E. W. Hornung_A J Raffles 02

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admitted to me, and more than I am going to repeat
about myself. No persuasion would have induced her to listen to
him again; so they tried force; and she drew Corbucci's revolver
on them, but they had taken her by surprise, and Stefano stabbed
her before she could fire."
    "But how do you know all that?" I asked Raffles, for his tale was
going to pieces in the telling, and the tragic end of poor
Faustina was no ending for me.
    "Oh," said he, "I had it from Corbucci at his own revolver's
point. He was waiting at his window, and I could have potted
him at my ease where he stood against the light listening hard
enough but not seeing a thing. So he asked whether it was
Stefano, and I whispered, 'Si, signore'; and then whether he had
finished Arturo, and I brought the same shot off again. He had
let me in before he knew who was finished and who was not."
    "And did you finish him?"
    "No; that was too good for Corbucci. But I bound and gagged him
about as tight as man was ever gagged or bound, and I left him
in his room with the shutters shut and the house locked up. The
shutters of that old place were six inches thick, and the walls
nearly six feet; that was on the Saturday night, and the Count
wasn't expected at the vineyard before the following Saturday.
Meanwhile he was supposed to be in Rome. But the dead would
doubtless be discovered next day, and I am afraid this would
lead to his own discovery with the life still in him. I believe
he figured on that himself, for he sat threatening me gamely
till the last. You never saw such a sight as he was, with his
head split in two by a ruler tied at the back of it, and his
great moustache pushed up into his bulging eyes. But I locked
him up in the dark without a qualm, and I wished and still wish
him every torment of the damned."
    "And then?"
    "The night was still young, and within ten miles there was the
best of ports in a storm, and hundreds of holds for the humble
stowaway to choose from. But I didn't want to go further than
Genoa, for by this time my Italian would wash, so I chose the
old Norddeutscher Lloyd, and had an excellent voyage in one of
the boats slung in-board over the bridge. That's better than any
hold, Bunny, and I did splendidly on oranges brought from the
vineyard."
    "And at Genoa?"
    "At Genoa I took to my wits once more, and have been living on
nothing else ever since. But there I had to begin all over
again, and at the very bottom of the ladder. I slept in the
streets. I begged. I did all manner of terrible things, rather
hoping for a bad end, but never coming to one. Then one day I
saw a white-headed old chap looking at me through a shop-window—
a window I had designs upon—and when I stared at him he stared
at me—and we wore the same rags. So I had come to that! But
one reflection makes many. I had not recognized myself; who on
earth would recognize me? London called me—and here I am.
Italy had broken my heart—and there it stays."
    Flippant as a schoolboy one moment, playful even in the
bitterness of the next, and now no longer giving way to the
feeling which had spoilt the climax of his tale, Raffles needed
knowing as I alone knew him for a right appreciation of those
last words. That they were no mere words I know full well.
That, but for the tragedy of his Italian life, that life would
have sufficed him for years, if not for ever, I did and do still
believe. But I alone see him as I saw him then, the lines upon
his face, and the pain behind the lines; how they came to
disappear, and what removed them, you will never guess. It was
the one thing you would have expected to have the opposite
effect, the thing indeed that had forced his confidence, the
organ and the voice once more beneath our very windows:
    "Margarita de Parete,
era a' sarta d' e' signore;
se pugneva sempe e ddete
pe penzare a Salvatore!
"Mar—ga—ri,
e perzo e Salvatore!
Mar—ga—ri,
Ma l'ommo e cacciatore!
Mar—ga—ri,
Nun ce aje corpa tu!
Chello ch' e fatto, e fatto, un ne

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