ending in Italian. But his pride is all on edge: we must continue
in French.

The hall is cold, yet he will not come into the large room. This is not
a courtesy visit. He is not here in his quality of gentleman. He is only
an anxious villager.

'_Voyez, monsieur--cet--cet--qu'est-ce que--qu'est-ce que veut dire
cet--cela?_'

He shows me the paper. It is an old scrap of print, the picture of an
American patent door-spring, with directions: 'Fasten the spring either
end up. Wind it up. Never unwind.'

It is laconic and American. The signore watches me anxiously, waiting,
holding his chin. He is afraid he ought to understand my English. I
stutter off into French, confounded by the laconic phrases of the
directions. Nevertheless, I make it clear what the paper says.

He cannot believe me. It must say something else as well. He has not
done anything contrary to these directions. He is most distressed.

'_Mais, monsieur, la porte--la porte--elle ferme_ pas--_elle s'ouvre_--'

He skipped to the door and showed me the whole tragic mystery. The door,
it is shut--_ecco_! He releases the catch, and pouf!--she flies open.
She flies _open_. It is quite final.

The brown, expressionless, ageless eyes, that remind me of a monkey's,
or of onyx, wait for me. I feel the responsibility devolve upon me. I