"Nothing, nothing," I assured him. "It is only what you would do for me if I were ill in a foreign country where I could not speak the language." "Ay, that I would," he declared. And after a pause he added: "Nearness to death causes us to make strange friendships--doesn't it?" "Why?" I asked, somewhat puzzled. "Well--in me, for instance, you are making a strange friend," he said, with a queer, harsh laugh. "Why strange?" "Because you are utterly unaware of who or what I am." "I know your name--that is all," I responded quietly. "You know the name by which I choose to be known here. It is not likely that I should disclose my real identity." "Why not?" "Because--well, there are strong reasons," was his vague answer, and his mouth shut with a snap, as though he discerned that he had already said too much. Then a moment later he added: "As I've already told you, you have made a strange acquaintance in me. You will probably be surprised if ever you really do ascertain the truth, which is, however, not very likely, I think. At least I hope not." I recollected that he had spoken of a secret--some woman's secret--which he intended, at all hazards, to preserve. What was it, I wondered? The thin drawn face upon the white pillow wore a wild, desperate expression. The stranger had actually laughed in triumph at the suggestion of death. A man must be desperate ere he can face the open grave with a smile upon his lips. After a few minutes he raised his thin yellow finger beckoning me closer, and in a fainter voice said:-- "You are the only friend I have in this great capital, Signor Leaf,"-- for at table I had told him my name and something about my wandering life on the Continent--"you will not allow them to bury me as a pauper? There is money--see, in that left-hand top drawer--over there. Will you get my purse?" I rose, opened the drawer he indicated, and handed him a bulky red morocco wallet, one of those in which Italians carry their paper currency. He opened it and I saw that it was crammed with hundred-franc and even thousand-franc notes. In the wallet there was probably over a thousand pounds. "Will you take charge of it?" he asked, handing it back. "I shall never want it again. Pay all the expenses, and I would ask of you one favour. Upon the stone over my grave put no name--only the words: `In Memory of one who was Unfortunate'--that is all." "And the balance of the money--to whom shall I hand that?" He thought a few moments, his eyes fixed upon the low, smoke-blackened ceiling. "If there is no just claimant within one year take five thousand francs as a souvenir of me, and present the remainder to a hospital--whatever hospital in London you think the most deserving. You will also find the directions for obtaining certain securities deposited in Italy. Obtain them and deal with them as you deem advisable."