Mr. Eversleigh had probably seen from the newspapers, said the Syndic, that cholera was that summer--one of the hottest on record--epidemic all along the Gulf of Genoa and southward as far as Leghorn. Mr. Silwood had fallen a victim to this plague--alas! its victims were numbered by hundreds and thousands; it was the greatest calamity that had visited Italy for many years! In Mr. Silwood's case there had been little hope from the commencement of his sickness, to which he succumbed after about twenty-four hours. Everything had been done for him that could be done; he had been attended by a doctor of skill and experience, nor had the tendance of competent nurses been wanting. Ah! It was evidently the will of God! The usual certificate of death was enclosed. Owing to the requirements of the law, concluded the Syndic, the body was buried early on the morning of the day following that on which the death took place. The deceased had left some effects about which he had not given directions. These were now in his, the Syndic's possession, and he asked what was to be done with them. As Mr. Eversleigh would doubtless know what was proper in the circumstances, he, the Syndic, would be glad to hear from him at his earliest convenience. Such was the letter of Ugo Ucelli, Syndic of Camajore. The interpreter was asked to write out a translation both of the letter and of the death certificate; this he did, received his fee, and withdrew. Death is perhaps the only thing which commands universal respect: all render involuntary homage to the King of Terror. It was this that caused Gilbert, who had no love for Silwood, yet to say with sincerity when the interpreter had gone, "Poor fellow! Poor fellow!" and then he was silent. Francis Eversleigh had listened in a sort of heavy stupor to the reading of the Syndic's letter. The feeling which emerged most prominently from out of the chaos of his thoughts was one of envy; he envied Silwood, inasmuch as he was finally beyond the reach of the law--he had gone where its long arm could not go--he was safe! Eversleigh then tried to think what was his position now Silwood was dead, and Morris Thornton was dead, most probably, also; but the man's brain was tired and sick and torpid from the frightful blows it had already been called upon to sustain. With a deep sigh, he confessed his impotence to himself, and abandoned the attempt. "We must tell the others at once," he said, feeling it was easier to do something than to think, "and have an announcement of the death drawn up. We must take the usual steps." "Yes, yes," said Gilbert, "we must do so." But Gilbert also had been thinking during the few minutes in which he had been silent. "What a strange place," he observed, "for Mr. Silwood to have been at! Perhaps, though, he was just passing through. Still, at this time of the year, it was an odd place to choose for a holiday. He must have known, too, about the cholera, surely. I never heard of Camajore! Did you?"