cupboard.  He had never thought of it, but, having been once placed there, it had been safe.  The moment had come when the stimulant was precious.  His fingers shook as he put the bottle to his lips; when he set it down they were steady.  The liquor acted like an enchantment, and the sallow-faced man smiled as he sat alone by his little table and looked at the thing that had restored him.  The bottle had been full when he began to drink; the level of the liquid was now a good hand’s breadth below the neck.  The quantity he had swallowed would have made a temperate man, in his normal state, almost half drunk.

He sat still for a long time, waiting to see whether the draught would produce any other effect.  He felt a pleasant warmth in his face and hands, the perspiration had disappeared from his brow, and he was conscious that he could now look out of the open door of the library without fear, even if his coat were hanging on the peg.  It was incredible to him that he should have been so really terrified by a mere shadow.  He had killed Prince Montevarchi, and the body was lying in the study.  Yes, he could think of it without shuddering, almost without an unpleasant sensation.  In the dead man’s own words, it had been an act of divine justice and retribution, and since nobody could possibly discover the murderer, there was matter for satisfaction in the idea that the wicked old man no longer cumbered the earth with his presence.  Strange, that he should have suffered such an agony of fear half an hour earlier.  Was it half an hour?  How pleasantly the sun shone in to the little room where he had laboured during so many years, and so profitably!  Now that the prince was dead it would be amusing to look at those original documents for which he had made such skilfully-constructed substitutes.  He would like to assure himself, however, that the deed had been well done.  There was magic in that old liquor.  Another little draught and he would go down to the study as though nothing had happened.  If he should meet anybody his easy manner would disarm suspicion.  Besides, he could take the bottle with him in the pocket of his long coat—­the bottle of courage, he said to himself with a smile, as he set it to his lips.  This time he drank but little, and very slowly.  He was too cautious a man to throw away his ammunition uselessly.

With a light heart he descended the winding stair and crossed the landing.  One of Ascanio Bellegra’s servants passed at that moment.  Meschini looked at the fellow quietly, and even gave him a friendly smile, to test his own coolness, a civility which was acknowledged by a familiar nod.  The librarian’s spirits rose.  He did not resent the familiarity of the footman, for, with all his learning, he was little more than a servant himself, and the accident had come conveniently as a trial of his strength.  The man evidently saw nothing unusual in his appearance.  Moreover, as he walked, the brandy bottle in his coat tail pocket beat reassuringly against the calves of his legs.  He opened the door of the library and found himself in the scene of his terror.