He attempted to say that there was nothing there and that the door might as well remain open as be shut.  But even while making the effort to reason with himself, he was creeping cautiously along the wall, in the direction of the entrance.  By keeping his eyes close to the wooden panelling he could advance without seeing into the corridor.  He was within a foot of the opening.  Convulsed with fear, he put out his hand quickly and tried to pull the heavy oak on its hinges by the projecting bevel, but it was too heavy—­he must look out in order to grasp the handle.  The cold drops trickled down from his brow and he breathed hard, but he could not go back and leave the door unclosed.  With a suppressed sob of agony he thrust out his head and arm.  In a moment it was over, but the moral effort had been terrible, and his strength failed him, so that he staggered against the wainscot and would have fallen but for its support.

Some moments elapsed before he could get to a chair, and when he at last sat down in a ray of sunshine to rest, his eyes remained fixed upon the sculptured brass handle of the latch.  He almost expected that it would turn mysteriously of itself and that the dead prince would enter the room.  He realised that in his present condition he could not possibly face the person who before long would certainly bring him the news.  He must have something to stimulate him and deaden his nerves.  He had no idea how long a time had elapsed since he had done the deed, but it seemed that three or four hours must certainly have passed.  In reality it was scarcely five and twenty minutes since he had left the study.  He remembered suddenly that he had some spirits in his room at the top of the palace.  Slowly and painfully he rose to his feet and went towards the other exit from the library, which, as in many ancient houses, opened upon the grand staircase, so as to give free access to visitors from without.  He had to cross the broad marble landing, whence a masked door led to the narrow winding steps by which he ascended to the upper story.  He listened to hear whether any one was passing, and then went out.  Once on his way he moved more quickly than seemed possible for a man so bent and mis-shapen.

The bright afternoon sun streamed in through the window of his little chamber, a relief from the sombre gloominess of the lofty library, where the straggling rays seemed to make the great hall more shadowy by contrast.  But Meschini did not stop to look about him.  In a closet in the wall he kept his stores, his chemicals, his carefully-composed inks, his bits of prepared parchment, and, together with many other articles belonging to his illicit business, he had a bottle of old brandy, which the butler had once given him out of the prince’s cellar, in return for a bit of legal advice which had saved the servant a lawyer’s fee.  Arnoldo Meschini had always been a sober man, like most Italians, and the bottle had stood for years unopened in the