On a shelf near the little toilet-table there was a box, covered with old velvet, in which she kept the few simple pins and almost necessary bits of jewellery which she had been willing to accept from Marcello.  She took it down, set it upon the toilet-table and opened it.  A small silver-mounted revolver lay amongst the other things, for Marcello had insisted that she should have a weapon of some kind, because the house seemed lonely to him.  He had shown her how to use it, but she had forgotten.  She took it out, and turned it over and over in her hands, with a puzzled look.  She did not even know whether it was loaded or not, and did not remember how to open the chamber.  She wondered how the thing worked, and felt rather afraid of it.  Besides, if she had to use it, it would make a dreadful noise; so she put it back carefully amongst the things.

There were the cheap little earrings she had worn ever since she had been a child, till Marcello had made her take them out and wear none at all.  There was a miserable little brooch of tarnished silver which she had bought with her own money at a country fair, and which had once seemed very fine to her.  She had not the slightest sentiment about such trifles, for Italian peasants are altogether the least sentimental people in the world; the things were not even good enough to give to Settimia, and yet it seemed wrong to throw them away, so she had always kept them, with a vague idea of giving them to some poor little girl, to whom they would represent happiness.  With them lay the long pin she used to stick through her hair on Sundays when she went to church.

It had been her mother’s, and it was the only thing she possessed which had belonged to the murdered woman who had given her birth.  It was rather a fine specimen of the pins worn by the hill peasant women, and was made like a little cross-hilted sword, with a blade of fire-gilt steel about eight inches long.  A little gilt ball was screwed upon the point, intended to keep the pin from coming out after it was thrust through the hair.  Regina took the ball off and felt the point, which was as sharp as that of a pen-knife; and she tried the blade with her hands and found that it did not bend easily.  It was strong enough for what she wanted of it.  She stuck it through the heavy knot of her hair, rather low down at the back of her neck, where she could easily reach it with her right hand; but she did not screw on the ball.  It was not likely that the pin would fall out.  She was very deliberate in all she did; she even put up her hand two or three times, without looking at herself in the mirror, to be quite sure where to find the hilt of the pin if she should need it.  Marcello had told her to get the information he wanted “at any cost.”

Then she went back, with her candle, through the cheerful sitting-room, and out through a small vestibule that was now dark, and up the narrow staircase to find Settimia.