away from
Naples. But the people of the island! Could he leave them just now?
Could he leave Hermione so near to the hands of Fate, those hands which
were surely stretched out towards her, which might grasp her at any
moment, even to-night, and alter her life forever? No, he knew he could
not.

"There is a note for Monsieur!"

He took it from the hall porter.

"No, I'll walk up-stairs."

He had seen the lift was not below, and did not wish to wait for its
descent. Vere's writing was on the envelope he held; but Vere's writing
distorted, frantic, tragic. He knew before he opened the envelope that
it must contain some dreadful statement or some wild appeal; and he
hurried to his room, almost feeling the pain and fear of the writer burn
through the paper to his hand.

"DEAR MONSIEUR EMILE,--Please come to the island _at once_.
Something terrible has happened. I don't know what it is. But
Madre is--No, I can't put it. Oh, _do come_--please--please come!

VERE

"Come the _quickest_ way."

"Something terrible has happened." He knew at once what it was. The
walls of the cell in which he had enclosed his friend had crumbled away.
The spirit which for so long had rested upon a lie had been torn from
its repose, had been scourged to its feet to face the fierce light of
truth. How would it face the truth?

"But Madre is--No, I can't put it."

That phrase struck a chill almost of horror to his soul. He stared at it
for a moment trying to imagine--things. Then he tore the note up.

The quickest way to the island!

"I shall not be in to dinner to-night."

He was speaking to the waiter at the door of the Egyptian Room. A minute
later he was in the Via Chiatamone at the back of the hotel waiting for
the tram. He must go by Posilipo to the Trattoria del Giardinetto, walk
down to the village below, and take a boat from there to the island.
That was the quickest way. The tram-bell sounded. Was he glad? As he
watched the tram gliding towards him he was conscious of an almost
terrible reluctance--a reluctance surely of fear--to go that night to
the island.

But he must go.

The sun was setting when he got down before the Trattoria del
Giardinetto. Three soldiers were sitting at a table outside on the dusty
road, clinking their glasses of marsala together, and singing, "Piange
Rosina! La Mamma ci domanda." Their brown faces looked vivid with the
careless happiness of youth. As Artois went down from the roa