“You are absolutely determined to kill him, then?” Spicca’s voice, which had grown animated during his exposition of his method, now sank again to its habitually melancholy tone.

Giovanni only shrugged his shoulders at the question, as though any answer were needless.  He hung the foil he had used in its place on the wall, and began to smoke.

“You will not have another bout?” inquired the Count, putting away his weapon also, and taking his hat to go.

“Thanks—­not to-day.  We shall meet soon, I hope.  I am very grateful for your good offices, Spicca.  I would ask you to stay to breakfast, but I do not want my father to know of this affair.  He would suspect something if he saw you here.”

“Yes,” returned the other quietly, “people generally do.  I am rather like a public executioner in that respect.  My visits often precede a catastrophe.  What would you have?  I am a lonely man.”

“You, who have so many friends!” exclaimed Giovanni.

“Bah!  It is time to be off,” said Spicca, and shaking his friend’s hand hastily he left the room.

Giovanni stood for several minutes after he had gone, wondering with a vague curiosity what this man’s history had been, as many had wondered before.  There was a fatal savour of death about Spicca which everybody felt who came near him.  He was dreaded, as one of the worst-tempered men and one of the most remarkable swordsmen in Europe.  He was always consulted in affairs of honour, and his intimate acquaintance with the code, his austere integrity, and his vast experience, made him invaluable in such matters.  But he was not known to have any intimate friends among men or women.  He neither gambled nor made love to other men’s wives, nor did any of those things which too easily lead to encounters of arms; and yet, in his cold and melancholy way he was constantly quarrelling and fighting and killing his man, till it was a wonder that the police would tolerate him in any European capital.  It was rumoured that he had a strange history, and that his life had been embittered in his early youth by some tragic circumstance, but no one could say what that occurrence had been nor where it had taken place.  He felt an odd sympathy for Giovanni, and his reference to his loneliness in his parting speech was unique, and set his friend to wondering about him.

Giovanni’s mind was now as much at rest as was possible, under conditions which obliged him to postpone his vengeance for an indefinite period.  He had passed a sleepless night after his efforts to find Gouache and had risen early in the morning to be sure of catching him.  He had not seen his father since their interview of the previous evening, and had hoped not to see him again till the moment of leaving for Saracinesca.  The old man had understood him, and that was all that was necessary for the present.  He suspected that his father would not seek an interview any more than he did himself.  But an obstacle