For me, I was afraid of them still, having observed some constraint in Marc’antonio as he told his story, and also that, though I tried him, his eyes refused to meet mine.  To be sure, there was a natural awkwardness in speaking of the Prince to his sister.  Nevertheless Marc’antonio’s manner made me uneasy.

It continued to worry me after I had escorted the Princess back to our lodgings.  Across the court, in the chamber over the archway, some one was playing very prettily upon a mandolin.  In spite of the cold I stepped to the outer door to listen, and stood there gazing out upon the thick-falling snow, busy with my thoughts.  Yes, decidedly Marc’antonio’s manner had been strange. . . .

While I stood there, a clock, down in the city, chimed out the half-hour.  Its deep note, striking across the tinkle of the mandolin, fetched me out of my brown study.  Half-past seven. . . .  I had an hour and a half to spare; ample time to step down to the Palazzo Verde and reconnoitre.  If only I could hit upon some scent of the priest Domenico!

I started at a brisk pace to warm my blood, which had taken a chill from the draught of the doorway.  The snow by this time lay ankle-deep, and even deeper in the pitfalls with which the ill-lit streets abounded; but in twenty minutes I had reached the Via Balbi.  The wind was rising; in spite of the snow driven against my face I had not noticed until I heard it humming in the alley which led under the shadow of the garden wall.  I had scarcely noticed it before my ears caught the jingle of bells approaching swiftly down the Via Balbi.

“Eh?” thought I, “is the Prince returning, then, to change his dress?  Or has he sent home his carriage, meaning to pursue the adventure on foot?”

There was no time to run back to the street corner and satisfy my curiosity.  The horses went clashing past the head of the alley at a gallop, and presently I heard the front gates of the palace grind open on their great hinges.  Half a minute later they were closed again with a jar, and almost immediately the clocks of the city began to toll out the hour.

Was it my fancy?  Or did the last note die away with a long-drawn choking sound, as of some one struggling for breath? . . .  And, last time, it had been the tap-tap of a hammer. . . .  Surely, strange noises haunted this alley. . . .

I listened.  I knew that I must be standing near the small door in the wall, though in the darkness I could not see it.  The sinister sound was not repeated.  I could be sworn, though, that my eyes had heard it; and still, for two minutes perhaps, I stood listening, my face lifted towards the wall’s coping.  Then indeed I heard something—­not at all that for which I strained my ears, but a soft muffled footfall on the snow behind me—­and faced about on it, clutching at the sailor’s knife I wore in my belt.

It was a woman.  She had almost blundered into me as I stood in the shadow of the wall, and now, within reach of my arm, drew back with a gasp of terror.  Terror indeed held her numb while I craned forward, peering into her face.