“Do you mean to tell me that you did not write this note?” asked Giovanni, savagely.

“Of course I wrote it,” replied the other coolly.

Giovanni’s teeth chattered with rage.  He dropped the portfolio and the letter and seized his cousin by the throat, burying his fingers in the tough flesh with the ferocity of a wild animal.  He was very strong and active and had fallen upon his adversary unawares, so that he had an additional advantage.  But for all that he was no match for his cousin’s giant strength.  San Giacinto sprang to his feet and his great hands took hold of Giovanni’s arms above the elbow, lifting him from the ground and shaking him in the air as easily as a cat worries a mouse.  Then he thrust him into his chair again and stood holding him so that he could not move.

“I do not want to hurt you,” he said, “but I do not like to be attacked in this way.  If you try it again I will break some of your bones.”

Giovanni was so much astonished at finding himself so easily overmatched that he was silent for a moment.  The ex-innkeeper relinquished his hold and picked up his cigar, which had fallen in the struggle.

“I do not propose to wrestle with you for a match,” said Giovanni at last.  “You are stronger than I, but there are other weapons than those of brute strength.  I repeat that you are an infernal scoundrel.”

“You may repeat it as often as you please,” replied San Giacinto, who had recovered his composure with, marvellous rapidity.  “It does not hurt me at all.”

“Then you are a contemptible coward,” cried Giovanni, hotly.

“That is not true,” said the other.  “I never ran away in my life.  Perhaps I have not much reason to avoid a fight,” he added, looking down at his huge limbs with a smile.

Giovanni did not know what to do.  He had never had a quarrel with a man who was able to break his neck, but who would not fight like a gentleman.  He grew calmer, and could have laughed at the situation had it been brought about by any other cause.

“Look here, cousin,” said San Giacinto, suddenly and in a familiar tone, “I am as good a gentleman as you, though I have kept an inn.  If it is the custom here to play with swords and such toys I will take a few lessons and we will have it out.  But I confess that I would like to know why you are so outrageously angry.  How did you come by that letter?  It was never meant for you, nor for any of yours.  I pinned it upon Gouache’s dressing-table with a pin I found there.  I took the paper from your wife’s table a week ago yesterday.  If you want to know all about it I will tell you.”

“And whom did you intend for the author of the letter?  Whom but my wife?”

“Your wife!” cried San Giacinto in genuine astonishment.  “You are out of your mind.  Gouache was to meet Faustina Montevarchi on Sunday morning at a church, and I invented the note to prevent the meeting, and put it on his table during the previous afternoon.  I am going to marry Donna Flavia, and I do not mean to allow a beggarly Zouave to make love to my future sister-in-law.  Since you took the note they must have met after all.  I wish you had left it alone.”