“It seems to be in tolerably good order,” he said, glancing round, and setting down the candle.  “The key is in the inside.  Turn it, please, when I am gone.”

The room was scrupulously neat.  Malipieri shut the window carefully.  When he turned, he saw that she was sitting on the edge of the bed, nodding with sleep.

“Good-night,” he said, in a low voice that was nevertheless harsh.  “Lock your door.”

“Good-night,” she answered, with an effort.

He did not look at her again as he went out and shut the door, and he went quickly through the small room which divided the bedroom from the study, and in which he kept most of his clothes.  He was very wide awake now, in spite of being tired, and he sat down in his armchair and smoked for some time.  Suddenly he noticed the state of his hands, and he realized what his appearance must be.

Without making any noise, though he was sure that Sabina was in a deep sleep by this time, he went back through the first door and quietly got a supply of clothes, and took them with him to Masin’s room, and washed there, and dressed himself as carefully as if he were going out.  Then he went back to his study and sat down wearily in his armchair.  Worn out at last, he was asleep in a few minutes, asleep as men are after a battle, whether the fight has ended in victory or defeat.  Even the thought of Sabina did not keep him awake, and he would not have thought of her at all as he sat down, if he could have helped it.

After such a night as they had passed it was not likely that they should wake before ten o’clock on the following morning.

But the porter was up early, as usual, with his broom, to sweep the stairs and the paved entrance under the arch.  When he had come back from the errand on which Malipieri had sent him, it had been already dusk.  He had gone up and had rung the bell several times, but as no one opened he had returned to his lodge.  It was not unusual for Malipieri and Masin to be both out at the same time, and he thought it likely that they were in the vaults.  He cursed them both quietly for the trouble they had given him of mounting the stairs for nothing, and went to his supper, and in due time to bed.

He must go up again at eight o’clock, by which time Malipieri was always dressed, and as it was now only seven o’clock he had plenty of time to sweep.  So he lit his pipe deliberately and took his broom, and went out of his lodge.

The first thing that met his eye was a dark stain on the stones, close to the postern.  He passed his broom over it, and saw that it was dry; and it was red, but not like wine.  Wine makes a purple stain on stones.  He stooped and scratched it with his thick thumbnail.  It was undoubtedly blood, and nothing else.  Some one had been badly hurt there, or being wounded had stood some moments on the spot to open the door and get out.