to Salvatore's
terreno."

"I suppose he bathed from there. He knew the people in the Casa delle
Sirene, I believe."

She spoke indifferently. It seemed to her so utterly useless, this
inquiry by strangers into the cause of her sorrow.

"I must just write something," she added.

She went up the steps into the sitting-room. Gaspare was there with three
men--the Pretore, the Cancelliere and the Maresciallo. As she came in the
strangers turned and saluted her with grave politeness, all looking
earnestly at her with their dark eyes. But Gaspare did not look at her.
He had the ugly expression on his face that Hermione had noticed the day
before.

"Will you please allow me to write a line to a friend?" Hermione said.
"Then I shall be ready to answer your questions."

"Certainly, signora," said the Pretore; "we are very sorry to disturb
you, but it is our duty."

He had gray hair and a dark mustache, and his black eyes looked as if
they had been varnished.

Hermione went to the writing-table, while the men stood in silence
filling up the little room.

"What shall I say?" she thought.

She heard the boots of the Cancelliere creak as he shifted his feet upon
the floor. The Maresciallo cleared his throat. There was a moment of
hesitation. Then he went to the steps and spat upon the terrace.

"Don't come yet," she wrote, slowly.

Then she turned round.

"How long will your inquiry take, do you think, signore?" she asked of
the Pretore. "When will--when can the funeral take place?"

"Signora, I trust to-morrow. I hope--I do not suppose there will be any
reason to suspect, after what Dr. Marini has told us and we have seen,
that the death was anything but an accident--an accident which we all
most deeply grieve for."

"It was an accident."

She stood by the table with the pen in her hand.

"I suppose--I suppose he must be buried in the Campo Santo?" she said.

"Do you wish to convey the body to England, signora?"

"Oh no. He loved Sicily. He wished to stay always here, I think,
although--"

She broke off.

"I could never take him away from Sicily. But there is a place
here--under the oak-trees. He was very fond of it."

Gaspare began to sob, then controlled himself with a desperate effort,
turned round and stood with his face to the wall.

"I suppose, if I could buy a piece of land there, it could not be
permitted--?"

She looked at the Pretore.

"I am very sorry, signora, such a thing could not pos