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Half an hour later we were seated, all four, in the small sitting-room of Signora Lucca, listening to her remarkable narrative of those sinister events, the ending of which we had chanced to witness.

She spoke in rapid and fluent but very unconventional English, which, for the sake of clearness, I will make grammatical.

"I was born in Posilippo, near Naples," said she, "and was the daughter of Augusto Barelli, who was the chief lawyer and once the deputy of that part.

Gennaro was in my father's employment, and I came to love him, as any woman must.

He had neither money nor position - nothing but his beauty and strength and energy - so my father forbade the match.

We fled together, were married at Bari, and sold my jewels to gain the money which would take us to America.

This was four years ago, and we have been in New York ever since.

"Fortune was very good to us at first.

Gennaro was able to do a service to an Italian gentleman- he saved him from some ruffians in the place called the Bowery and so made a powerful friend.

His name was Tito Castalotte and he was the senior partner of the great firm of Castalotte and Zamba, who are the chief fruit importers of New York.

Signor Zamba is an invalid, and our new friend Castalotte has all power within the firm, which employs more than three hundred men.

He took my husband into his employment, made him head of a department, and showed his good-will towards him in every way.

Signor Castalotte was a bachelor, and I believe that he felt as if Gennaro was his son, and both my husband and I loved him as if he were our father.

We had taken and furnished a little house in Brooklyn, and our whole future seemed assured when that black cloud appeared which was soon to overspread our sky.

"One night, when Gennaro returned from his work, he brought a fellow-countryman back with him.

His name was Gorgiano, and he had come also from Posilippo.

He was a huge man, as you can testify, for you have looked upon his corpse.

Not only was his body that of a giant but everything about him was grotesque, gigantic, and terrifying.

His voice was like thunder in our little house.

There was scarce room for the whirl of his great arms as he talked.

His thoughts, his emotions, his passions, all were exaggerated and monstrous.

He talked, or rather roared, with such energy that others could but sit and listen, cowed with the mighty stream of words.

His eyes blazed at you and held you at his mercy.

He was a terrible and wonderful man.

I thank God that he is dead!

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