Lafcadio had apparently just finished his breakfast; on the table was a spirit lamp and a small saucepan; in this there was still to be seen one of those little perforated, hollow eggs, which ingenious travellers use for making tea; and there were a few bread crumbs and a dirtied cup. Julius drew near the table; in the table was a drawer and in the drawer a key.... I should be sorry if what follows were to give a wrong impression of Julius’s character. Nothing was further from Julius than indiscretion; he was respectful of the cloak with which each man chooses to cover his inner life; he was highly respectful of the decencies. But upon this occasion he was bound to waive his personal preferences in obedience to his father’s command. He waited and listened for another moment, then, as he heard nothing--against his inclinations and against his principles, but with the delicate feeling of performing a duty--he pulled open the drawer, the key of which had not been turned. Inside was a Russia-leather pocket-book; which Julius took and opened. On the first page, in the same writing as that on the photograph, were these words: For my trusty comrade Cadio, This account book from his old uncle, FABY, and with hardly any space between came the following words, written in a straight, regular and rather childish hand: Duino. This morning, July 17th, ’89, Lord Fabian joined us here. He brought me a canoe, a rifle and this beautiful pocket-book. Nothing else on the first page. On the third page, under the date Aug. 29th, was written: Swimming match with Faby. Gave him four strokes. And the next day: Gave him twelve strokes. Julius gathered that he had got hold of a mere training book. The list of days soon stopped, however, and after a blank page, he read: Sept. 20th. Left Algiers for the Aures. The a few jottings of places and dates and finally this last entry: Oct. 5th. Return to El Kantara--50 kilometres _on horseback_,[A] without stopping. Julius turned over a few blank pages, but, a little further on, the entries began again. At the top of a page, the following words were written in larger and more carefully formed characters, arranged so as to look like a fresh title: CENTER QUI INCOMMINCIA IL LIBRO DELLA NOVA ESIGENZA E DELLA SUPREMA VIRTU. And below this came the motto: “_Tanto quanto se ne taglia._” --BOCCACCIO. Any expression of moral ideas was quick to arouse the hunter’s instinct in Julius; here was game for him. But the very next page was a disappointment; it landed him in another batch of accounts. And yet these accounts were of a different kind. Without any indication of dates or places appeared the following entries: