courage that forbade the
last act of fear, and there was a stern old Scottish belief that it was
wrong--plainly wrong.

He did not wish to see Paul Griggs any more than he had wished to see
his daughter after she had left her husband. But no thought of vengeance
crossed his mind. It seemed to him fruitless to think of avenging
himself upon fate; for, after all, it was fate that had done the dire
mischief. Possibly, he thought, as he walked slowly towards his hotel,
fate had brought him back to Rome now, to deal with him as she had dealt
with his. He should be glad of it, for he found little in life that was
not gloomy and lonely beyond any words. He did not know why he had come.
He had acted upon an impulse in going to see Francesca that day.

When he reached the Corso, instead of going to his hotel he walked down
the street in the direction of the Piazza del Popolo. He wished to see
the house in which Gloria had lived with Griggs, and he remembered the
street and the number from her having written to him when she wanted
money. He reached the corner of the Via della Frezza, and turned down,
looking up at the numbers as he went along. He glanced at the little
wine shop on the left, with its bush, its red glass lantern, and its
rush-bottomed stools set out by the door. In the shadow within he saw
the gleam of silver buttons on a dark blue jacket. There was nothing
uncommon in the sight.

He found the house, paused, looked up at the windows, and looked twice
at the number.

"Do you seek some one?" inquired the one-eyed cobbler, resting his black
hands on his knees.

"Did Mr. Paul Griggs ever live here?" asked Lord Redin.

"Many years," answered the cobbler, laconically.

"Where does he live now?"

"Always here, except when he is not here. Third floor, on the left. You
can ring the bell. Who knows? Perhaps he will open. I do not wish to
tell lies."

The old man grunted, bent down over the shoe, and ran his awl through
the sole. He was profoundly attached to Paul Griggs, who had always been
kind to him, and since Gloria's death he defended him from visitors with
more determination than ever.

Lord Redin stood still and said nothing. In ten seconds the cobbler
looked up with a surly frown.

"If you wish to go up, go up," he growled. "If not, favour me by getting
out of my light."

The Scotchman looked at him.

"You do not remember me," he observed. "I used to come here with the
Signore."

"Well? I have tol