It was clear that Kalmon had learned of Corbario’s departure from Aurora, perhaps through her mother.  He had probably dined with them, for he was intimate at the house, and Aurora had spoken of Marcello’s visit.  There was no reason why she should not have done so, and yet Marcello wished that she had kept it to herself a little longer.  It had meant so much to him, and it suddenly seemed as if it had meant nothing at all to her.  She had perhaps repeated to her mother everything that had been said, or almost everything, for she was very fond of her.

Marcello told himself roughly that since he had no right to love her, and was determined not to, he had no claim upon such little delicacies of discretion and silence on her part; and his problem stuck up its head again out of the deep water in which it lived, and glared at him, and shot out all sorts of questions like the wriggling tentacles of an octopus, inviting him to wrestle with them, if only to see how useless all wrestling must be.  He rose again impatiently, took a cigar from a big mahogany box on the table, lit it and smoked savagely, walking up and down.

It was half finished when the door opened and Kalmon was ushered in.  He held out his hand as he came forward, with the air of a man who has no time to lose.

“I am glad to see you,” Marcello said.

“And I am exceedingly glad that you were at home when I called you up,” Kalmon answered.  “Have you really no idea where Corbario is?”

“Not the slightest.  I am only too glad to get rid of him.  I suppose the Contessa told you—­”

“Yes.  I was dining there.  But she only told me half an hour ago, just as I was coming away, and I rushed home to get at the telephone.”

It occurred to Marcello that Kalmon need not have driven all the way to Via Sicilia from the Forum of Trajan merely for the sake of telephoning.

“But what is the hurry?” asked Marcello.  “Do sit down and explain!  I heard this afternoon that you had strong suspicions as to Folco’s part in what happened to me.”

“Something more than suspicions now,” Kalmon answered, settling his big frame in a deep chair before the tire; “but I am afraid he has escaped.”

“Escaped?  He has not the slightest idea that he is suspected!”

“How do you know?  Don’t you see that as he is guilty, he must have soon begun to think that the change in your manner toward him was due to the fact that you suspected him, and that you turned him out because you guessed the truth, though you could not prove it?”

“Perhaps,” Marcello admitted, in a rather preoccupied tone.  “The young lady seems to have repeated to her mother everything I said this afternoon,” he added with evident annoyance.  “Did the Contessa tell you why I quarrelled with Folco to-day?”

“No.  She merely said that there had been angry words and that you had asked him to leave the house.  She herself was surprised, she said, and wondered what could have brought matters to a crisis at last.”