"On the 24th of March, four-and-forty years ago, the Signora Fortini
departed this life, Signor Professore. But for that gracious
disposition of Providence, who knows that his lot, or worse, might
not have been mine? From Eve downwards, Signor Professore, from Eve
downwards, it is the same story--always the same story, in one shape
or another--in one shape or another."
The Professor, who was the lawyer's junior by some thirty years,
turned away with a shrug of the shoulders, and stepped across the
room to the small escritoire near the window. There opening, without
hesitation, and with the manner of a man familiar with the place, a
small concealed drawer, he called the lawyer to him.
"Just come here and look at the contents of this drawer, Signor
Fortini. There is a curious meaning in them."
Fortini went across from the bed to the escritoire, and the
Professor took from the drawer and showed to him a small coloured
drawing of a human form, with just such a mark on it as had been
visible on the spot of the wound which had destroyed La Bianca's
life. He showed him also, in the same secret receptacle, a long very
finely tempered needle, and a small quantity of perfectly white wax.
"Good God, Professor! Were you aware of the existence of these
things here?" cried the lawyer, aghast.
"I knew that they were where I have now found them some four or five
months ago--towards the end of last year.
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