The man in the blouse still lingered, and I, knowing that he had seen the notes, felt it impossible to leave Grammont alone in his company. The Chiaja was very lonely just there. At last an idea occurred to me, and I called the man. It was growing so near to six o'clock that I was afraid of missing Clyde. I tore a leaf from my pocket-book, scrawled a line to Clyde asking him to wait for me, took a franc from my purse, and asked the man to take a 'message to the Caffè d' Italia, and there give it to the person to whom it was addressed. Regarding the man's dress and the foreign accent with which he had spoken just now, I addressed him in French. 'Pas du tout!' he responded. 'Je ne suis pas un blooming idiot. C'est impossible. Allez-vous donc.' 'Ah!' I said, 'you are English. I beg your pardon. I suppose you did not understand. I wish you to be so good as to take this note to the Caffè d' Italia for Mr. Arthur Clyde. I will give you----' 'I am not anybody's messenger,' the man answered, and walked away again. There was nobody else within call, and I was compelled, therefore, to resign myself as best I could. My efforts to awaken Grammont had proved quite fruitless. I lit a cigar, and walked to and fro. The man in the blouse also lit a. cigar, and paced to and fro, passing in every journey the bench on which Grammont lay asleep. Suspecting him as I did, I never took my eyes from him for a moment when he was near Grammont, and he, in his catlike watch of me, was equally vigilant. At last, growing tired of this watchful promenade, I addressed him-- 'It is of no use for you to linger here. You will not tire me out. I shall stay until my friend awakes.' 'Oh!' he said, removing his cigar, and taking a steady look at me. 'You'll stay until your friend awakes, will you? Then--so will I.' He began his walk again, and I, regarding the man more closely, had formed a new idea.