‘You have just cause for anger, and I admit it,’ said Cestus, in a lower and more respectful tone; ‘but you cannot now move without me, and I will do all I can to make amends. After all I am not so much to blame as your nephew. At that time I was an idle vagabond—you see I don’t attempt to hide myself—dwelling in the Subura, and your loving nephew, Titus Afer, tempted me with a handsome sum to do this thing. Only, mark you—I was to put the child clean out of the way—that is to say, I was to strangle her, drown her, kill her in the best and quietest way possible.’—Fabricius hid his face in his hands.—‘That was what I was paid to do, and, if I had done that, the job would have served his turn most effectually, as he intended, and you would never have been the wiser, perhaps. But bad as I was, there was left yet a soft spot in my heart, and to that is owing the life of the little maid. I couldn’t bring myself to hurt her; and, moreover, what did I know but what she might be useful to me in the future. It turns out now that I was wise. A dead child is of no use to any one, but a living one is—vastly so at the present time. You will, therefore, see that I had to deceive your worshipful nephew. He thinks she is dead, as I told him she was, and all his pretended help in searching for her was nothing but a blind. Your money went, most of it, into his own pocket—and a comfortable income it was.’ Fabricius was overwhelmed. He rose unsteadily to his feet, and his face was ashen pale. Such terrible deception was scarcely credible to his trustful nature, and yet the evidence seemed too weighty to be easily explained away. Its great perfectness of detail, the unhesitating business‐like manner of its delivery—above all, the clothes and amulet—were beyond doubt. Yet he eyed the man before him with unconcealed distrust, contempt, and indignation, to which, however, the Suburan was utterly indifferent. ‘Tell me what reasons have impelled you to come to me now and confess all this villainy,’ said Fabricius, in hollow tones. ‘Because I am sorry for what I did, and wish to make some amends,’ replied Cestus. ‘And for this penitence you require to be paid,’ rejoined the other, with withering scorn; ‘by your own showing you have made terms for committing a desperate sin, and have probably extorted every sesterce possible in that direction; now you betray your accomplice, and come to extort more from me, under a mask of righteousness.’ ‘I have told you nothing but the truth, and you may twist it as you like,’ replied Cestus, unmoved; ‘bear in mind, but for me, there would have been no child at all to welcome back.’ ‘I have only your word for that, so far.’