"Which means that you do not know their names, Captain?"
Pietro Falier sighed. This friar never failed to humble him, he thought. If it were not for the honors which the monk had obtained for the police since he began his work in Venice, the Captain said that he would not lift a hand to save him from the meanest bravo in Italy.
"You do not know their names, Captain—confess, confess," continued the priest, raising his hand in a bantering gesture; "you come to me with some gossip of the bed-chamber, your ears have been open in the market-place, and this tittle-tattle is your purchase—confess, confess."
The Captain flushed as he would have done before no other in all
Venice.
"I do not know their names, Excellency," he stammered; "it is gossip from the bravo's kitchen. They say that you are to die before Mass to-morrow. I implore you not to leave this house to-night. We shall know how to do the rest if you will but remain indoors."
It was an earnest entreaty, but it fell upon deaf ears. The priest answered by taking a sheet of paper and beginning to write upon it.
"I am indebted to you, Signor Falier," said he, quietly, "and you know that I am not the man to forget my obligations. None the less, I fear that I must disregard your warning, for I have an appointment in the market to-night, and my word is not so easily broken. Let me reassure you a little. The news that you bring to me, and for which I am your debtor, was known to me three days ago. Here upon this paper I have written down the name of the woman and of her confederates who have hired the bravo Rocca to kill me to-night in the shadow of the church of San Salvatore. You will read that paper and the woman's name—when you have my permission."
Falier stepped back dumb with amazement.
"The woman's name, Excellency," he repeated, so soon as his surprise permitted him to speak, "you know her, then?"
"Certainly, or how could I write it upon the paper?"