“And for your friend who is in trouble,” he said, in a confidential tone, then paused and looked at me as though waiting permission to proceed.

I nodded.

“Go on, amico.  What have you arranged?”

“Everything!” he announced, with an air of triumph.  “All is smooth sailing.  At six o’clock on Friday morning the ‘Rondinella,’ that is the brig I told you of, eccellenza, will weigh anchor for Civita Vecchia.  Her captain, old Antonio Bardi, will wait ten minutes or even a quarter of an hour if necessary for the—­the—­”

“Passenger,” I supplemented.  “Very amiable of him, but he will not need to delay his departure for a single instant beyond the appointed hour.  Is he satisfied with the passage money?”

“Satisfied!” and Andrea swore a good-natured oath and laughed aloud.  “By San Pietro! if he were not, he would deserve to drown like a dog on the voyage!  Though truly, it is always difficult to please him, he being old and cross and crusty.  Yes; he is one of those men who have seen so much of life that they are tired of it.  Believe it! even the stormiest sea is a tame fish-pond to old Bardi.  But he is satisfied this time, eccellenza, and his tongue and eyes are so tied up that I should not wonder if your friend found him to be both dumb and blind when he steps on board.”

“That is well,” I said, smiling.  “I owe you many thanks, Andrea.  And yet there is one more favor I would ask of you.”

He saluted me with a light yet graceful gesture.

“Eccellenza, anything I can do—­command me.”

“It is a mere trifle,” I returned.  “It is merely to take a small valise belonging to my friend, and to place it on board the ‘Rondmella’ under the care of the captain.  Will you do this?”

“Most willingly.  I will take it now if it so please you.”

“That is what I desire.  Wait here and I will bring it to you.”

And leaving him for a minute or two, I went into my bedroom and took from a cupboard I always kept locked a common rough leather bag, which I had secretly packed myself, unknown to Vincenzo, with such things as I judged to be useful and necessary.  Chief among them was a bulky roll of bank-notes.  These amounted to nearly the whole of the remainder of the money I had placed in the bank at Palermo.  I had withdrawn it by gradual degrees, leaving behind only a couple of thousand francs, for which I had no special need.  I locked and strapped the valise; there was no name on it and it was scarcely any weight to carry.  I took it to Andrea, who swung it easily in his right hand and said, smilingly: 

“Your friend is not wealthy, eccellenza, if this is all his luggage!”

“You are right,” I answered, with a slight sigh; “he is truly very poor—­beggared of everything that should be his through the treachery of those whom he has benefited.”  I paused; Andrea was listening sympathetically.  “That is why I have paid his passage-money, and have done my best to aid him.”