He took a book that lay at hand and pushed it
against the dead man's arm. There was no sign, no movement. He
would have liked to go behind the chair and untie the
handkerchief, but his courage was not quite equal to that.
Besides, the handkerchief was Faustina's. He had seen her father
snatch it from her and throw it upon the floor, as he watched the
pair through the keyhole. A strange fascination kept him in the
study, and he would have yielded to it had he not been fortified
against any such morbid folly by the brandy he had swallowed. He
thought, as he turned to go, that it was a pity the prince never
kept money in the house, for, in that case, he might have helped
himself before leaving. To steal a small value was not worth
while, considering the danger of discovery.
He moved on tiptoe, as though afraid of disturbing the rest of his
old employer, and once or twice he looked back. Then at last he
closed the door and retraced his steps through the corridor till
he gained the library. He was surprised at his own boldness as he
went, and at the indifference with which he passed by the coat
that hung, limp as ever, upon its peg. He was satisfied, too, with
the result of his investigations. The prince was certainly dead.
As a direct consequence of his death, the secret of the
Saracinesca suit was now his own, no one had a share in it, and it
was worth money.
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