“Blood!” exclaimed the sergeant. “Look! There’s blood on his gown!”
“Stand up!” commanded the officer.
Cavalcini slipped to the floor and crawled forward on his hands and knees, gibbering.
Then the officer, searching the pockets of Cavalcini’s gown, pulled out a handful of hundred-drachma notes.
“Arrest him!” he said, calmly.
Cavalcini was pulled on to his feet and half-dragged, half-carried to the dark little hole, less than four feet high, that is to be found in the stone wall at the top of the stairway.
There he lay in a muddled heap, bereft of sense, every nerve quivering.
Three months later, Aristides, with his woman, was dining at one of the flashy restaurants on the quay-side.
“Tell me!” she said, pressing her foot upon his and rubbing his calf against her knee; “tell me! Where did you get all your money?”
“Well,” said he, smiling at her cunningly, “it was given me by a great friend of mine in prison. He used to give me half of everything he had. Poor devil! He’s dead. They shot him. He didn’t behave himself very well. He murdered one of the sentries.”