Of course they disobeyed her.  They made what search in Venice they could, without rousing a scandal, and Ashe rushed out to join it, using the special means at a minister’s disposal.  But it was fruitless.  Kitty vanished like a wraith in the dawn; and the living world of action and affairs knew her no more.

XXIV

“Well, I must have a carriage!” said William Ashe to the landlord of one of the coaching inns of Domo Dossola—­“and if you can’t give me one for less, I suppose I shall have to pay this most ridiculous charge.  Tell the man to put to at once.”

The landlord who owned the carriages, and would be sitting snugly at home while the peasant on the box faced the elements in consideration of a large number of extra francs to his master, retired with a deferential smile, and told Emilio to bring the horses.

Meanwhile Ashe finished an indifferent dinner, paid a large bill, and went out to survey the preparations for departure, so far as the pelting rain in the court-yard would let him.  He was going over the Simplon, starting rather late in the day, and the weather was abominable.  His valet, Richard Dell, kept watch over the luggage and encouraged the ostlers, with a fairly stoical countenance.  He was an old traveller, and though he would have preferred not to travel in a deluge, he disliked Italy, as a country of sour wine, and would be glad to find himself across the Alps.  Moreover, he knew the decision of his master’s character, and, being a man of some ability and education, he took a pride in the loftiness of the affairs on which Ashe was generally engaged.  If Mr. Ashe said that he must get to Geneva the following morning, and to London the morning after, on important business—­why, he must, and it was no good talking about weather.

They rattled off through the streets of Domo Dossola, Dell in front with the driver, under a waterproof hood and apron, Ashe in the closed landau behind, with a plentiful supply of books, newspapers, and cigars to while away the time.

At Isella, the frontier village, he took advantage of the custom-house formalities and of a certain lull in the storm to stroll a little in front of the inn.  On the Italian side, looking east, there was a certain wild lifting of the clouds, above the lower course of the stream descending from the Gondo ravine; upon the distant meadows and mountain slopes that marked the opening of the Tosa valley, storm-lights came and went, like phantom deer chased by the storm-clouds; beside him the swollen river thundered past, seeking a thirsty Italy; and behind, over the famous Gondo cleft, lay darkness, and a pelting tumult of rain.