He tried to think how amusing it was; but it would not do—­Miss Abbott’s presence affected him too personally.  Either she suspected him of dishonesty, or else she was being dishonest herself.  He preferred to suppose the latter.  Perhaps she had seen Gino, and they had prepared some elaborate mortification for the Herritons.  Perhaps Gino had sold the baby cheap to her for a joke:  it was just the kind of joke that would appeal to him.  Philip still remembered the laughter that had greeted his fruitless journey, and the uncouth push that had toppled him on to the bed.  And whatever it might mean, Miss Abbott’s presence spoilt the comedy:  she would do nothing funny.

During this short meditation he had walked through the city, and was out on the other side.  “Where does Signor Carella live?” he asked the men at the Dogana.

“I’ll show you,” said a little girl, springing out of the ground as Italian children will.

“She will show you,” said the Dogana men, nodding
reassuringly.  “Follow her always, always, and you will come
to no harm.  She is a trustworthy guide.  She is my
    daughter.”
    cousin.”
    sister.”

Philip knew these relatives well:  they ramify, if need be, all over the peninsula.

“Do you chance to know whether Signor Carella is in?” he asked her.

She had just seen him go in.  Philip nodded.  He was looking forward to the interview this time:  it would be an intellectual duet with a man of no great intellect.  What was Miss Abbott up to?  That was one of the things he was going to discover.  While she had it out with Harriet, he would have it out with Gino.  He followed the Dogana’s relative softly, like a diplomatist.

He did not follow her long, for this was the Volterra gate, and the house was exactly opposite to it.  In half a minute they had scrambled down the mule-track and reached the only practicable entrance.  Philip laughed, partly at the thought of Lilia in such a building, partly in the confidence of victory.  Meanwhile the Dogana’s relative lifted up her voice and gave a shout.

For an impressive interval there was no reply.  Then the figure of a woman appeared high up on the loggia.

“That is Perfetta,” said the girl.

“I want to see Signor Carella,” cried Philip.

“Out!”

“Out,” echoed the girl complacently.

“Why on earth did you say he was in?” He could have strangled her for temper.  He had been just ripe for an interview—­just the right combination of indignation and acuteness:  blood hot, brain cool.  But nothing ever did go right in Monteriano.  “When will he be back?” he called to Perfetta.  It really was too bad.

She did not know.  He was away on business.  He might be back this evening, he might not.  He had gone to Poggibonsi.

At the sound of this word the little girl put her fingers to her nose and swept them at the plain.  She sang as she did so, even as her foremothers had sung seven hundred years back—­