“Really, Martini,” said Galli irritably, “you are about the most prejudiced person in Florence. Once you object to a man, everything he does is wrong. How could Rivarez come when he's ill?” “Who told you he was ill?” “Didn't you know? He's been laid up for the last four days.” “What's the matter with him?” “I don't know. He had to put off an appointment with me on Thursday on account of illness; and last night, when I went round, I heard that he was too ill to see anyone. I thought Riccardo would be looking after him.” “I knew nothing about it. I'll go round to-night and see if he wants anything.” The next morning Riccardo, looking very pale and tired, came into Gemma's little study. She was sitting at the table, reading out monotonous strings of figures to Martini, who, with a magnifying glass in one hand and a finely pointed pencil in the other, was making tiny marks in the pages of a book. She made with one hand a gesture requesting silence. Riccardo, knowing that a person who is writing in cipher must not be interrupted, sat down on the sofa behind her and yawned like a man who can hardly keep awake. “2, 4; 3, 7; 6, 1; 3, 5; 4, 1;” Gemma's voice went on with machine-like evenness. “8, 4; 7, 2; 5, 1; that finishes the sentence, Cesare.” She stuck a pin into the paper to mark the exact place, and turned round. “Good-morning, doctor; how fagged you look! Are you well?” “Oh, I'm well enough--only tired out. I've had an awful night with Rivarez.” “With Rivarez?” “Yes; I've been up with him all night, and now I must go off to my hospital patients. I just came round to know whether you can think of anyone that could look after him a bit for the next few days. He's in a devil of a state. I'll do my best, of course; but I really haven't the time; and he won't hear of my sending in a nurse.” “What is the matter with him?” “Well, rather a complication of things. First of all----” “First of all, have you had any breakfast?” “Yes, thank you. About Rivarez--no doubt, it's complicated with a lot of nerve trouble; but the main cause of disturbance is an old injury that seems to have been disgracefully neglected. Altogether, he's in a frightfully knocked-about state; I suppose it was that war in South America--and he certainly didn't get proper care when the mischief was done. Probably things were managed in a very rough-and-ready fashion out there; he's lucky to be alive at all. However, there's a chronic tendency to inflammation, and any trifle may bring on an attack----” “Is that dangerous?” “N-no; the chief danger in a case of that kind is of the patient getting desperate and taking a dose of arsenic.” “It is very painful, of course?” “It's simply horrible; I don't know how he manages to bear it. I was obliged to stupefy him with opium in the night--a thing I hate to do with a nervous patient; but I had to stop it somehow.” “He is nervous, I should think.”