ong by the sea, as
he did not wish to meet acquaintances, and was likely to meet them in
the Villa. As he drew near to Mergellina he felt a great and growing
reluctance to do what he had come to do, to make inquiries into a
certain matter; and he believed that this reluctance, awake within him
although perhaps he had scarcely been aware of it, had kept him inactive
during many days. Yet he was not sure of this. He was not sure when a
faint suspicion had first been born in his mind. Even now he said to
himself that what he meant to do, if explained to the ordinary man,
would probably seem to him ridiculous, that the ordinary man would
say, "What a wild idea! Your imagination runs riot." But he thought of
certain subtle things which had seemed like indications, like shadowy
pointing fingers; of a look in Gaspare's eyes when they had met his--a
hard, defiant look that seemed shutting him out from something; of a
look in another face one night under the moon; of some words spoken in
a cave with a passion that had reached his heart; of two children
strangely at ease in each other's society. And again the thought pricked
him, "Is not everything possible--even that?" All through his life he
had sought truth with persistence, sometimes almost with cruelty, yet
now he was conscious of timidity, almost of cowardice--as if he feared
to seek it.

Long ago he had known a cowardice akin to this, in Sicily. Then he
had been afraid, not for himself but for another. To-day again the
protective instinct was alive in him. It was that instinct which made
him afraid, but it was also that instinct which kept him to his first
intention, which pushed him on to Mergellina. No safety can be in
ignorance for a strong man. He must know. Then he can act.

When Artois reached Mergellina he looked about for Ruffo, but he could
not see the boy. He had never inquired Ruffo's second name. He might
make a guess at it. Should he? He looked at a group of fishermen who
were talking loudly on the sand just beyond the low wall. One of them
had a handsome face bronzed by the sun, frank hazel eyes, a mouth oddly
sensitive for one of his class. His woolen shirt, wide open, showed a
medal resting on his broad chest, one of those amulets that are said to
protect the fishermen from the dangers of the sea. Artois resolved to
ask this man the question he wished, yet feared to put to some one.
Afterwards he wondered why he had picked out this man. Perhaps it was
bec