“You talk of forgery and penalties as if we were about to commit a felony,” said Linton, laughing. “Pray give me the cream. There is really no such peril in the case, and if there were, it would be all mine.” “I know nothing of your laws here--I desire to know nothing of them,” said the Italian, haughtily; “but if it should be my lot to be arraigned, let it be for something more worthy of manhood. I 'll sign the paper, but I shall leave the country at once.” No words could have been more grateful to Linton's ears than these; he was, even at that very moment, considering in his own mind in what way to disembarrass himself of his “friend” when this service should have been effected. “As you please, Giovanni,” said be, gravely. “I regret to part company so soon with one whose frankness so well accords with my own humor.” The Italian's lips parted slightly, and a smile of cold and dubious meaning flitted across his dark features. “We part here, then,” said he, rising from the table. “There is a vessel leaves this for Bristol at noon to-day; it is already past eleven o'clock.” “I'll not delay,” said Linton, rising and ringing the bell; “send Mr. Swindon here,” said he to the waiter, while he opened a parchment document upon the table, and after hastily glancing over it, folded it carefully again, leaving uppermost the margin, where certain pencil-marks indicated the places of signature. “This is yours, Giovanni,” said he, placing a weighty purse in the Italian's hand, who took it with all the easy indifference of one whose feelings of shame were not too acute. “Remember what I have--” There was no time to finish, for already a light tap was-heard at the door, and the landlord, followed by the head waiter, entered. “We were pressed for time, Swindon,” said Linton, as he examined the pens, which, like all hotel ones, seemed invented for ruling music paper, “and have sent for you to witness the signature to this document. Here, Cashel, you are to sign here,” said he, turning to Giovanni, who-had just lighted a cigar, and was smoking away with all imaginable coolness. The Italian took the pen, and with a bold and steady hand wrote the words “Roland Cashel.” “Mr. Swindon at this side; Mr. Nipkin's name comes underneath.” “You acknowledge this for your hand and seal, sir?” said Swindon, turning towards Giovanni. “I do,” said the Italian, in an accent which did not betray the slightest emotion, nor any trace of foreign pronunciation. “All right; thank you, Swindon--thanks, Mr. Nipkin,” said Linton, as, with an elation of countenance all his efforts could not suppress, he folded up the parchment; “and now, will you order my horses at once?” The landlord and the waiter left the room, and Linton found himself once more alone with Giovanni; the only consolation he felt being that it was for the last time. There was a pause, in which each gazed steadily at the other without a word. At last, with a long-drawn sigh, Giovanni exclaimed,--