The Amulet

"Suppose we say two o'clock?"

"Very well; between two and three."

"I will call for you to accompany me, signor. Do not be disturbed by this

domiciliary visit; it implies no suspicion, but, as I said before, it is a

simple condescension to the populace. Shall I have the honor of meeting

you this evening at the house of Mr. Van de Werve?"

"I do not know, messire. Mary's excessive grief affects me so much that it

haunts me day and night. Would that I could offer the least consolation to

the afflicted young girl! But of what use is it to mingle my tears with

hers, when there is no ray of hope to illumine the darkness of her

despair?"

Messire Van Schoonhoven pressed Simon's hand.

"Your sincere friendship for Geronimo does you honor, signor," he said.

"Were he your own brother, you could not be more deeply grieved. And how

great is your generosity! Geronimo was your friend, but he was at the same

time an obstacle to the accomplishment of the dearest wish of your heart.

Through affection for him you have sacrificed your fondest hopes of

happiness. But the inexplicable disappearance of Geronimo spreads out

before you a brighter future. Time will alleviate the bitterness of Mary's

sorrow, and who so well as yourself, signor, could restore her to

happiness--you who possess her father's confidence and esteem?"

"Speak not of such things," said Simon. "I would gladly yield all the

happiness the future might have in store for me to see my friend once more

unharmed. But alas! alas!"

"That does not prevent me, signor, from cherishing the hope that, if

Geronimo is really dead, you may one day receive the reward of your

sincere friendship and your magnanimous generosity. To-morrow at two

o'clock! May God be with you, signor!"

"And may He protect you, messire!"

Simon Turchi watched him until he was lost to sight, and then glanced

around in order to note the degree of darkness. He drew his cloak closely

around him, and walked rapidly down a side street, which soon brought him

before the gate of his own garden. Unlocking the door, he traversed the

walk rendered almost invisible by the darkness.

Beaching the house, he lighted a lamp and ascended the stairs to a room,

which, in better times, he was accustomed to use as a bed-room, when

occasionally he passed the night at the pavilion.

Casting his cloak upon a chair, he seated himself near a table, evidently

a prey to distracting thoughts. He drew a phial from his doublet, and

fixed his eyes upon it. By degrees, however, the clouds seemed to pass

from his mind. He replaced the phial in his doublet, and said, calmly: "Why am I so terrified? Did I not expect the search? Have not my

precautions been well taken? What have I to fear? Julio is already at

such a distance that he cannot be overtaken. If the corpse be found in the

cellar, I will impute the crime to Julio. My explanation will be such that

there will be no room for suspicion. But suppose it should be known! O

torturing doubt! What a desperate game! Wealth, honor, power, and the hand

of Mary Van de Werve, against my life and the honor of my family! Triumph

and happiness on the one hand; disgrace and death on the scaffold on the

other! Suppose I go to the bailiff, and accuse Julio of the murder? That

would put me above suspicion. But no; the search will be superficial, mere

matter of form for the sake of appearances. If Julio as arranged things

properly, they will merely cast a glance into the cellar. My presence will

be a restraint upon the officers, and will prevent them from pushing their

search so far as to imply a suspicion. If they do not find the body, as is

probable, the affair will forever remain secret, and I will have in future

no cause for alarm. I must take courage and descend into the cellar, to

see how Julio performed the task assigned him before his departure."