t's
presence affected him too personally. Either she suspected him of
dishonesty, or else she was being dishonest herself. He preferred to
suppose the latter. Perhaps she had seen Gino, and they had prepared
some elaborate mortification for the Herritons. Perhaps Gino had sold
the baby cheap to her for a joke: it was just the kind of joke that
would appeal to him. Philip still remembered the laughter that had
greeted his fruitless journey, and the uncouth push that had toppled him
on to the bed. And whatever it might mean, Miss Abbott's presence spoilt
the comedy: she would do nothing funny.

During this short meditation he had walked through the city, and was out
on the other side. "Where does Signor Carella live?" he asked the men at
the Dogana.

"I'll show you," said a little girl, springing out of the ground as
Italian children will.

"She will show you," said the Dogana men, nodding reassuringly. "Follow
her always, always, and you will come to no harm. She is a trustworthy
guide. She is my

daughter."
cousin."
sister."

Philip knew these relatives well: they ramify, if need be, all over the
peninsula.

"Do you chance to know whether Signor Carella is in?" he asked her.

She had just seen him go in. Philip nodded. He was looking forward to
the interview this time: it would be an intellectual duet with a man
of no great intellect. What was Miss Abbott up to? That was one of the
things he was going to discover. While she had it out with Harriet, he
would have it out with Gino. He followed the Dogana's relative softly,
like a diplomatist.

He did not follow her long, for this was the Volterra gate, and the
house was exactly opposite to it. In half a minute they had scrambled
down the mule-track and reached the only practicable entrance. Philip
laughed, partly at the thought of Lilia in such a building, partly in
the confidence of victory. Meanwhile the Dogana's relative lifted up her
voice and gave a shout.

For an impressive interval there was no reply. Then the figure of a
woman appeared high up on the loggia.

"That is Perfetta," said the girl.

"I want to see Signor Carella," cried Philip.

"Out!"

"Out," echoed the girl complacently.

"Why on earth did you say he was in?" He could have strangled her
for temper. He had been just ripe for an interview--just the right
combination of indignation and acuteness: blood hot, brain cool. But
nothing ever did go right in Monteriano. "When