“At last, my dear fellow! I’ve worked it out completely. Failure has become absolutely impossible.” Malvano, still seated in his chair, leaned back and contemplated with admiration the object which his companion had placed before him—an exquisite little marble bust of King Humbert of Italy. It was only about eighteen inches high, but a faithful and beautifully executed copy of that celebrated head by the renowned Pisan sculptor, Fontacchiotti, which is so prominent a figure in the centre of the great reception hall of the Quirinal at Rome. Plaster replicas of this bust can be bought everywhere throughout Italy for half a franc, and are to be found in most houses of the loyal, while larger ones stand in every court of justice. But this miniature reproduction before the Doctor was really an admirable work of art, one such as connoisseur would admire.
Nenci had not chiselled it, but had apparently been doing something to its small base of polished malachite. The hand that had succeeded in reproducing the features so exactly was without doubt a master-hand. On the table where the sallow-faced man had been working stood two other busts exactly similar in every detail, both in little cases of polished wood, lined with crimson velvet, and each bearing the royal monogram in gilt upon its base, exactly similar to the one in the Quirinal.
“It’s excellent. The Gobbo has certainly turned them out marvellously well,” the Doctor observed.
“He’s a genius,” the other said enthusiastically. “The reproduction is so exact that detection is absolutely impossible. Look!” And taking up a photograph of a miniature bust standing upon a carved shelf against a frescoed wall, they both compared it with the one before them. “Do you see that small chip in the base?” Nenci said, pointing to the picture. “The Gobbo has even reproduced that.”
“A wonderful piece of work,” Malvano acquiesced. “Very neat, and very pretty.”
“After it leaves our hands it won’t want many servants to keep it dusted,” his companion observed grimly. “You see, the base being circular is made to move,” he added, taking the little ornament in his hand. “You twist it slightly—so, and the thing is done. You see those two scratches across the stone. The base must be so turned as to join them. And then to the very instant—well—” And he broke off without concluding his sentence.
“It will strike the half-hour, eh?” the Doctor suggested with a laugh.
The other raised his shoulders and outspread his palms. Then, regarding his handiwork with the keenest satisfaction, he thrust his hands deep into his pockets, and, leaning against the mantelshelf, gaily hummed the popular Neapolitan chorus—
“Pecchè. Ndringhete-ndringhete-ndrà
Mmiez’ ’o mare nu scoglio nce sta!
Tutte venene a bevere ccà,
Pecchè. Ndringhete-ndringhete-ndrà.”
The Doctor, with fingers stained yellow by the acids he had been mixing, the fumes of which filled the small den almost to suffocation, took up the beautiful little bust and examined its green polished base with critical eye, turning it over and over, and weighing it carefully in his hand.