Cutbill was silent for some time. He seemed like one revolving some project in his mind, but unable to decide on what he should do. At last he said,—
“You remember a young Englishman who made his escape from Ischia last June?”
“To be sure I do,—my comrade.”
“You will be astonished to know he was a Bramleigh,—a brother of the owner of the estate.”
“It was so like my luck to have trusted him,” said the other, bitterly.
“You are wrong there. He was always your friend,—he is so at this moment. I have heard him talk of you with great kindliness.”
A careless shrug of the shoulders was the reply.
“Tell him from me,” said he, with a savage grin, “that Onofrio,—don't forget the name,—Onofrio is dead. We threw him over the cliff the night we broke the jail. There, let me write it for you,” said he, taking the pencil from Cutbill's hand, and writing the word Onofrio in a large bold character.
“Keep that pencil-case, will you, as a souvenir?” said Cutbill.
“Give me ten francs instead, and I'll remember you when I pay for my dinner,” said he, with a grating laugh; and he took the handful of loose silver Cutbill offered him, and thrust it into his pocket. “Is n't that Souza we see in the valley there? Yes; I remember it well. I'll go no further with you—there's a police-station where I had trouble once. I 'll take the cross-path here that leads down to the Pinarola Road. I thank you heartily. I wanted a little good-nature much when you overtook me. Goodbye.”