Suddenly he knew that he had reached one of the great cross-roads in his life, and that fate had dragged him violently to it within the last few hours, to make him choose his way.  The full-grown character of the man rebelled against being forced to a decision in spite of himself, but revolted at the thought of fearing to do what was right and honourable.  He was not hesitating as he sat still in silence after Regina had spoken.  He was thinking, with the firm determination to act as soon as he had reached a decision.  When a man can do that, his weakness is past.

Regina did not interrupt the current of his thoughts, and as she watched him she forgot all about the present; and they were just together, where they had so often been happy, and she loved him with all her heart.  That was her strength.  It had nothing to do with right or wrong, honour or dishonour, credit or discredit, or any choice of ways.  She had no choice.  She loved.  It was a very simple thing.

He looked up at last.  She was still wearing the loose dressing-gown she had worn all night.

“Could you sleep now?” he asked.

“No.”

“Then you must dress,” he said.  “While you are dressing I will walk up to the villa and give some orders.  Then I will come and get you in a closed carriage.  Put together what you may need for the day, and I will have all your things moved before night.”

“Are you really going to take me away from here?” Regina asked, regretfully.

“Yes.  I must.  It will be easy to find a place that will please you better.  Will you do as I have said?”

“Why do you ask?  I go.”

She rose and stood beside him a moment while he sat still, and her hand caressed his short fair hair.  She bent down and kissed the close waves of it, near his forehead.

“We have been very happy here,” she said quietly.

She slipped away as he rose to his feet, with the sudden conviction that something had happened.

“What is it?” he asked quickly, and making a step after her.

“I am going to dress,” she answered.

She turned her head and smiled, but there was a touch of sadness in the look, as if she was saying good-bye.  He partly understood, and her expression was reflected in his own face.  They had been so happy in the little house in Trastevere.

When the door had closed Marcello went to find Kalmon.  He met him at the foot of the stairs.

“The fellow is alive, and will probably recover,” said the Professor, in answer to the unasked question in Marcello’s eyes.

“It would simplify matters if he died,” said Marcello.  “Will you walk up to the villa with me and have coffee?  We cannot get a cab at this hour on this side of the Tiber.”

“Thank you,” Kalmon answered, “but I must go home.  The house is in charge of the police, and there is nothing more to be done here.  They have already taken the woman’s body to San Spirito, and they will move Corbario in a few hours.  He is badly mauled, but no big arteries are torn.  I must go home and write a letter.  The Contessa must not hear what has happened through the newspapers.”