rvant and warder in that dreary establishment had come to offer him
their congratulations. The other convicts had sent messages. The man in
the next cell, slowly dying of gangrene, had crawled from his pallet to
beat a tattoo on the wall. The doctor was beside himself with joy.

"You must keep calm," he kept saying in wild excitement. "Your brother
will be here to-morrow morning. I implore you to be calm."

And he brought Michael his best pipe, and some of his most cherished
tobacco, and a weird suit of black clothes, and urged him to spend the
evening with him in his own sitting-room.

But Michael shook his head. He had no hatred of his striped blouse. He
was accustomed to it. He said he would prefer to await his brother's
arrival in his cell. He was accustomed to that, too. He felt as if he
could not bear to have everything torn from him at once, as if he should
be lost if all his landmarks were changed. He sat hour by hour, smoking,
and every now and then reading Wentworth's telegram.

He tried to realise it. He said to himself over and over again: "I am
free. I am going away. Wentworth is coming to take me home." But it was
no good. His mind would not take hold.

He looked for the twentieth time at Wentworth's telegram. Wentworth was
hurrying towards him at this moment, would be travelling all night,
would reach him in the morning. Dear, dear Wenty, he would be happy
again now.

Michael groaned.

"It's no kind of use. I _can't_ believe it."

He tried to think of Fay. He should see _her_ soon, touch her hand, hear
her voice. Poor little darling! She had not the courage of a mouse.
Perhaps she was a little glad at his release. Yes. No doubt she had been
pleased to hear it. He hoped she would not feel shy of him at seeing him
again. He hoped she would not thank him.

The door, no longer locked, was suddenly opened, and the head warder
deferentially ushered in a visitor.

A tall, dark man in a tri-coloured sash came in, and the warder
withdrew.

The man bowed and looked with fixity at Michael, who stared back at him,
dazed and confused. Where had he seen that face before?

Ah! _He remembered!_

"I perceive that you have not forgotten me," said the Delegato. "It was
I who arrested you. It was to me that you confessed to the murder of the
Marchese di Maltagliala."

"I remember."

"I never was able to reach any certainty that you were really guilty,"
continued the Delegato. "I was not even convinced that