astened. He paid no attention to it, till it rang again,
an instant later. Then he looked up and waited, listening. Again, again,
and again he heard it, at equal intervals, five times in all. That was
the old cobbler's signal, and the only one to which Griggs ever
responded. He laid down his pen and went to the door. The one-eyed man,
his shoemaker's apron twisted round his waist, stood on the landing, and
gave him a small, thick package, tied with a black string, under which
was thrust a note. Griggs took it without a word, and the bandy-legged
old cobbler swung away from the door with a satisfied grunt.

Griggs took the parcel back to his work-room, and stood by the window
looking at the address on the note. He recognized Francesca
Campodonico's handwriting, though he had rarely seen it, and he broke
the seal with considerable curiosity, for he could not imagine why Donna
Francesca should write to him. He even wondered at her knowing that he
was in Rome. He had never spoken with her since that day long ago, when
she had sent for him and begged him to take Gloria back to her father.
He read the note slowly. It was in Italian, and the language was rather
formal.

"SIGNORE:--My old and dear friend, Signor Angelo
Reanda, died the day before yesterday after a long
illness. During the last hours of his life he
asked me to do him a service, and I gave him the
solemn promise which I fulfil in sending you the
accompanying package. You will see that it was
sealed by him and addressed to you by himself,
probably before he was taken ill, and he saw it
before he died and said that it was the one he
meant me to send. That was all he told me
regarding it, and I am wholly ignorant of the
contents. I have ascertained that you are in Rome,
and are living, as formerly, in the Via della
Frezza, and to that address I send the parcel.
Pray inform me that you have received it.

"Believe me, Signore, with perfect esteem,
"FRANCESCA CAMPODONICO."

Griggs read the note twice through to the end, and laid it upon the
table. Then he thrust his hands into his pockets, and turned
thoughtfully to the window without touching the parcel, of which he had
not even untied the black string.

So Reanda was dead at last. It was nothing to him, now, though it