‘Not far away, so please you,’ answered Cestus; ‘on the other side of the Aventine, nigh to the Ostian road.’
‘It is late,’ muttered Fabricius.
‘It is,’ observed the friend of Lupus, ‘but Death is not particular as to time. In fact he seems to prefer the night-time. If Lupus live past midnight I shall wonder. Imagine, noble sir, a block of marble crushing poor flesh and bone—ugh, ’tis terrible!’
‘You saw it?’
‘I did—worse luck.’
‘You are a labourer like him?’
‘I am—see!’
The worthy labourer showed his hands. They had been specially rubbed and engrained with dirt before washing. So cleverly were they prepared, that they might have belonged to any hard-handed son of toil.
‘Did your comrade never tell you of this theft before?’
‘Never.’