new Vivi, of course?" I remarked, after a long silence, looking my
fellow-exile straight in the face.

"I met her once or twice at the house of my aunt, Lady Ailesworth," was
his reply. "I wonder where she is now? There was some talk of her
marrying Baron de Boek, the Belgian banker. Did you hear it?"

I nodded. The rumour was, alas! too well known to me. How is it that the
memory of one woman clings to a man above all others? Why does one
woman's face haunt every man, whatever age he may be, or whether he be
honest or a thief?

Whitaker was watching my countenance so intently that I was filled with
surprise. I had never told a soul of my flirtation.

Three youths passed along the pavement playing upon their mandolines an
air from the latest opera at the Arena, laughing at two hatless girls of
the people who were drinking coffee at the table next to us, and next
moment the _al fresco_ orchestra in the balcony above struck up a waltz.

"Faugh!" cried my companion, starting up. "Let's go. This music is
intolerable! Let's walk along the Lung Arno, by the river."

I rose, and together we strolled to the river-side along that
embankment, the favourite walk of Dante and of Petrarch, of Raphael and
of Michelangelo. All was silent, for the great ponderous palaces lining
the river were closed till winter, and there were no shops or cafes.

For a long time we walked in the brilliant night without uttering a
word. At last he said in a strange, hard voice--

"I've received news to-day which every other man beside myself would
regard as the very worst information possible, and yet, to me, it is the
most welcome."

"What's that?" I inquired.

"I saw two doctors, Pellegrini and Gori, to-day, and both have said the
same thing--I am dying. In a few weeks I shall have ceased to trouble
anybody."

"Dying!" I gasped, halting and staring at him. "Why, my dear fellow, you
are the very picture of health."

"I know," he smiled. "But I have for a long time suspected myself
doomed. I have a complaint that is incurable. Therefore I wonder if you
would do me one small favour. Will you keep this letter until I am dead,
and afterwards open it and act upon its instructions? They may seem
strange to you, but you will ascertain the truth. When you do know the
truth, recollect that though dead I beg of you one thing--your
forgiveness."

"Forgiveness? For what? I don't understand you."

"No," he said bitterly. "Of course you don't. And I