prying into secrets. The quicker he were out of the way the better, and next Sunday, if no moon shone, the thing could be done. With deep satisfaction she viewed her brawny arms and stalwart frame and felt sure of the strength needful to execute the task without bungling. Then she went to bed and slept soundly. But the morrow had in its teeth a fine marplot for her little tragedy. It happened in the evening in this wise: The shutters of the shop put up, Bertino hastened to the Restaurant of Santa Lucia, where Juno had promised to await him. He opened the door, and what he saw caused him to pause on the threshold, but for only a moment. She was not alone. Seated by her side on the rough wooden bench that flanked the long oil-clothed table was Signor Di Bello. Their backs were turned to the door, but Bertino knew both at first glance. On the opposite side of the board the gaslight fell upon a row of dusky faces, into the caverns of which large quantities of spaghetti coiled about forks were being despatched. In other parts of the low-ceiled room, muggy with smoke of two-cent cigars, coatless men, engaged in furious combats at cards, shouted and rained sledge-hammer blows on the tables. Before any one had seen him enter, Bertino sprang across the floor like a jaguar and snatched from his uncle’s hand a knife with which he was in the act of conveying a bit of sheep’s-milk cheese to his mouth. Then without ado the gudgeon who believed that his wife was annoyed fell to the performance of a husband’s duty. It was a wild thrust, but well enough aimed to have found a mortal course had the tool been of the standard pattern used in Mulberry for odd jobs of this kind--the long thin steel, fine tempered, and needlelike of point. As it chanced, Signor Di Bello’s left shoulder blade was stabbed flesh deep, and a second lunge only slit his coat sleeve, because he dropped sidewise out of harm’s way just as Bertino brought down the knife again. Every eye in the restaurant had witnessed the second blow and the fall of Signor Di Bello from the end of the bench, so the conclusion was instant and general that the odd job had been finished. [Illustration: It was a wild thrust.] “Fly!” they cried, one and all, rising and pointing to the door. “Your work is done.” Bertino stood a moment, grasping the knife and looking at Juno; then he flung it down and made for the door. One of the card players held it open for him as he passed out; for the _vendetta_ is a man’s sacred right--a strictly private matter to be settled by him in his own way, free of outside interference. Enough that he use the genteel knife and not the clumsy pistol, which is seldom sure of its mark, and brings the police to make trouble for one’s friends. CHAPTER XIV YELLOW BOOTS AND ORANGE BLOSSOMS