He went into the dining-room to look for Harriet.  Harriet was not to be found.  Her bedroom, too, was empty.  All that was left of her was the purple prayer-book which lay open on the bed.  Philip took it up aimlessly, and saw—­“Blessed be the Lord my God who teacheth my hands to war and my fingers to fight.”  He put the book in his pocket, and began to brood over more profitable themes.

Santa Deodata gave out half past eight.  All the luggage was on, and still Harriet had not appeared.  “Depend upon it,” said the landlady, “she has gone to Signor Carella’s to say good-bye to her little nephew.”  Philip did not think it likely.  They shouted all over the house and still there was no Harriet.  He began to be uneasy.  He was helpless without Miss Abbott; her grave, kind face had cheered him wonderfully, even when it looked displeased.  Monteriano was sad without her; the rain was thickening; the scraps of Donizetti floated tunelessly out of the wineshops, and of the great tower opposite he could only see the base, fresh papered with the advertisements of quacks.

A man came up the street with a note.  Philip read, “Start at once.  Pick me up outside the gate.  Pay the bearer.  H. H.”

“Did the lady give you this note?” he cried.

The man was unintelligible.

“Speak up!” exclaimed Philip.  “Who gave it you—­and where?”

Nothing but horrible sighings and bubblings came out of the man.

“Be patient with him,” said the driver, turning round on the box.  “It is the poor idiot.”  And the landlady came out of the hotel and echoed “The poor idiot.  He cannot speak.  He takes messages for us all.”

Philip then saw that the messenger was a ghastly creature, quite bald, with trickling eyes and grey twitching nose.  In another country he would have been shut up; here he was accepted as a public institution, and part of Nature’s scheme.

“Ugh!” shuddered the Englishman.  “Signora padrona, find out from him; this note is from my sister.  What does it mean?  Where did he see her?”

“It is no good,” said the landlady.  “He understands everything but he can explain nothing.”

“He has visions of the saints,” said the man who drove the cab.

“But my sister—­where has she gone?  How has she met him?”

“She has gone for a walk,” asserted the landlady.  It was a nasty evening, but she was beginning to understand the English.  “She has gone for a walk—­perhaps to wish good-bye to her little nephew.  Preferring to come back another way, she has sent you this note by the poor idiot and is waiting for you outside the Siena gate.  Many of my guests do this.”

There was nothing to do but to obey the message.  He shook hands with the landlady, gave the messenger a nickel piece, and drove away.  After a dozen yards the carriage stopped.  The poor idiot was running and whimpering behind.