"That will do, Tompson," said Sir Charles, and he frowned.

The fatal letter, carefully sealed up in a new envelope, and the leather
case were in his despatch-box. Tompson had handed them to him on his
arrival. And one day when Paul appeared well enough to be lifted into a
long chair on the side loggia, his father thought fit to give them to him.

Paul's apathy seemed paralysing. The days had passed, since the little
Italian doctor had pronounced him out of danger, in one unending languid
quietude. He expressed interest in no single thing. He was polite, and
indifferent, and numb.

"He must be roused now," Sir Charles said to the doctor. "It is too hot for
Venice, he must be moved to higher air," and the little man had nodded his
head.

So this warm late afternoon, as he lay under the mosquito curtains--which
the coming of June had made necessary in this paradise--his father said to
him:

"I have a letter and a parcel of yours, Paul: you had better look at
them--we hope to start north in a day or two--you must get to a more
bracing place."

Then he had pushed them under the net-folds, and turned his back on the
scene.

The blood rushed to Paul's face, but left him deathly pale after a few
moments. And presently he broke the seal. The minute Sphinx in the corner