And he extended his hand with that ready frankness and bonhomie which are always a part of the Italian temperament, and were especially so of his.  A cold shudder ran through my veins.  God! could I take his hand in mine?  I must—­if I would act my part thoroughly—­for should I refuse he would think it strange—­even rude—­I should lose the game by one false move.  With a forced smile I hesitatingly held out my hand also—­it was gloved, yet as he clasped it heartily in his own the warm pressure burned through the glove like fire.  I could have cried out in agony, so excruciating was the mental torture which I endured at that moment.  But it passed, the ordeal was over, and I knew that from henceforth I should be able to shake hands with him as often and as indifferently as with any other man.  It was only this first time that it galled me to the quick.  Ferrari noticed nothing of my emotion—­he was in excellent spirits, and turning to the waiter, who had lingered to watch us make each other’s acquaintance, he exclaimed: 

“More coffee, garcon, and a couple of glorias.”  Then looking toward me, “You do not object to a gloria, conte?  No?  That is well.  And here is my card,” taking one from his pocket and laying it on the table.  “Guido Ferrari, at your service, an artist and a very poor one.  We shall celebrate our meeting by drinking each other’s health!”

I bowed.  The waiter vanished to execute his orders and Ferrari drew his chair closer to mine.

“I see you smoke,” he said, gayly.  “Can I offer you one of my cigars?  They are unusually choice.  Permit me,” and he proffered roe a richly embossed and emblazoned silver cigar-case, with the Romani arms and coronet and my own initials engraved thereon.  It was mine, of course—­I took it with a sensation of grim amusement—­I had not seen it since the day I died!

“A fine antique,” I remarked, carelessly, turning it over and over in my hand, “curious and valuable.  A gift or an heirloom?”

“It belonged to my late friend, Count Fabio,” he answered, puffing a light cloud of smoke in the air as he drew his cigar from his lips to speak.  “It was found in his pocket by the priest who saw him die.  That and other trifles which he wore on his person were delivered to his wife, and—­”

“She naturally gave you the cigar-case as a memento of your friend,” I said, interrupting him.

“Just so.  You have guessed it exactly.  Thanks,” and he took the case from me as I returned it to him with a frank smile.

“Is the Countess Romani young?” I forced myself to inquire.

“Young and beautiful as a midsummer morning!” replied Ferrari, with enthusiasm.  “I doubt if sunlight ever fell on a more enchanting woman!  If you were a young man, conte, I should be silent regarding her charms—­but your white hairs inspire one with confidence.  I assure you solemnly, though Fabio was my friend, and an excellent fellow in his ways, he was never worthy of the woman he married!”