbed their eyes and
joked about the darkness. But the Englishman sat quite still, holding in
his hand a long, curiously-shaped dagger, which the first gleam of
moonlight had shown him lying at his feet.

He was no coward, but he gave a little shudder as he examined the thing,
and felt its blueish steel edge with his finger. It was by no means a
toy weapon; it had been fashioned and meant for use. What use? Somehow
he felt that he had escaped a very great danger, as he put the thing
thoughtfully into his pocket, and leaned back in his chair. The shrill
voices and clatter of glasses around him sounded curiously unreal in his
ears.

By degrees he came to himself, and leaning forward took a match from the
little marble table, and re-lit his cigar. Then, for the first time, he
noticed with a start, that the chair opposite to him was occupied,
occupied, too, by a figure which was perfectly familiar. It was the
Sicilian who sat there, quietly smoking a long cigarette, and with his
face shaded by the open palm of his hand.

Lord St. Maurice made no sign of recognition. On the contrary, he turned
his head away, preferring not to be seen. His nerves were already highly
strung, and there seemed to him to be something ominous in this second
meeting with the Sicilian. If he could have been sure of being able to
do so unnoticed, he would have got up and gone into the hotel.

"Good-evening, Signor!"

Lord St. Maurice turned and looked into the white, corpse-like face of
the Sicilian. It told its own story. There was trouble to come.

"Good-evening, Signor," he answered quietly.

The Sicilian leaned over the table. There were gray rims un