“Go on,” cried Philip.  “I have paid him plenty.”

A horrible hand pushed three soldi into his lap.  It was part of the idiot’s malady only to receive what was just for his services.  This was the change out of the nickel piece.

“Go on!” shouted Philip, and flung the money into the road.  He was frightened at the episode; the whole of life had become unreal.  It was a relief to be out of the Siena gate.  They drew up for a moment on the terrace.  But there was no sign of Harriet.  The driver called to the Dogana men.  But they had seen no English lady pass.

“What am I to do?” he cried; “it is not like the lady to be late.  We shall miss the train.”

“Let us drive slowly,” said the driver, “and you shall call her by name as we go.”

So they started down into the night, Philip calling “Harriet!  Harriet!  Harriet!” And there she was, waiting for them in the wet, at the first turn of the zigzag.

“Harriet, why don’t you answer?”

“I heard you coming,” said she, and got quickly in.  Not till then did he see that she carried a bundle.

“What’s that?”

“Hush—­”

“Whatever is that?”

“Hush—­sleeping.”

Harriet had succeeded where Miss Abbott and Philip had failed.  It was the baby.

She would not let him talk.  The baby, she repeated, was asleep, and she put up an umbrella to shield it and her from the rain.  He should hear all later, so he had to conjecture the course of the wonderful interview—­an interview between the South pole and the North.  It was quite easy to conjecture:  Gino crumpling up suddenly before the intense conviction of Harriet; being told, perhaps, to his face that he was a villain; yielding his only son perhaps for money, perhaps for nothing.  “Poor Gino,” he thought.  “He’s no greater than I am, after all.”

Then he thought of Miss Abbott, whose carriage must be descending the darkness some mile or two below them, and his easy self-accusation failed.  She, too, had conviction; he had felt its force; he would feel it again when she knew this day’s sombre and unexpected close.

“You have been pretty secret,” he said; “you might tell me a little now.  What do we pay for him?  All we’ve got?”

“Hush!” answered Harriet, and dandled the bundle laboriously, like some bony prophetess—­Judith, or Deborah, or Jael.  He had last seen the baby sprawling on the knees of Miss Abbott, shining and naked, with twenty miles of view behind him, and his father kneeling by his feet.  And that remembrance, together with Harriet, and the darkness, and the poor idiot, and the silent rain, filled him with sorrow and with the expectation of sorrow to come.

Monteriano had long disappeared, and he could see nothing but the occasional wet stem of an olive, which their lamp illumined as they passed it.  They travelled quickly, for this driver did not care how fast he went to the station, and would dash down each incline and scuttle perilously round the curves.