His voice trembled as he spoke. Already he stood before the monument in tears. Julius wiped the perspiration from his pale face. “Yes, very pretty,” he said, and now his hoarseness was chronic. “As I was saying, my good lady will be pleased. She always had a good opinion of me, though she’s never mentioned it. But at the same time, though I’m very much obliged to you, and nobody could be kinder about it----” “Can’t you see her standing reading the inscription?” asked Dempsi in a hushed voice. “Can’t you imagine her looking up to the slab--fixed in a respectable church, perhaps under a stained-glass window--with proud, shining eyes, her children by her side----” “I haven’t got any children,” said Julius loudly. Dempsi spread out his expressive hands. “She may marry again,” he said considerately. “She is probably in the prime of life. There may still be happiness for her.” Mr. Superbus sat down limply. “You ain’t half putting the wind up me!” he said fretfully. Dempsi bent over him, speaking softly. “To-night I sleep in sound of your voice. Have no hesitation in calling me. Perhaps I may arrive in time to save you. I pray that this may be. I like you. We are--who knows?--kinsmen. He who strikes you, strikes me--Guiseppi Dempsi.” Mr. Superbus got up; his knees were without strength, his tongue was parched. “Well, if you’re sleeping here, and Mr. Bobbie is sleeping here, there doesn’t seem any call for me to stay, does there? Not that it worries me. Far from it. Danger is always welcome to a Superbus. It’s my good lady I’m thinking of. I was going to sleep in this room. Seems silly.” “I shall be on hand,” said Mr. Dempsi, and examined the short-barrelled revolver he had taken from his hip pocket. Julius almost swooned. “I’m a match for any man of my own weight,” he said, his voice trembling as he thought of the terrible risk which any burglar of his own weight would run, “if he’ll only give me a chance. But they don’t give you a chance. They’re on you before you know where you are--is that fair?” Dempsi did not answer. Aunt Lizzie had chosen that moment to wander into the room. Julius seized the opportunity to steal from the unnecessary gaiety that shone through Mr. Dempsi’s sympathy--his eagerness to frame epitaphs which Julius would never see, his cold-blooded plottings for the future of his good lady. CHAPTER XXII The atmosphere of a kitchen, however clean and well-ordered it may be, is calculated to pall on any man of intellect and genius. It needs the gross mind of a materialist, a man like the husband of Heloise (Gordon’s expression was one of distaste as he thought of that man) to appreciate the lingering fragrance of long-baked and long-consumed pies, the everlasting aroma which the spluttering hot oven has sent forth from time to time through the years, to permeate the homely furniture, and through that medium to retain its delicate nidus for the joy of those lovers of good food to whom such smells were appetising.