and soul together.  Only the poorest class of people, emboldened by the mean aspect of his shop, came in to get a plaster, an ointment or a black draught, at the lowest possible prices.  And yet, in certain branches, Tiberio Colaisso was a learned man.  At all events he had proved himself able to do all that Meschini asked of him.  He was keen, too, in an indolent way, and a single glance had satisfied him that something very unusual had happened to the librarian.  He watched him patiently, hoping to find out the truth without questions.  At the same time, the hope of winning a few coppers made him keep an eye on the game.  To his surprise he won easily, and he was further astonished when he saw that the miserly Meschini was not inclined to complain of his losses nor to accuse him of cheating.

“You are not lucky to-day,” he remarked at last, when his winnings amounted to a couple of pauls—­a modern franc in all.

Meschini looked at him uneasily and wiped his brow, leaning back in the rickety chair.  His hands were trembling.

“No,” he answered.  “I am not quite myself to-day.  The fact is that a most dreadful tragedy occurred in our house last night, the mere thought of which gives me the fever.  I am even obliged to take a little stimulant from time to time.”

So saying, he drew the bottle from his pocket and applied it to his lips.  He had hoped that it would not be necessary, but he was unable to do without it very long, his nerves being broken down by the quantity he had taken on the previous night.  Colaisso looked on in silence, more puzzled than ever.  The librarian seemed to be revived by the dose, and spoke more cheerfully after it.

“A most terrible tragedy,” he said.  “The prince was murdered yesterday afternoon.  I could not speak of it to you at once.”

“Murdered?” exclaimed the apothecary in amazement.  “And by whom?”

“That is the mystery.  He was found dead in his study.  I will tell you all I know.”

Meschini communicated the story to his friend in a disjointed fashion, interspersing his narrative with many comments intended to give himself courage to proceed.  He told the tale with evident reluctance, but he could not avoid the necessity.  If Tiberio Colaisso read the account in the paper that evening, as he undoubtedly would, he would wonder why his companion had not been the first to relate the catastrophe; and this wonder might turn into a suspicion.  It would have been better not to come to the apothecary’s, but since he found himself there he could not escape from informing him of what had happened.

“It is very strange,” said the chemist, when he had heard all.  Meschini thought he detected a disagreeable look in his eyes.

“It is, indeed,” he answered.  “I am made ill by it.  See how my hand trembles.  I am cold and hot.”

“You have been drinking too much,” said Colaisso suddenly, and with a certain brutality that startled his friend.  “You are not sober.  You must have taken a great deal last night.  A libation to the dead, I suppose, in the manner of the ancients.”