Surprised at my generosity, he at first refused--but his natural wish to possess such rare gems finally prevailed, and he took them, overpowering me with thanks--while I was perfectly satisfied to see that I had secured his services so thoroughly by my jeweled bribe, that he either forgot, or else saw no necessity to ask me for personal references, which in my position would have been exceeding difficult, if not impossible, to obtain.

When this business transaction was entirely completed, I devoted myself to my next consideration--which was to disguise myself so utterly that no one should possibly be able to recognize the smallest resemblance in me to the late Fabio Romani, either by look, voice, or trick of manner.

I had always worn a mustache--it had turned white in company with my hair.

I now allowed my beard to grow--it came out white also.

But in contrast with these contemporary signs of age, my face began to fill up and look young again; my eyes, always large and dark, resumed their old flashing, half-defiant look--a look, which it seemed to me, would make some familiar suggestion to those who had once known me as I was before I died.