‘You say you have dwelt in Surrentum twenty years, being about five years before the child was brought to you. Can you produce any people of the town who can testify that you have been childless, and that she came as you relate?’ Tibia did not answer, but looked at Fabricius. ‘I have seen several such townspeople very privately, Caesar,’ said Fabricius, ‘and, from the evidence I gathered, I am perfectly satisfied that this worthy woman speaks absolute truth.’ ‘Enough, then, for that,’ said Tiberius; and he turned to exchange some whispered words with Thrasullus. ‘We will now hear your brother’s story,’ he resumed. ‘Zeno, bring him in before us.’ Fabricius slowly removed his eyes from the fair face of Neæra and turned them on his nephew, who stood with an impatient, scornful expression of face, gazing fixedly on the dame. The ring of bystanders parted, and Cestus walked into their midst with a bold, not to say triumphant air. His face had recovered its normal habit. When matters arrived at a crisis with the sudden departure of Neæra, there was left no occasion for secrecy. But rather the reverse since his interview with Fabricius, so that the dye had been suffered to fade from his skin, and the razor had removed his bristly beard and moustache. He made an awkward obeisance to Caesar, and then turned to his former patron. The moment for revenge, so long waited and thirsted for, had at last arrived, and his broad, coarse face gleamed with diabolical exultation and malignance. His significant gaze directed the eyes of the rest toward the unhappy knight, whose demeanour had suffered a change which was as extraordinary as it was sudden. He seemed as if an icy, deathlike hand had seized upon his heart and turned him to stone. His fixed eyes were glassy, and his face drawn and ghastly white. ‘Good morrow, patron,’ said Cestus, with a fiendish grin; ‘you thought you had paid me off in full the last time we were together, but here I am again, and, like a good client, still devoted to your affairs.’ His voice seemed to break a horrible fascination. Afer recovered himself, and drew a long silent breath as he glanced around. Fabricius had seen enough in his heart‐stricken nephew’s face, and was now again sternly avoiding his gaze. A dull, sickly dread numbed the heart of the knight and whispered fatefully in his ear. But extremity of peril nerved him with the courage and coolness of despair, and, collecting his faculties, he stood at bay, in readiness for the ominous storm which threatened him. Withdrawing his attention from Afer, the Emperor devoted a few moments’ scrutiny to the Suburan. ‘Is this the brother you speak of, woman?’ he asked of Tibia. ‘Yes.’ ‘Do you claim the kinship, fellow? Are you her brother?’ ‘Yes, so please you, I am her brother.’ ‘Your name?’ ‘Cestus.’ ‘And dwelling?’ ‘In Rome—in the Subura.’ ‘From the Subura—you have that appearance. From one of the darkest holes therein.’