‘I have no wish to go elsewhere, if I may have some supper and a bed, for I am tired out.’ Fabricius called Natta and handed over the Suburan to his care, but not before the articles on the table were once more made up and locked away. Later on the steward appeared to make his report, and was instructed to be careful not to allow the visitor to slip away from the house. When, however, he was further ordered to have everything in readiness for a long and rapid journey southward, Natta, with the license of an old servant, began to expostulate. Not daring to give him any reasons, his master cut him short very peremptorily and dismissed him. The offended official had scarcely been gone a minute before he returned, and handed a letter to his master, with an air of injured dignity. Fabricius broke the sealed thread which bound it, and read inside the following:— ‘From L. Martialis.—I have just arrived. Come to me at once, if possible, for your sake and mine and another’s. The bearer will conduct you. Erase this at once.’ ‘My litter immediately—I go with the bearer of this,’ cried Fabricius with sudden energy. The steward prepared to open his mouth once more, but an angry stamp of his master’s foot, and a flash of his eye stopped him—he hurried away. Fabricius flung the tablets into the fire and sank trembling on to his knees. CHAPTER II. Fabricius got into his curtained litter, and the youth, who was the bearer of the summons, led the way across the Tiber to a tavern under Mount Aventine, in the heart of the wharves and warehouses, of the teeming haunts of sailors, and the thousands whose livelihood depended on the ships and commerce which crowded the quays of the busy river. Here, in an upper room, the old man was brought into the presence of one whom he did not recognise; but when the stranger removed a peruke, and reared himself upright, as Martialis, he hastened to embrace him with a glad cry. It will be needless to recount what passed between them during the two hours they remained together; or to portray the emotion of Fabricius, already much tried. He perceived that the narrative of the Centurion was substantially the same as that he had heard from Cestus, so far as regarded Neæra; and when he had exhausted his fond ingenuity of inquiry, he put his hand into his bosom and solemnly drew out an article, which he placed in the hand of his companion. It was an intaglio on cornelian, the likeness of a woman’s face, graved with an exquisite art unapproached in modern times. When Martialis saw it he started in surprise. ‘Is there a resemblance?—you start!’ cried Fabricius breathlessly. ‘So great, that I seem to trace Neæra herself in the face,’ replied the young man; ‘and yet it cannot be herself—who, then?’