Henry returned to his room.
His first impulse was to throw aside the manuscript, and never to look at it again. The one chance of relieving his mind from the dreadful uncertainty that oppressed it, by obtaining positive evidence of the truth, was a chance annihilated by the Countess's death.
What good purpose could be served, what relief could he anticipate, if he read more?
He walked up and down the room. After an interval, his thoughts took a new direction; the question of the manuscript presented itself under another point of view. Thus far, his reading had only informed him that the conspiracy had been planned.
How did he know that the plan had been put in execution?
The manuscript lay just before him on the floor. He hesitated;then picked it up; and, returning to the table, read on as follows, from the point at which he had left off.
'While the Countess is still absorbed in the bold yet ****** combination of circumstances which she has discovered, the Baron returns.
He takes a serious view of the case of the Courier; it may be necessary, he thinks, to send for medical advice. No servant is left in the palace, now the English maid has taken her departure. The Baron himself must fetch the doctor, if the doctor is really needed.
' "Let us have medical help, by all means," his sister replies.
"But wait and hear something that I have to say to you first."She then electrifies the Baron by communicating her idea to him. What danger of discovery have they to dread?
My Lord's life in Venice has been a life of absolute seclusion: nobody but his banker knows him, even by personal appearance.
He has presented his letter of credit as a perfect stranger;and he and his banker have never seen each other since that first visit. He has given no parties, and gone to no parties.
On the few occasions when he has hired a gondola or taken a walk, he has always been alone. Thanks to the atrocious suspicion which makes him ashamed of being seen with his wife, he has led the very life which makes the proposed enterprise easy of accomplishment.
'The cautious Baron listens--but gives no positive opinion, as yet.
"See what you can do with the Courier," he says; "and I will decide when I hear the result. One valuable hint I may give you before you go.
Your man is easily tempted by money--if you only offer him enough.
The other day, I asked him, in jest, what he would do for a thousand pounds. He answered, 'Anything.' Bear that in mind; and offer your highest bid without bargaining."'The scene changes to the Courier's room, and shows the poor wretch with a photographic portrait of his wife in his hand, crying.
The Countess enters.
'She wisely begins by sympathising with her contemplated accomplice.
He is duly grateful; he confides his sorrows to his gracious mistress.
Now that he believes himself to be on his death-bed, he feels remorse for his neglectful treatment of his wife. He could resign himself to die;but despair overpowers him when he remembers that he has saved no money, and that he will leave his widow, without resources, to the mercy of the world.
'On this hint, the Countess speaks. "Suppose you were asked to do a perfectly easy thing," she says; "and suppose you were rewarded for doing it by a present of a thousand pounds, as a legacy for your widow?"'The Courier raises himself on his pillow, and looks at the Countess with an expression of incredulous surprise. She can hardly be cruel enough (he thinks) to joke with a man in his miserable plight.
Will she say plainly what this perfectly easy thing is, the doing of which will meet with such a magnificent reward?
