would be the only thing wanting," he said impatiently and half
aloud. "That just to-day he should not go out."

But Lord Redin appeared at last, dressed as though he were going to make
a visit. He looked about the square, standing still on the threshold for
a moment, and a couple of small open cabs drove up. But he shook his
head, consulted his watch, and strode away in the direction of the
Propaganda.

Stefanone guessed that he was going to the Palazzetto Borgia, and
followed him as usual at a safe distance, threading the winding ways
towards the Piazza di Venezia. There used to be a small cafe then under
the corner of that part of the Palazzo Torlonia which has now been
pulled down. Lord Redin entered it, and Stefanone lingered on the other
side of the street. A man passed him who sold melon seeds and aquavitae,
and Stefanone drank a glass of the one and bought a measure of the
other. The Romans are fond of the taste of the tiny dry kernel which is
found inside the broad white shell of the seed. Presently Lord Redin
came out, wiping his mouth with his handkerchief, and went on. Stefanone
followed him again, walking fast when his enemy had turned a corner and
slackening his speed as soon as he caught sight of him again.

Francesca was out. He saw Lord Redin's look of annoyance as the latter
turned away after speaking with the porter, and he fell back into the
shadow of a doorway, expecting that the Scotchman would take the street
by which he had come. But Dalrymple turned down the narrow lane beside
the palace, in the direction of the Tiber. Stefanone's bloodshot eyes
opened suddenly as he sprang after him; with a quick movement he got his
knife out, opened it, and thrust his hand with it open into the wide
pocket of his jacket. Lord Redin had never gone down that lane before,
to Stefanone's knowledge, and it was a hundred to one that at that hour
no one would be about. Stefanone himself did not know the place.

Dalrymple must have heard the quick and heavy footsteps of the peasant
behind him, but it would not have been at all like him to turn his
head. With loose, swinging gait he strode along, and his heavy stick
made high little echoes as it struck the dry cobble-stones.

Stefanone was very near him. His eyes glared redly, and his hand with
the knife in it was half out of his pocket. In ten steps more he would
spring and strike upwards, as Romans do. He chose the spot on the dark
overcoat where his knife should