Meanwhile Florian Varillo had not gone to Naples.  He had been turned back by a spectre evoked from his own conscience—­coward fear.  He was on his way to the station when he suddenly discovered that he had lost the sheath of his dagger.  A cold perspiration broke out on his forehead as this fact flashed upon him.  What had he done with it?  Surely he had drawn the weapon out and left the sheath in his breast pocket as usual—­but no!—­search as he would, he could not find it.  It must have dropped on the floor of Angela’s studio!  If that were so, he would be traced!—­most surely traced—­as the sheath was of curious and uncommon workmanship, and many of his friends had seen it.  He had told everybody he was going to Naples, and of course he would be followed there.  Then, he would not go!  But he went to the station as if bent on the journey, and took a ticket for Naples.  Then, setting down his portmanteau on a bench, he surreptitiously tore off the label on which his name was written, and tearing it up in small bits scattered the fragments on the line.  After this, he walked away leisurely, leaving the portmanteau behind him for there was nothing in it by which he could be traced, and sauntered slowly out of the station into the streets of Rome once more.  Hailing the first fiacre he saw, he told the driver to take him to Frascati.  The man was either lazy or sulky.

“Why not take the train, Signor?”

“Because I wish to drive!” replied Varillo.  “What is your fare?”

“Twenty-five francs for half the way!” said the man, showing his white teeth in a mischievous grin.

“Good!”

The driver was surprised, as he had not thought his terms would be accepted.  But he made no further demur, and Varillo jumped into the vehicle, his teeth chattering with an inward terror he could not control.  “Drive quickly!” he said.

The man shouted an affirmative, and they clattered away through the streets, Varillo shrinking back in the carriage overcome by panic.  What a fool he had been!—­what a fool!  He ought to have told Pon-Pon.  If the dagger-sheath were found and taken to his residence, it would be recognised instantly!  And all Rome would rise against Angela Sovrani’s murderer.  Murderer!  Yes,—­that was what he had chosen to make of himself!

“It was all an impulse,” he muttered,—­“Just a hot impulse, nothing more!  Just a sudden hatred of her which made me stab her!  It was enough to make any man angry to see such a picture as that painted by a woman!  Her fame would have ruined mine!  But I never meant to kill her—­no—­no, I never meant to kill her!”

Shuddering and whimpering, he huddled himself in a corner of the carriage, and did not dare to look out of the window to see which way he was being driven.  He only rallied a little when the wheels moved more quietly and smoothly, and he knew that he was on the open road, and out of Rome.  Suddenly, after jolting along a considerable time, the vehicle stopped, and the driver shouted to him.  Varillo dashed down the window and put his head out, almost beside himself with rage.