face in the darkness, and brought it near his ear.

"From Angelo," whispered Zorzi, so softly that Contarini only heard the
last word.

The door was now shut as noiselessly as before, but not by Contarini
himself. He still kept his hold on Zorzi's arm.

"The token," he whispered impatiently.

Zorzi pulled the little leathern bag out of his doublet, slipped the
string over his head and thrust the token into Contarini's hand. The
latter uttered a low exclamation of surprise.

"What is this?" he asked.

"The token," answered Zorzi.

He had scarcely spoken when he felt Contarini's arms round him, holding
him fast. He was wise enough to make no attempt to escape from them.

"Friends," said Contarini quickly, "the man who just came in is a spy. I
am holding him. Help me!"

It seemed to Zorzi that a hundred hands seized him in the dark; by the
arms, by the legs, by the body, by the head. He knew that resistance was
worse than useless. There were hands at his throat, too.

"Let us do nothing hastily," said Contarini's voice, close beside him.
"We must find out what he knows first. We can make him speak, I