I had with me in safe hands.  I sought out the leading banker in Palermo, and introducing myself under my adopted name, I stated that I had newly returned to Sicily after some years’ absence.  He received me well, and though he appeared astonished at the large amount of wealth I had brought, he was eager and willing enough to make satisfactory arrangements with me for its safe keeping, including the bag of jewels, some of which, from their unusual size and luster, excited his genuine admiration.  Seeing this, I pressed on his acceptance a fine emerald and two large brilliants, all unset, and requested him to have a ring made of them for his own wear.  Surprised at my generosity, he at first refused—­but his natural wish to possess such rare gems finally prevailed, and he took them, overpowering me with thanks—­while I was perfectly satisfied to see that I had secured his services so thoroughly by my jeweled bribe, that he either forgot, or else saw no necessity to ask me for personal references, which in my position would have been exceeding difficult, if not impossible, to obtain.  When this business transaction was entirely completed, I devoted myself to my next consideration—­which was to disguise myself so utterly that no one should possibly be able to recognize the smallest resemblance in me to the late Fabio Romani, either by look, voice, or trick of manner.  I had always worn a mustache—­it had turned white in company with my hair.  I now allowed my beard to grow—­it came out white also.  But in contrast with these contemporary signs of age, my face began to fill up and look young again; my eyes, always large and dark, resumed their old flashing, half-defiant look—­a look, which it seemed to me, would make some familiar suggestion to those who had once known me as I was before I died.  Yes—­they spoke of things that must be forgotten and unuttered; what should I do with these tell-tale eyes of mine?

I thought, and soon decided.  Nothing was easier than to feign weak sight-sight that was dazzled by the heat and brilliancy of the southern sunshine, I would wear smoke-colored glasses.  I bought them as soon as the idea occurred to me, and alone in my room before the mirror I tried their effect.  I was satisfied; they perfectly completed the disguise of my face.  With them and my white hair and beard, I looked like a well-preserved man of fifty-five or so, whose only physical ailment was a slight affection of the eyes.

The next thing to alter was my voice.  I had, naturally, a peculiarly soft voice and a rapid, yet clear, enunciation, and it was my habit, as it is the habit of almost every Italian, to accompany my words with the expressive pantomime of gesture.  I took myself in training as an actor studies for a particular part.  I cultivated a harsh accent, and spoke with deliberation and coldness—­occasionally with a sort of sarcastic brusquerie, carefully avoiding the least movement of hands or head during converse.