ould think you would do well in
America. Others do, and why not you?"

They looked at each other hard for a full minute. Then Salvatore said,
slowly:

"Signore, I will tell you the truth. It is the truth. I would swear it
with sea-water on my lips. If I had the money I would go to America. I
would take the first ship."

"And your daughter, Maddalena? You couldn't leave her behind you?"

"Signore, if I were ever to go to America you may be sure I should take
Maddalena with me."

"I think you would," Artois said, still looking at the man full in the
eyes. "I think it would be wiser to take Maddalena with you."

Salvatore looked away.

"If I had the money, signore, I would buy the tickets to-morrow. Here I
can make nothing, and it is a hard life, always on the sea. And in
America you get good pay. A man can earn eight lire a day there, they
tell me."

"I have not seen your daughter yet," Artois said, abruptly.

"No, signore, she is not well to-day. And the Signor Pretore frightened
her. She will stay in the house to-day."

"But I should like to see her for a moment."

"Signore, I am very sorry, but--"

Artois turned round in the chair and looked towards the house. The door,
which had been open, was now shut.

"Maddalena is praying, signore. She is praying to the Madonna for the
soul of the dead signore."

For the first time Artois noticed in the hard, bird-like face of the
fisherman a sign of emotion, almost of softness.

"We must not disturb her, signore."

Artois got up and went a few steps nearer to the cottage.

"Can one see the place where the signore's body was found?" he asked.

"Si, signore, from the other side, among the trees."

"I will come back in a moment," said Artois.

He walked away from the fisherman and entered the wood, circling the
cottage. The fisherman did not come with him. Artois's instinct had told
him that the man would not care to come on such an errand. As Artois
passed at the back of the cottage he noticed an open window, and paused
near it in the long grass. From within there came the sound of a woman's
voice, murmuring. It was frequently interrupted by sobs. After a moment
Artois went close to the window, and said, but without showing himself:

"Maddalena!"

The murmuring voice stopped.

"Maddalena!"

There was silence.

"Maddalena!" Artois said. "Are you listening?"

He heard a faint movement as if the woman within came nearer to the
casement.

"If you lo