He opened the door and made a
pretence of greeting an imaginary individual. It was as though a
stream of cold water had fallen upon his neck. His knees knocked
together, and he felt sick with fear. There was evidently no use
in attempting to go down without some stimulant. Almost
sorrowfully he shut the door again, and took the bottle from its
place. He took several small doses, patiently testing the effect
until his hand was steady and warm.
Ten minutes later he was kneeling with many others before the
catafalque, beneath the great canopy of black. He was dazed by the
light of the great branches of candles, and confused by the
subdued sound of whispering and of softly treading feet; but he
knew that his outward demeanour was calm and collected, and that
he exhibited no signs of nervousness. San Giacinto was standing
near one of the doors, having taken his turn with the sons of the
dead man to remain in the room. He watched the librarian and a
rough sort of pity made itself felt in his heart.
"Poor Meschini!" he thought. "He has lost a friend. I daresay he
is more genuinely sorry than all the family put together, poor
fellow!"
Arnoldo Meschini, kneeling before the body of the man he had
murdered, with a brandy bottle in the pocket of his long coat,
would have come to an evil end if the giant had guessed the truth.
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