One hundred and forty dollars! The sum rose like an impassable mountain between Bertino and the hopes he had cherished so long and fervidly. As well have been forty thousand. He could not pay the duty. Marriage had eaten up the savings brought from Italy and what he had earned since. When Signor Tomato told him that the Government would retain the marble until the impost were paid, he blotted out the poor lad’s fondest anticipations--his dreams of release from Signor Di Bello and the misery of his secret marriage, the freedom to say to his uncle, “Juno is my wife.” To the bust he had looked forward as to a loyal friend, who should come some day to lift him to the plane whereon a man ought to stand. But now that the friend was near, some power which he comprehended but vaguely had clapped her in a prison, from which the future held no promise of letting her go. There came over him the terrible throbbing of blood and the fire of brain that he felt the night he crouched, burning with suspicion, in the doorway with a ready knife waiting for Juno. He could not have answered if asked just now whom he wished to kill. Some infernal prank was playing at his expense, and the time had come to end it. A strange calm possessed him as he began to cast about for the joker. He had been walking in Mulberry Street. At the corner of Spring Street he entered the Caffè of the Three Gardens. Dropping into a chair near the door, he ordered a glass of Marsala; but before the waiter had returned with the wine, Bertino sprang up and darted out of the place. At a table in the _caffè’s_ depth he had seen Juno and Signor Di Bello with their heads together! Holy blood of the angels! No need of looking further for the joker. His wife returns after six months, does not let her husband know, and goes first to meet another. Yes, the prank has gone far enough. It was only a block to Casa Di Bello. In a few minutes he was there and in his room. When he came into the street again he had his right hand in his coat pocket. * * * * * The meeting of Juno and Signor Di Bello came about in this manner: The signore was walking in Mulberry Street, on his way to the _caffè_ to smoke an after-dinner Cavour, and help some good comrades empty a flask of Chianti. Suddenly he stopped, stood still, his eyes staring and his mouth a gulf of astonishment. “By the Egg of Columbus!” he exclaimed. “It is she, or I am dreaming!” There she was, moving toward him on the same side of the street, dressed no better than when he last came face to face with her, but her grand air not a whit impaired. “At last, at last I find you!” he cried, catching up her hand and kissing it with a loud smack. “Ah! the good God knows how I have hunted for you. But joy, joy! I find you! I see you! My eyes look into yours! Come, away from here! Ah, the Three Gardens! Let us enter. I have something to say--something very important.”