Peters shortly reappeared with the ice, and after setting a jug of water on the table departed.  Richard turned up the wick of the kerosene lamp, which was sending forth a disagreeable odor, and pinned an old newspaper around the chimney to screen the flame.  He had, by an odd chance, made his lampshade out of a copy of The Stillwater Gazette containing the announcement of his cousin’s death.  Richard gave a quick start as his eye caught the illuminated head-lines,—­Mysterious Murder of Lemuel Shackford!  Perhaps a slight exclamation escaped Richard’s lips at the same time, for Torrini turned and asked what was the matter.  “Nothing at all,” said Richard, removing the paper, and placing another in its stead.  Then he threw open the blinds of the window looking on the back yard, and set his hand-bag against the door to prevent it being blown to by the draught.  Torrini, without altering the rigid position of his head on the pillow, followed every movement with a look of curious insistence, like that of the eyes in a portrait.  His preparations completed for the night, Richard seated himself on a stool at the foot of the bed.

The obscurity and stillness of the room had their effect upon the sick man, who presently dropped into a light sleep.  Richard sat thinking of Margaret, and began to be troubled because he had neglected to send her word of his detention, which he might have done by Peters.  It was now too l ate.  The town clock struck ten in the midst of his self-reproaches.  At the first clang of the bell, Torrini awoke with a start, and asked for water.

“If anybody comes,” he said, glancing in a bewildered, anxious way at the shadows huddled about the door, “you are not to leave me alone with him.”

“Him?  Whom?  Are you expecting any one?”

“No; but who knows? one might come.  Then, you are not to go; you are not to leave me for a second.”

“I’ve no thought of it,” replied Richard; “you may rest easy....  He’s a trifle light in the head,” was Richard’s reflection.

After that Torrini dozed rather than slumbered, rousing at brief intervals; and whenever he awoke the feverish activity of his brain incited him to talk,—­nowe of Italy, and now of matters connected with his experiences in this country.

“Naples is a pleasant place!” he broke out in the hush of the midnight, just as Richard was dropping off.  “The band plays every afternoon on the Chiaia.  And then the festas,—­every third day a festa.  The devil was in my body when I left there and dragged little Brigida into all this misery.  We used to walk of an evening along the Marinella,—­that’s a strip of beach just beyond the Molo Piccolo.  You were never in Naples?”

“Not I,” said Richard.  “Here, wet your lips, and try to go to sleep again.”

“No, I can’t sleep for thinking.  When the Signorina came to see me, the other day, her heart was pierced with pity.  Like the blessed Madonna’s, her bosom bleeds for all!  You will let her come to-morrow?”