"Heavens!" cried the Captain, glancing at the ring the assassin had assumed. "Now that I remember, Vittorina wore a ring exactly similar to that! Upon her hand after death was a strange discoloration which puzzled the doctors. Then she was murdered by a simple pressure of the hand, which inflicted a puncture beneath the ring, and the latter, being irremovable on account of the post-mortem swelling, the cause of death remained concealed. Truly the means by which she was killed were as cunning and swift as the manner in which the crime was accomplished." The haggard, white-faced culprit stood swaying forward, holding the chair, his black eyes starting from his head, his parched tongue protruding, his lips drawn, his whole appearance horrible. In those moments of intense agony a jumble of half-incoherent words, like the gibbering of an idiot, escaped him; yet from them it seemed as though he were living his whole evil life again, and that scenes long since past flashed before him, only to be succeeded by this final one--more tragic, more terrible, more agonising than them all. "I told you that the police should never take me!" he gasped with extreme difficulty. "Montelupo's bloodhounds have already scented me to-day, but I've tricked them as I've tricked you. I'm not afraid of death. I'm no coward. See!" And again he grasped the ring, and, grinding his teeth, pressed the tiny steel point therein concealed deep into the flesh. Then he gave vent to a loud, harsh laugh, meant to be derisive, but sounding horrible in combination with the death-rattle in his throat. His life was fast ebbing. Great beads of perspiration rolled off his white brow. Again he tried to speak, but the single word "Vittorina," hoarse and low, was the only one that passed his twitching lips. His bright, glassy eyes, still flashing a murderous hatred in the agony of death, were fixed immovably upon his accuser, when suddenly, almost without warning, he was seized with frightful convulsions, his jaws set, the light died from his face, his legs seemed to give way beneath him, and, reeling, he fell headlong to the floor, carrying the chair with him. Both men in an instant knelt eagerly beside him. Tristram quickly loosened his vest, and placed his hand upon his heart. It had already ceased its action. The subtle Eastern poison--for such it afterwards proved to be--had done its work swiftly, completely. Lionello Nenci--conspirator, murderer, and outlaw, one of the most desperate and dangerous characters that Italy has produced during the past decade, and the miscreant whose arrest had been stipulated by the Marquis Montelupo in his compact with Gemma--was dead. Le Funaro was free. The terrible thraldom which had compelled her to act as secret agent of the State was for ever ended. CHAPTER THIRTY ONE. FIORI D'ARANCIO. Nearly a year had gone by.