I crumpled this note fiercely in my hand and flung it into the leaping flames of the newly lighted fire. There was a faint perfume about it that sickened me--a subtle odor like that of a civet cat when it moves stealthily after its prey through a tangle of tropical herbage. I always detested scented note-paper--I am not the only man who does so. One is led to fancy that the fingers of the woman who writes upon it must have some poisonous or offensive taint about them, which she endeavors to cover by the aid of a chemical concoction. I would not permit myself to think of this so "faithful Nina," as she styled herself. I resumed my reading, and continued it even at dinner, during which meal Vincenzo waited upon me with his usual silent gravity and decorum, though I could feel that he watched me with a certain solicitude. I suppose I looked weary--I certainly felt so, and retired to rest unusually early. The time seemed to me so long--would the end NEVER come? The next day dawned and trailed its tiresome hours after it, as a prisoner might trail his chain of iron fetters, until sunset, and then--then, when the gray of the wintry sky flashed for a brief space into glowing red--then, while the water looked like blood and the clouds like flame--then a few words sped along the telegraph wires that stilled my impatience, roused my soul, and braced every nerve and muscle in my body to instant action. They were plain, clear, and concise: "From Guido Ferrari, Rome, to Il Conte Cesare Olfva, Naples.--Shall be with you on the 24th inst. Train arrives at 6:30 P.M. Will come to you as you desire without fail."