There was no conceivable horror of torture that
did not suggest itself to him at such times. It is true that when
he went to bed at night he was generally either so stupefied by
opium or so intoxicated with strong drink that he forgot even to
lock his door. But during the day he was seldom so far under the
power of either as not to suffer from his own hideous imaginings.
One day, as he dragged his slow pace along a narrow street near
the fountain of Trevi, his eyes were arrested by an armourer's
window. It suddenly struck him that he had no weapon of defence in
case San Giacinto or his agents came upon him unawares. And yet a
bullet well placed would make an end even of such a Hercules as
the man he feared. He paused and looked anxiously up and down the
street. It was a dark day and a fine rain was falling. There was
nobody about who could recognise him, and he might not have
another such opportunity of providing himself unobserved with what
he wanted. He entered the shop and bought himself a revolver. The
man showed him how to load it and sold him a box of cartridges. He
dropped the firearm into one of the pockets of his coat, and
smiled as he felt how comfortably it balanced the bottle he
carried in the other. Then he slunk out of the shop and pursued
his walk.
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