Angelo, and it would have been
nearer, but he had a curious fancy that the Dalrymples might walk home,
and that he might see Gloria again. Though it was not yet winter, the
night was bright and cold, and it was pleasant to walk. The regular
season at the Apollo Theatre did not begin until Christmas, but there
were often good companies there at other times of the year.

The artist walked on, glancing at the groups he passed in the dim
street, but neither pausing nor hurrying. He meant to let fate have her
own way with him that night.

Fate was not far off. He had gone on some distance, and the crowd had
dispersed in various directions, till he was almost alone as he emerged
into the open space where the Via del Clementino intersects the Ripetta.
At that moment he heard a wild and thrilling burst of song.

"Calpesta il mio cadavere, ma salva il Trovator!"

The great soprano rang out upon the midnight silence, like the voice of
a despairing archangel, and there was nothing more.

"Hush!" exclaimed a man's voice energetically.

Two or three windows were opened high up, for no one had ever heard such
a woman's voice in the streets before. Reanda peered before him through
the gloom, saw three people standing at the next corner, and hastened
his long steps. An instinct he could not explain told him that Gloria
had sung the short strain, which had left him cold and indifferent when
he had heard it in the theatre. He was neither now, and he was possessed
by the desire to be sure that it had been she.

He was not mistaken. Griggs had recognized him first, and they had
waited for him at the corner.

"It is an unexpected pleasure to meet twice in the same day," said
Reanda.

"The pleasure is ours," answered Dalrymple, in the correct phrase, but
with his peculiar accent. "I suppose you heard my daughter's screams,"
he added drily. "She was explaining to us how a particular phrase should
be sung."

"Was I not right?" asked Gloria, quickly appealing to Reanda with the
certainty of support.

"A thousand times right," he answered. "How could one be wrong with such
a voice?"

Gloria was pleased, and they all walked on together till they reached
the door of Dalrymple's lodging.

"Come in and have supper with us," said the Scotchman, who seemed to be
less gloomy than usual. "I suppose you live in our neighbourhood?"

"No. In the Palazzetto Borgia, where I work."

"This is not exactly on your way home, then," o