Whether there were thoughts in the Marchese’s mind, which he had no wish or intention to disclose to his visitor, might be a matter of speculation to the latter.  But he certainly made no attempt to hide the misery which was consuming him.  The outward appearance of the man was eloquent enough of the disorder within.  He had always been wont to be especially neat and precise in his dress; clean shaven, and with that look of bright freshness on his clear-complexioned and well-rounded cheeks, which is specially suggestive of health, happiness, and well-to-do prosperity.  Now his cheeks were hollow and yellow, and grisly stubble of uncared-for beard, covered his deeply-lined jaws.  He was dressed, if dressed it could be called, in a large loose chamber wrapper, the open neck of which, and of the shirt beneath it, allowed the visitor’s eye to mark that the emaciation which a few days of misery and anxiety had availed to cause, was not confined to his face only.

But yet more remarkable was the terrible state of nervous restlessness from which he was evidently suffering.  He was unable to remain quiet in his easy chair even while his visitor remained with him.  He would every now and then rise from it without reason, and pace the room for two or three turns with the uneasy objectless manner of a wild animal confined to a cage.  Again and again he would go to the window, and gaze from it, as though looking for some expected thing or person.  He spoke and behaved as if he had been most anxious for the coming of the lawyer, and yet, now he was there, he seemed scarcely able to command his attention sufficiently to take interest in the tidings Signor Fortini brought him.

“Thank God, Signor Marchese, the news I bring is good.  Thank God, I am able to express to you my conscientious opinion that the Marchese Ludovico had no more to do with the murder of this unfortunate woman than I had.  And such is now the general opinion throughout the city.”

“Is there anything new?  Has any—­any—­discovery been made?” said the Marchese, and his teeth chattered in his head as he spoke.

“Nothing that I can quite call a discovery,” returned the lawyer; “but small circumstances in such a case as this, when carefully put together, form a clue, which rarely fails, when one has enough of them, to lead up to the desired truth.”

“Ah!—­small circumstances, as you say—­yes—­but circumstances—­eh?—­ do they not often—­must we not be very careful—­eh?” and the Marchese shook as he spoke, till the lawyer really began to think that he must be labouring under an attack of the same illness that had seized on father Fabiano.

“Fortunately, Signor Marchese, the circumstances all point, in the present instance, in the direction we would wish.  That is,” added the lawyer, hastily, “God forbid that I should wish such a crime to be brought home to any human being, but in the interests of truth and justice; and of course our first object is that the Marchese Ludovico should be cleared.”