his finger nail, and tranquilly lighted it with the candle.
"Here, where are you going?" he called, seeing that his wife made a furtive movement towards the door. "Let's enjoy ourselves in peace."
"I must put the boy to bed," she answered, scarcely knowing what she said, and she took refuge in the adjoining room, carrying the child in her arms. She felt sure that the murderer would not dare to enter there. How could he have the dreadful courage to do so? It was the room where the crime was committed, her mother's room; the room that she had shared before her marriage. The poverty that followed the old woman's death had forced Antonia to sell her own bed and use that of the deceased. Believing herself in security, she proceeded to undress the child, who now ventured to sob aloud, and with his face buried on her breast. All at once the door opened and the ex-convict came in.
Antonia saw him cast a side glance around the room; then he proceeded tranquilly to remove his shoes, to undress, and finally stretch himself in the murdered woman's bed. The charwoman felt that she must be dreaming; if her husband had drawn a knife, he would have frightened her less than by this horrible show of tranquillity. He meanwhile stretched and turned between the sheets, sighing with the contentment of a weary man who has obtained the luxury of a soft, clean bed.
"And you?" he exclaimed, turning towards
