an odd chance, made his lampshade out of a copy of The
Stillwater Gazette containing the announcement of his cousin's death.
Richard gave a quick start as his eye caught the illuminated
head-lines,--Mysterious Murder of Lemuel Shackford! Perhaps a slight
exclamation escaped Richard's lips at the same time, for Torrini
turned and asked what was the matter. "Nothing at all," said Richard,
removing the paper, and placing another in its stead. Then he threw
open the blinds of the window looking on the back yard, and set his
hand-bag against the door to prevent it being blown to by the
draught. Torrini, without altering the rigid position of his head on
the pillow, followed every movement with a look of curious
insistence, like that of the eyes in a portrait. His preparations
completed for the night, Richard seated himself on a stool at the
foot of the bed.

The obscurity and stillness of the room had their effect upon the
sick man, who presently dropped into a light sleep. Richard sat
thinking of Margaret, and began to be troubled because he had
neglected to send her word of his detention, which he might have done
by Peters. It was now too l ate. The town clock struck ten in the
midst of his self-reproaches. At the first clang of the bell, Torrini
awoke with a start, and asked for water.

"If anybody comes," he said, glancing in a bewildered, anxious way
at the shadows huddled about the door, "you are not to leave me alone
with him."

"Him? Whom? Are you expecting any one?"

"No; but who knows? one might come. Then, you are not to go; you
are not to leave me for a second."

"I've no thought of it," replied Richard; "you may rest easy....
He's a trifle light in the head," was Richard's reflection.

After that Torrini dozed rather than slumbered, rousing at brief
intervals; and whenever he awoke the feverish activity of his brain
incited him to talk,--now of Italy, and now of matters connected
with his experiences in this country.

"Naples is a pleasant place!" he broke out in the hush of the
midnight, just as Richard was dropping off. "The band plays every
afternoon on the Chiaia. And then the _festas,_--every third day
a festa. The devil was in my body when I left there and dragged
little Brigida into all this misery. We used to walk of an evening
along the Marinella,--that's a strip of beach just beyond the Molo
Piccolo. You were never in Naples?"

"Not I," said Richard. "Here, wet your lips, and try to go to
s