even more blank than usual, but he looked up and down the street, to
see if he were alone, and upward at the windows of the house opposite.
Nobody was in sight, but in order to place his ear close to the wall
and listen, he made a pretence of fastening his shoe-string. The sound
came to him from very far beneath, regular as the panting of an
engine. He knew his trade, and recognized the steady hammering on the
end of a stone drill, very unlike the irregular blows of a pickaxe or
a crowbar. The "moles" were at work, and knew their business; sooner
or later they would break through. But Toto could not guess that the
work was being actually done by Malipieri and his servant, without
help. One man alone could not do it, and the profound contempt of the
artisan for any outsider who attempts his trade, made Toto feel quite
sure that one or more masons had been called in to make a breach in
the foundation wall. As he stood up and lighted his pipe at last, he
grinned all alone, and then slouched on, his heart full of very evil
designs. Had he not always been the mason of the Palazzo Conti? And
his father before him? And his grandfather, who had lost his life down
there, where the moles were working? And now that he was turned out,
and others were called in to do a particularly confidential job,
should he not be revenged? He bit his pipe and thrust his rough hands
deep into the pockets of his fustian trousers, and instead of turning
into the wine shop to meet Gigi, he went off for a walk by himself
through all the narrow and winding streets that lie between the
Palazzo Conti and Monte Giordano.

He came to no immediate conclusion, and moreover there was no great
hurry. He knew well enough that it would take time to pierce the wall,
after the drilling was over, and he could easily tell when that point
was reached by listening every day in the Vicolo dei Soldati. It would
still be soon enough to play tricks with the water, if he chose that