my old
self as nearly as it was possible to be. I could not alter the snowy
whiteness of my hair, but a few deft quick strokes of the razor soon
divested me of the beard that had given me so elderly an aspect, and
nothing remained but the mustache curling slightly up at the corners of
the lip, as I had worn it in past days. I threw aside the dark glasses,
and my eyes, densely brilliant, and fringed with the long lashes that
had always been their distinguishing feature, shone with all the luster
of strong and vigorous youth. I straightened myself up to my full
height, I doubled my fist and felt it hard as iron; I laughed aloud in
the triumphant power of my strong manhood. I thought of the old
rag-dealing Jew--"You could kill anything easily." Ay, so I
could!--even without the aid of the straight swift steel of the
Milanese dagger which I now drew from its sheath and regarded
steadfastly, while I carefully felt the edge of the blade from hilt to
point. Should I take it with me? I hesitated. Yes! it might be needed.
I slipped it safely and secretly into my vest.

And now the proofs--the proofs! I had them all ready to my hand, and
gathered them quickly together; first the things that had been buried
with me--the gold chain on which hung the locket containing the
portraits of my wife and child, the purse and card-case which Nina
herself had given me, the crucifix the monk had laid on my breast in
the coffin. The thought of that coffin moved me to a stern smile--that
splintered, damp, and moldering wood must speak for itself by and by.
Lastly I look the letters sent me by the Marquis D'Avencourt--the
beautiful, passionate love epistles she had written to Guido Ferrari in
Rome.

Now, was that all? I thoroughly searched both my rooms, ransacking
every corner. I had destroyed everything that could give the smallest
clew to my actions; I left nothing save furniture and small valuables,
a respectable present enough in their way, to the landlord of the hotel.

I glanced again at myself in the mirror. Yes; I was once more Fabio
Romani, in spite of my white hair; no one that had ever known me
intimately could doubt my identity. I had changed my evening dress for
a rough, every-day suit, and now over this I threw my long Almaviva
cloak, which draped me from head to foot. I kept its folds well up
about my mouth and chin, and pulled on a soft slouched hat, with the
brim far down over my eyes. There was nothing unusual in such a
cos