‘A craftsman, I should say. He has something important to tell—so he says,’ replied the old porter, with apparent sarcasm. ‘Ay, ay, I know!’ sighed Fabricius. ‘No matter, bring him in.’ The slave retired, and reappeared with Cestus, washed, clean‐shaved, and wearing coarse but clean garments, such as an artisan would reserve as his holiday attire. It was full two hours since Afer had tapped him on the shoulder at the bridge below. He entered with a deep obeisance and a well‐ feigned nervousness and awkwardness. Natta, the slave, thought proper to remain within the door, and keep a keen eye on the visitor. The ex‐senator’s scrutiny did not, perhaps, beget the utmost confidence, to judge by the slight and almost imperceptible contraction of his eyebrows. There was that, evidently, in the broad Teutonic cast of face and small eyes of the burly Cestus which soap and water and a razor could not remove. The habitual current of a man’s mind cannot, it is true, alter his features, but it charges them with an essence as readable as a printed page. It was, therefore, the misfortune of the physiognomy of Cestus to leave no favourable impression, for he had not as yet opened his lips. ‘You wish to see me,’ said Fabricius. ‘The noble Fabricius!’ answered Cestus, with deep humility—perhaps too deep. ‘I am he; your business?’ ‘So please you, noble sir, I am nothing but a poor labourer down at the river below there, and I would never have the boldness to trouble your worship, or to set my foot across the threshold of your palace, but that I come not of my own accord, but to befriend a mate of mine who is dying.’ Cestus paused, and nervously fingered his belt. ‘Well!’ said Fabricius, ‘go on! You have not come on your own account, but on that of a sick friend—what next?’ ‘It concerns you also, and I was told to tell it to you alone,’ replied Cestus, with a glance at Natta. The shadow of a smile rested on the face of Fabricius as he signed to the slave to retire. Natta, however, feigned not to observe the motion, and did not move. ‘You may go, Natta,’ said his master, and the old porter had no alternative but to obey, which he did, with reluctant steps and sour suspicious looks at the visitor. ‘Now speak,’ said Fabricius; ‘I think I could guess at the nature of your message. Has it aught to do with a domestic matter of mine?’