Then the passers-by:  these are not like the dusky ghosts that wander through the pale-blue mists of Bloomsbury.  Here comes a buxom water-carrier, in her orange petticoat and sage-green shawl, who has the two copper cans at the end of the long piece of wood poised on her shoulders, pretty nearly filled to the brim.  Then a couple of the gayer gondoliers in white and blue, with fancy waist-belts, and rings in their ears.  A procession of black-garbed monks wends slowly along; they have come from the silence of the Armenian convent over there at the horizon.  Some wandering minstrels shoot their gondola into the mouth of the canal, and strike up a gay waltz, while they watch the shaded balconies above.  Here is a Lascar ashore from the big steamer that is to start for Alexandria on the morrow.  A company of soldiers, with blue coats, canvas trousers, and white gaiters, half march and half trot along to the quick, crackling music of the buglers.  A swarthy-visaged maiden, with the calm brow of a Madonna, appears in the twilight of a balcony, with a packet of maize in her hand, and in a minute or two she is surrounded with a cloud of pigeons.  Then this beggar—­a child of eight or ten—­red-haired and blue-eyed:  surely she has stepped out of one of Titian’s pictures?  She whines and whimpers her prayers to him; but there is something in her look that he has seen elsewhere.  It belongs to another century.

From these reveries Mr. Gathorne Edwards was aroused by some one tapping him on the shoulder.  It was Calabressa.

“My dear Monsieur Edouarts,” said he, in a low voice—­for the red-haired little beggar was still standing there expectant—­“he has gone over to the shipping-place.  We must follow later on.  Meanwhile, regard this letter that has just been forwarded to me.  Ah, you English do not forget your promises!”

Edwards threw a piece of money to the child, who passed on.  Then he took the letter and read it.  It was in French.

* * * * *

“Dear Calabressa,—­I want you to tell me what you have done with Yakov Kirski.  They seem unwilling to say here, and I do not choose to inquire further.  But I undertook to look after him, and I understood he was getting on very well, and now you have carried him off.  I hope it is with no intention of allowing him to go back to Russia, where he will simply make an attempt at murder, and fall into the hands of the police.  Do not let the poor devil go and make a fool of himself.  If you want money to send him back to England, show this letter, or forward it to Messrs. ——­, who will give you what you want.

  “Your friend, George Brand.

“P.S.—­I have seen your beautiful caged little bird.  I can say no more at present, but that she shall not suffer through any neglect of mine.”

* * * * *

“What is that about the caged bird?” said Edwards.