He had not lost sight of the fact that in Catanzaro Alec was known only as the Signor Alessandro. As soon as the Italians were gone Mr. Page sat down, and from the breast pocket of his coat produced a bulky packet of bank notes of various denominations, which, with the help of a moistened forefinger, he proceeded to count with methodical deliberation. Having satisfied himself on a point about which he had felt perfectly sure beforehand, he pushed the notes across the table to Alec. “There, sir,” he said; “if you will be at the trouble of counting them, you will find that they amount in the aggregate to exactly six thousand pounds.” “I will take your word for that, Mr. Page,” replied Alec, with a bitter smile as he crumpled up the notes and thrust them into his pocket. By this a carriage, previously ordered, was at the door. The two gentlemen had arranged to post as far as Reggio. Sir Gilbert, who despite his husk of frigidity, was far from comfortable in his mind, and was especially desirous of getting away at the earliest possible moment, had already drawn on his gloves and taken possession of his dust-coat and umbrella. He now extended his rigid fingers to his son, whose hand instinctively closed over them, but without any consciousness of the slightest pressure in return. “Goodbye,” said the baronet. “You have my best wishes for your prosperity in the future. At any time it will gratify me to hear that you are doing well. Now, Mr. Page, if you are ready.” With that the fingers were withdrawn, and turning on his heel, he stalked solemnly out, leaving his son, who had said no word in reply, standing in the middle of the room. Next moment Mr. Page was wringing Alec’s hand. “Goodbye, my dear boy, and may Heaven bless and prosper you,” exclaimed the lawyer, with an unwonted tremor in his voice. “Never forget that in Cornelius Page you have a firm friend; and don’t fail to advise me from time to time of your whereabouts.” Three minutes later, as one in a dream, Alec heard the crack of the driver’s whip and the rattle of the carriage as it jolted over the narrow paved street. Then when the last sound had died away, his manhood suddenly broke down. Sinking into a chair, with his elbows resting on the table and his face covered with his hands, he let the tears drop silently between his fingers. Now it so happened that there was one feature about the _osteria_ of the Golden Fig, which, for various reasons, it is to be hoped is by no means common to similar houses of entertainment either in Italy or elsewhere. The peculiarity in question was neither more nor less than a peephole, or place of espial, behind one corner of the elaborate plaster scroll-work of fruit and foliage which ran round the ceiling of the room in which the scene related above had taken place. This spy-hole was reached by means of a flight of steps shut up from ordinary view in what looked like a tall clothes closet in the adjoining chamber.