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Updated: June 24, 2025
When Giannoli informed me that he was a police-spy I really did not know whether to believe him or not. And as the weeks passed on, Giannoli's condition grew worse and worse, and I could see that a crisis must inevitably follow. Nor was I mistaken in this conviction.
He has no time to indulge in personal sentiment. Good-bye," and before I had time to answer he was gone. I returned home and spent the remainder of the day locked in my room, absorbed in many conflicting thoughts. I was grieved beyond words at Giannoli's trouble, at the possibility of foul play, at the almost more grievous possibility of mental disorder in him.
But in the meantime, had we not better get supper somewhere, and discuss the situation over a little reassuring food?" This unheroic but practical suggestion met with poor Giannoli's approbation, and he confessed to not having broken his fast all day.
After you left, towards one o'clock, I went off to Giannoli's room to fetch his box. I confess that I felt a little nervous about this, for I dreaded an encounter with that horrible Mrs. Wattles. She talks and talks and talks to me whenever she sees me, and insists upon asking the most indelicate questions. She is a perfect savage. But no matter; let me get on.
"It is little better than a picture gallery," murmured Kosinski, "but it will do if you are tired," and we sat down. Kosinski advised me to feign absolute ignorance of Giannoli's whereabouts and to set afloat the idea of his having committed suicide. He asked me to let him know as soon as I received news from the fugitive, and he, in the meantime, would investigate the matter of the "conspiracy."
I had not chanced to see him since Giannoli's last letter in which he was denounced as belonging to the ranks of the Italian's false friends, since when I had only heard the insinuations of Short, which, as can easily be imagined, had not deeply impressed me, coming from such a quarter.
I remained alone with Kosinski. The hour was still quite early, and there was much to be talked over together. "Let us go to some picture gallery," I suggested, "so as to talk things over and to settle what we are to give out concerning Giannoli's disappearance." "No, please, don't," answered the Russian in genuine alarm; "you know how I hate art, Isabel. It goads me to madness.
A few scraps of this anticlimax, mingled with hiccups and sobs, wafted after me as I wended my way up the uneven wooden stairs. At the top of these a perilous-looking ladder gave access to a trap-door, through which I dexterously made my way into Giannoli's room.
One of the worst aspects of the matter, moreover, was that I was really unable to judge how far Giannoli's suspicions were true and how far imaginary. As to his sincerity there was no possibility of doubt, and this lent to all he said an air of verisimilitude which was most convincing.
At the same time he was by no means inclined to make light of Giannoli's fears, and together they talked them over, Kosinski promising to investigate them after his friend's departure, and to see if it was possible to discover who was really at fault. "No man can ever hold such threats over me," said Kosinski, "for I have never taken any one into my confidence. I have always acted alone.
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