CHAPTER XXI

“But you shall not die unavenged, my Superbus!”

Dempsi’s affectionate hand was on his arm. Julius moved away from the fire; he had gone suddenly hot.

“You’re sure he carries firearms?”

Dempsi nodded.

“Loaded? That’s against the lore, sir. A man could be pinched for that.”

Mr. Dempsi treated the matter light-heartedly. Julius could not but feel that his indifference was almost criminal.

“Certain,” he said carelessly. “I’ve never met a desperado yet--and I’ve met a few--that didn’t carry a loaded gun--generally throwing a hollow-nosed bullet. And they’re pretty good shots.”

He appeared to take a pride in their marksmanship. Julius leered at him--there is no other description for the grimace.

“Yes, I suppose so,” he said huskily. “Of course, my good lady----”

Dempsi did not let him finish. He became suddenly serious as though the gravity of the situation had forced itself upon him.

“Your wife? Have no fear, Superbus,” he said quickly. “She shall never want. I will make it my business to see that she is provided for. And your deed shall be commemorated: I promise you that. I myself have suffered from a thoughtless failure to immortalise my name. I have in my mind a great tablet of black marble, chaste of design. Simple yet grand. Plain, yet in a sense decorative. And an inscription in letters of gold:

“‘To the memory of Julius Superbus, A Hero, a Gentleman and a Roman.’”

His voice trembled as he spoke. Already he stood before the monument in tears. Julius wiped the perspiration from his pale face.

“Yes, very pretty,” he said, and now his hoarseness was chronic. “As I was saying, my good lady will be pleased. She always had a good opinion of me, though she’s never mentioned it. But at the same time, though I’m very much obliged to you, and nobody could be kinder about it----”

“Can’t you see her standing reading the inscription?” asked Dempsi in a hushed voice. “Can’t you imagine her looking up to the slab--fixed in a respectable church, perhaps under a stained-glass window--with proud, shining eyes, her children by her side----”

“I haven’t got any children,” said Julius loudly.

Dempsi spread out his expressive hands.

“She may marry again,” he said considerately. “She is probably in the prime of life. There may still be happiness for her.”

Mr. Superbus sat down limply.

“You ain’t half putting the wind up me!” he said fretfully.

Dempsi bent over him, speaking softly.

“To-night I sleep in sound of your voice. Have no hesitation in calling me. Perhaps I may arrive in time to save you. I pray that this may be. I like you. We are--who knows?--kinsmen. He who strikes you, strikes me--Guiseppi Dempsi.”

Mr. Superbus got up; his knees were without strength, his tongue was parched.

“Well, if you’re sleeping here, and Mr. Bobbie is sleeping here, there doesn’t seem any call for me to stay, does there? Not that it worries me. Far from it. Danger is always welcome to a Superbus. It’s my good lady I’m thinking of. I was going to sleep in this room. Seems silly.”

“I shall be on hand,” said Mr. Dempsi, and examined the short-barrelled revolver he had taken from his hip pocket.

Julius almost swooned.

“I’m a match for any man of my own weight,” he said, his voice trembling as he thought of the terrible risk which any burglar of his own weight would run, “if he’ll only give me a chance. But they don’t give you a chance. They’re on you before you know where you are--is that fair?”

Dempsi did not answer. Aunt Lizzie had chosen that moment to wander into the room. Julius seized the opportunity to steal from the unnecessary gaiety that shone through Mr. Dempsi’s sympathy--his eagerness to frame epitaphs which Julius would never see, his cold-blooded plottings for the future of his good lady.