At this Foscari, the tall man with the black beard, looked at Contarini and laughed a little. Contarini glanced at him and smiled with some constraint.
"On such evenings," he continued, "I admit my guests myself, and they wear masks when they come, for though my servants are dismissed to their quarters, and would certainly not betray me for a dice-player, they might let drop the names of my friends if they saw them from an upper window."
At this juncture Zorzi heard the rattling of dice, and looking down the table he saw that two of the company were already throwing against each other. In a few minutes he found himself sitting alone near Zuan Venier, all the others having either begun to play themselves, or being engaged in wagering on the play of others.
"And you, sir?" inquired Zorzi of his neighbour.
"I am tired of games of chance," answered the pale nobleman wearily.
"But our host says it is a mere pretence, to hide the purpose of these meetings."
"It is more than that," said Venier with a contemptuous smile. "Do you play?"
"I am a poor artist, sir. I cannot."
"Ah, I had forgotten. That is very interesting. But pray do not call me 'sir' nor use any formality, unless we meet in public. At the 'Sign of the Angel' we are all brothers. Yes—yes—of course! You are a poor artist. When I expected to be obliged to cut your throat awhile ago, I really hoped that I might be able to fulfil some last wish of yours."
"I appreciated your goodness." Zorzi laughed a little nervously, now that the danger was over.