Without waiting for a reply he hastily strode out of the inn, banging the door behind him.  He had engaged his room there for the night—­true!—­but—­after all this foolish gabble he resolved he would not go back.  They would still talk of murder, if he did!  Murder was in the air!  Murder seemed written in letters of fire against the clear sky now luminous with the moon and stars!  He was in a fever and a fury—­he walked on and on, little heeding where he went.  What the devil had brought Gherardi to that particular inn at that particular time of night?  He could not imagine.  For though he knew most scandals in Rome, the scandal of the priest’s “villa d’amour” at Frascati, was a secret too closely guarded for anyone save the sharpest of professional detectives to discover, and he was totally ignorant of it.  He wondered restlessly whether the crafty Vatican spy had seen him while pretending not to see?  If that were so, then he was lost!  He could not satisfy himself as to whether he had really escaped observation, and tormented by this reflection he walked on and on, the burning impetus of his thoughts hastening his footsteps.  A cold wind began to rise,—­a chill, damp breath of the Campagna, bringing malaria with it.  He felt heated and giddy, and there was a curious sense of fulness in his veins which oppressed him and made him uncertain of his movements.  Presently he stopped, and stood gazing vaguely from left to right.  He was surely not on the road to Frascati?  There was a tall shadowy building not far from him, surrounded with eucalyptus trees—­he tried to locate it, but somehow though, as a native of Rome and an artist, he was familiar with most of the Campagna, he did not recognise this part of it.  How bright the stars were!  Living points of fire flashing in dense purple!—­one could never paint them!  The golden round of the moon spreading wide reflections on the road, seemed to his excited mind like a magic ring environing him, drawing him in, pointing him out as the one criminal for whom all the world was seeking.  He had no idea of the time,—­his watch had stopped.  He began to count up hours.  He remembered that when he had gone to see Angela, it was about four o’clock.  He had known perfectly well that she was alone, for he had seen the Cardinal drive past him in the streets on the way to the Vatican, and he had heard at his “Cercolo” or club, that Prince Sovrani had gone out of Rome for a few hours.  And, thus informed, he had timed his visit to Angela well.  Then, had he meant to kill her?  No.  He was quite certain that he never had had any such intention.  Then what had been his purpose?  First, to see her picture, and then to condemn it.  Not harshly, but gently—­with the chill toleration and faint commiseration of the critic who pretends to judge everything.  He knew—­none better—­the glowing ardour and enthusiasm of the genius which was as much a part of Angela as colour is part of a rose,—­his intention had been to freeze