Milan, 1 November 1816, 12:30 a.m.
General Infirmary
Doctor Vercesi, now more pallid and sicklier than usual, left the operating theatre as he dragged his feet along the floor as if he were a drunkard on the brink of bottle aches.
‘How is Biraghi?’ asked Ziani with his heart in his throat.
‘The shot hasn’t injured vital organs, but he’s lost a lot of blood’.
‘He’s the one to have put me on the right track. Had I earlier imagined that …"
‘This isn’t your fault, Marco,’ added Sangalli, ‘but that dozing Landriani’s!’
‘Whoever is to blame, the important thing is to save yourself. Have you been by the headquarters?
‘Of course; I’ve collected the copy of your house keys and I’ve asked Peppino to fish out information about the conjurer you bumped off’.
‘Speaking of whom, when
