“For you, lllustrissimo,” said he, bowing, “when you pay me two thousand francs for them.” “I’ll knock your brains out first,” said I, with another clutch at the poker, but the muzzle of the pistol was now directly in front of me. “I am moderate in my demands, signor,” said he, quietly; “there are men in my position would ask you twenty thousand; but I am a galantuomo----” “And the friend of Gioberti,” added I, with a sneer. “Precisely so,” said he, bowing with much grace. I will not weary you, dear reader, with my struggles--conflicts that almost cost me a seizure on the brain--but hasten to the result. I beat down the noble Count’s demand to one-half and for a thousand francs I possessed myself of the fatal originals, written unquestionably and indisputably by my wife’s hand; and then, giving the Count a final piece of advice, never to let me see more of him, I hurried off to Mrs O’Dowd. She was out paying some bills, and only arrived a few minutes before dinner-hour. “I want you, madam, for a moment here,” said I, with something of Othello, in the last act, in my voice and demeanour. “I suppose I can take off my bonnet and shawl first, Mr O’Dowd,” said she, snappishly. “No, madam; you may probably find that you’ll need them both at the end of our interview.” “What do you mean, sir?” asked she, haughtily. “This is no time for grand airs or mock dignity, madam,” said I, with the tone of the avenging angel. “Do you know these? are these in your hand? Deny it if you can.” “Why should I deny it? Of course they’re mine.” “And you wrote this, and this, and this?” cried I, almost in a scream, as I shook forth one after another of the letters. “Don’t you know I did?” said she, as hotly; “and nothing beyond a venial mistake in one of them!” “A what, woman? a what?” “A mere slip of the pen, sir. You know very well how I used to sit up half the night at my exercises?” “Exercises!” “Well, themes, if you like better; the Count made me make clean copies of them, with all his corrections, and send them to him every day--here are the rough ones;” and she opened a drawer filled with a mass of papers all scrawled over and blotted. “And now, sir, once more, what do you mean?” I did not wait to answer her, but rushed down to the landlord. “Where does that Count Castrocaro live?” I asked. “Nowhere in particular, I believe, sir; and for the present he has left Turin--started for Genoa by the diligence five minutes ago. He’s a Gran’ Galantuomo, sir,” added he, as I stood stupefied. “I am aware of that,” said I, as I crept back to my room to finish my packing. “Did you settle with the Count?” asked my wife at the door. “Yes,” said I, with my head buried in my trunk. “And he was perfectly satisfied?” “Of course he was--he has every reason to be so.”