"Punishment for what, Angelo? If you didn't murder Miss Blake, what was there to be punished for?" "Non. No!" Angelo reiterated the agitated disclaimer. "No murd'! No murd'! Me tella da trut'!" "You said that before," said Peter, sternly. "Ye-ah, ye-ah! Alla right! Now I tella. See, Boss. Listen! Me gotta sick wife. Maria. _Si, si._ She ver', ver' sick, longa time. Doc' say she mus' go countree. Me no gotta da mon'--dat's easy. How me getta da mon'? No good. Can do noding, me. Den, Boss, listen. Night before Mees Anne an' Mees Mary go 'way me hava da dream--longa dream----" His voice dropped, and his eyes were wide. "All inna da dream me see nombre--7741. Jus' lika dat--7741.... Inna da morn' me tella Maria. She say mus' be nombre for lot'----" "Lot?" asked Peter, frowning, and then, a light breaking--"Lottery--you mean lottery?" "_Si! Si! Si!_" Many nods. "_Si_, lot'! Me t'ink lika Maria, ye-ah, me t'ink lucky nombre! But," a shrug, "no gotta da mon'. Den, alla same day, dat ver' same Sunday--Mees Anne, she go 'way.... Mees Anne gone--sist' gone--me t'ink--lil' dev' whisp'--me bor' some lil' t'ings--no steala, bor', see? I can--what you say?--pawna da silv', da ringa, da necklace, da pin--an' bringa back w'en lucky nombre come, I maka some mon', see?" "I see what you mean me to think," said Peter, gruffly. "Go on." "So-o--me come up here--late--alla dark, but me hava da lil' flasha light, see? Come in--looka all 'roun'--in desk, in draw', alla place.... Noding--no ringa, no necklace, no pin.... Come outa here--fin' silv', lotta silv' in draw' an' onna da top. Me maka him in bund', queek, queek! Me getta him all-read'! Den, presto, I t'ink--Mees Blake, she come back--maybe somebod' come befora da lot' is draw. Who gotta da key but Angelo? Den gotta fright', me, Boss. Gotta ver' bada fright'.... T'ink, queek! queek!--me feex so dey t'ink t'ief, he come fire-'scape. Sure. _Si, si_, ha! Go in kitch'--me slip queek over by wind'--den! S-s-h! Me hear biga, longa ringa, downstair' on bell! Me stop--listen. Know I mus' go down, queek!--Hava da big bun' of silv' onna da arm!--What I do? All afraid dey catch Angelo! Mus' feex so dey t'ink t'ief come from da outside, see?... Queek, queek--me smasha da wind' right by da lock--so! Diavolo! feel cutta on da wris'. Grab him queek--go run inna da hall. Me know he isa bleed', so pull outa da bandan'--he red, so no can see da bleed--wind him roun' tight!--All I do, fas', fas'--alla tima da bell ring---- "I know it is da groun' floor. Dat lady, she alla time forgetta da key--so I run down queek, an' leava da bun' in dark onna da stair.... I go open da door--it is da groun' floor, lika I know--an' t'inka me alla right now!--Santa Maria!" It was a bitter wail, and overcome by a succession of troubles, the poor wretch laid his head down on the table and sobbed. The grim austerity of Peter's face softened.