Thus provided with an important and comprehensive part, I duly installed myself at Bread Street, Leather Lane. Emily--who had been told just enough of the story, and no more, to make her eager, excited and satisfied--entered into the spirit of her _rôle_ as eagerly as I did myself. That first night was quite uneventful. The Piattis came home some time after eleven and went straight up to their room. Emily, looking as like a bedraggled charwoman as her trim figure would allow, was in the hall the next morning when the two men started off for breakfast. She told me afterwards that the younger one looked at her very keenly, and asked her why the other servant had gone. Emily replied with due and proper vagueness, whereupon the Sicilians said no more and went out together. That was a long and wearisome day which I spent cooped up in the tiny, stuffy parlour, ceaselessly watching the tiny patch of ground at the back, devoured with anxiety, following the travellers in my mind on their way across Europe. Towards midday one of the Piattis came home and presently strolled out into the garden. Evidently the change of servants had aroused his suspicions, for I could see him feeling about the earth with his spade and looking up now and again towards the window of the parlour, whereat I contrived to show him the form of a pseudo Mrs. Tadworth moving about the room. Mr. Shuttleworth and I were having supper in that same back parlour at about nine o’clock on that memorable evening, when we suddenly heard the front door being opened with a latchkey, and then very cautiously shut again. One of the two men had returned at an hour most unusual for their otherwise very regular habits. The way, too, in which the door had been opened and shut suggested a desire for secrecy and silence. Instinctively I turned off the gas in the parlour, and with a quick gesture pointed to the front room, the door of which stood open, and I whispered hurriedly to Mr. Shuttleworth. “Speak to him!” Fortunately, the great aim which he had in view had rendered his perceptions very keen. He went into the front room, in which the gas, fortunately, was alight at the time, and opening the door which gave thence on to the passage, he said pleasantly: “Oh, Mr. Piatti! is that you? Can I do anything for you?” “Ah, yes! zank you,” replied the Sicilian, whose voice I could hear was husky and unsteady, “if you would be so kind--I--I feel so fainting and queer to-night--ze warm weazer, I zink. Would you--would you be so kind to fetch me a little--er--ammoniac--er--sal volatile you call it, I zink--from ze apothecary? I would go lie on my bed--if you would be so kind----” “Why, of course I will, Mr. Piatti,” said Mr. Shuttleworth, who somehow got an intuition of what I wanted to do, and literally played into my hands. “I’ll go at once.” He went to get his hat from the rack in the hall whilst the Sicilian murmured profuse “Zank you’s,” and then I heard the front door bang to.