Some time after, Le Duc came in with a letter written in bad Italian,
saying that it had been given him by an officer who was waiting for an
answer. I opened it, and recognized the name I had heard a short while
ago. The writer said we knew each other, but that he could only give his
true name with his own lips, and that he had important information to
give me.

I told Le Duc to shew him in, and to stay by the door. I saw enter a
well-made man of about forty, dressed in the uniform of an officer of I
do not know what army, and bearing on his countenance all the marks of an
escaped gallows'-bird.

"What can I do for you, sir?" said I, as soon as he entered.

"Sir, we knew each other at Cerigo, sixteen or seventeen years ago, and I
am delighted to have an opportunity of renewing the acquaintance."

I knew that I had spent but a few minutes at Cerigo, on my way to
Constantinople, and concluded that my visitor must be one of the
unfortunate wretches to whom I gave alms.

"Are you the man," I said, "who told me that you were the son of a Count
Peccini, of Padua, although there is no such count in Padua at all?"

"I congratulate you on your excellent memory," said he, coolly, "I am
that very individual."

"Well, what do you want with me now?"

"I can't divulge my business in the presence of your servant."