dreams people have when they are in a fever!" he
exclaimed, as he put on his hat. Nevertheless, as he left the house, he
did not so much as glance at the Italian's door.

It was a pleasant morning, the mist had lifted and the sky was a freshly
washed blue. Suvaroff walked down Kearny Street, and past Portsmouth
Square. At this hour the little park was cleared of its human wreckage,
and dowdy sparrows hopped unafraid upon the deserted benches. A Chinese
woman and her child romped upon the green; a weather-beaten peddler
stooped to the fountain and drank; the three poplar-trees about the
Stevenson monument trembled to silver in the frank sunshine. Suvaroff
could not remember when the city had appeared so fresh and innocent. It
seemed to him as if the gray, cold drizzle of the night had washed away
even the sins of the wine-red town. But an indefinite disquiet rippled
the surface of his content. His peace was filled with a vague suggestion
of sinister things to follow, like the dead calm of this very morning,
which so skilfully bound up the night wind in its cool, placid air. He
would have liked to linger a moment in the park, but he passed quickly
by and went into a little chop-house for his morning meal.

As he dawdled over his cup of muddy coffee he had a curious sense that
his mind was intent on keeping at bay some half-formulated fear. He felt
pursued, as by an indistinct dream. Yet he was cunning enough to pretend
that this something was too illusive to capture outright, so he turned
his thoughts to all manner of remote things. But there are times when it
is almost as difficult to deceive oneself as to cheat others. In the
midst of his thoughts he suddenly realized that under the stimulating
influence of a second cup of coffee he was feeling quite himself again.

"That is because I got such a good night's sleep," he muttered. "For
over a week this Italian and his wretched accordion--" He halted his
thoughts abruptly. "What am I thinking about?" he demanded. Then he
rose, paid his bill, and departed.

He turned back to his lodgings. At Bollo's Wine Shop he hesitated. A
knot of people stood at the entrance of the Hotel des Alpes Maritimes,
and a curious wagon was drawn up to the curb.

He stopped a child. "What is the trouble?" he inquired.

The girl raised a pair of mournful eyes to him. "A man has been killed!"
she answered.

Suvaroff turned quickly and walked in another direction. He went to the
cafe where h