The Italian was surprised at my blocking the way and remarked pleasantly, “It’s cold outside, Signor.” I said, “Yes,” and added in a hurried whisper: “There is a dead man in the hall.” He didn’t say a single word but put me aside a little, projected his body in for one searching glance. “Your daughters,” I murmured. He said kindly, “_Va bene_, _va bene_.” And then to them, “Come in, girls.” There is nothing like dealing with a man who has had a long past of out-of-the-way experiences. The skill with which he rounded up and drove the girls across the hall, paternal and irresistible, venerable and reassuring, was a sight to see. They had no time for more than one scared look over the shoulder. He hustled them in and locked them up safely in their part of the house, then crossed the hall with a quick, practical stride. When near Señor Ortega he trod short just in time and said: “In truth, blood”; then selecting the place, knelt down by the body in his tall hat and respectable overcoat, his white beard giving him immense authority somehow. “But—this man is not dead,” he exclaimed, looking up at me. With profound sagacity, inherent as it were in his great beard, he never took the trouble to put any questions to me and seemed certain that I had nothing to do with the ghastly sight. “He managed to give himself an enormous gash in his side,” was his calm remark. “And what a weapon!” he exclaimed, getting it out from under the body. It was an Abyssinian or Nubian production of a bizarre shape; the clumsiest thing imaginable, partaking of a sickle and a chopper with a sharp edge and a pointed end. A mere cruel-looking curio of inconceivable clumsiness to European eyes. The old man let it drop with amused disdain. “You had better take hold of his legs,” he decided without appeal. I certainly had no inclination to argue. When we lifted him up the head of Señor Ortega fell back desolately, making an awful, defenceless display of his large, white throat. We found the lamp burning in the studio and the bed made up on the couch on which we deposited our burden. My venerable friend jerked the upper sheet away at once and started tearing it into strips. “You may leave him to me,” said that efficient sage, “but the doctor is your affair. If you don’t want this business to make a noise you will have to find a discreet man.”