Then he had pushed them under the net-folds, and turned his back on the scene. The blood rushed to Paul's face, but left him deathly pale after a few moments. And presently he broke the seal. The minute Sphinx in the corner of the paper seemed to mock at him. Indeed, life was a riddle of anguish and pain. He read the letter all over--and read it again. The passionate words of love warmed him now that he had passed the agony of the farewell. One sentence he had hardly grasped before, in particular held balm. "Sweetheart," it said, "you must not grieve--think always of the future and of our hope. Our love is not dead with our parting, and one day there will be the living sign--" Yes, that thought was comfort--but how should he know? Then he turned to the leather case. His fingers were still so feeble that with difficulty he pressed the spring to open it. He glanced up at his father's distinguished-looking back outlined against the loggia's opening arches. It appeared uncompromising. A fixed determination to stare at the oleanders below seemed the only spirit animating this parent. Yes--he must open the box. It gave suddenly with a jerk, and there lay a dog's collar, made of small flexible plates of pure beaten gold, mounted on Russian leather, all of the finest workmanship. And on a slip of paper in his darling's own writing he read: "This is for Pike, my beloved one; let him wear it always--a gift from me." On the collar itself, finely engraved, were the words, "Pike, belonging to Paul Verdayne." Then the floodgates of Paul's numbed soul were opened, a great sob rose in his breast. He covered his face with his hands, and cried like a child. Oh! her dear thought! her dear, tender thought--for Pike! His little friend! And Sir Charles made believe he saw nothing, as he stole from the place, his rugged face twitching a little, and his keen eyes dim. CHAPTER XXII They did not go north, as Sir Charles intended, an unaccountable reluctance on Paul's part to return through Switzerland changed their plans. Instead, by a fortunate chance, the large schooner yacht of a rather eccentric old friend came in to Venice, and the father eagerly accepted the invitation to go on board and bring his invalid. The owner, one Captain Grigsby, had been quite alone, so the three men would be in peace, and nothing could be better for Paul than this warm sea air. "Typhoid fever?" Mark Grigsby had asked. "No," Sir Charles had replied, "considerable mental tribulation over a woman." "D--d kittle cattle!" was Captain Grigsby's polite comment. "A fine boy, too, and promising--" "Appears to have been almost worth while," Sir Charles added, "from what I gather--and, confound it, Grig, we'd have done the same in our day." But Captain Grigsby only repeated: "D--d kittle cattle!" And so they weighed anchor, and sailed along the Italian shores of the sun-lit Adriatic.