“I am ... I have just finished a rather important piece of work; it’s a small piece of work which I have no time to copy out myself. Someone mentioned you to me as having an excellent handwriting and I thought that, perhaps ...” here Julius’s glance travelled eloquently over the bareness of the room--“I thought that perhaps you would have no objection....” “There is no one in Paris,” interrupted Lafcadio, “no one who could have mentioned my handwriting to you.” As he spoke, he directed his eyes towards the drawer, in opening which Julius had unwittingly destroyed a minute and almost invisible seal of soft wax; then turning the key violently in the lock and putting it in his pocket: “No one, that is, who has any right to”; and as he spoke he watched Julius’s face redden. “On the other hand” (he spoke very slowly--almost stolidly, without any expression at all), “I don’t quite grasp so far what reasons Monsieur ...” (he looked at the card) “what reasons Count Julius de Baraglioul can have for taking a special interest in me. Nevertheless” (and his voice suddenly became smooth and mellifluous in imitation of Julius’s), “your proposal deserves to be taken into consideration by a person who, as it has not escaped you, is in need of money.” (He got up.) “Kindly allow me to bring you my answer to-morrow morning.” The hint to leave was unmistakable. Julius felt too uncomfortable to insist. He took up his hat, hesitated an instant and then: “I should have liked a little further talk with you,” he said awkwardly. “Let me hope that to-morrow ... I shall expect you any time after ten o’clock.” Lafcadio bowed. * * * * * As soon as Julius had turned the corner of the passage, Lafcadio pushed to the door and bolted it. He ran to the drawer, pulled out the pocket-book, opened it at the last telltale page and just at the place where he had left off several months before, he wrote in pencil in a large hand, sloping defiantly backwards and very unlike the former: “For having let Olibrius poke his dirty nose into this book ... 1 punta.” He took a penknife out of his pocket; its blade had been sharpened away until nothing was left of it but a short point like a stiletto, which he passed over the flame of a match and then thrust through his trouser pocket, straight into his thigh. In spite of himself he made a grimace. But he was still not satisfied. Leaning upon the table, without sitting down, he again wrote just below the last sentence: “And for having shown him that I knew it ... 2 punte.” This time he hesitated; unfastened his trousers and turned them down on one side. He looked at his thigh in which the little wound he had just made was bleeding; he examined the scars of similar wounds, which were like vaccination marks all round. Then, having once more passed the blade over the flame of a match, he very quickly and twice in succession plunged it into his flesh.