"It's all right," he whispered, "There's the strada just beyond this wall!"
Wilsnach, with an arm about his colleague, scurried unsteadily along the deep shadows of the house-fronts, rounding a corner and striking further eastward.
"And there's a carrozza!" panted Kestner, with his hand pressed to his side.
Wilsnach, the next moment, was hailing the driver. Night-hawks, the world over, can never afford to be too inquisitive. So the swarthy little Sicilian made no comment as the all but helpless Kestner was lifted bodily into the open carriage.
"Where to?" asked Wilsnach, jumping in beside him, with one glance back to make sure they were not being followed.
"Tell him to get us down to the Via Francesco Crispi, quick!" was the determined but weak-toned answer.
Wilsnach repeated the order. Then, as he sat back on the worn seat-cushions, he stared down at his hand, rubbing his fingers slowly together and stooping over them in the white moonlight.
He slipped one hand back over Kestner's left shoulder.
"There's blood on your coat," he suddenly announced. The other man languidly lifted a hand and felt his wet shoulder.
"I got a crack on the collar-bone," he explained, with a wan attempt at a laugh.
"Is that all?"
Again Kestner raised a languid hand and felt gin-
