“I did.  You had not been gone three minutes when he came round to the gap in the bank where I was standing.  He came from the side towards which I had seen you go.  It was perfectly impossible that he should not have met you.  The Professor says he must have known that you were there, looking at the storm, but that he did not know that I was with you, and that he was lying in wait for you to strike you from behind.  If we had gone back together he would not have shown himself, that’s all, and he would have waited for a better chance.  If I had only followed you I should have seen what happened.”

“That is the trouble,” said Marcello thoughtfully.  “No one ever saw what happened, and I remember nothing but that I fell forward, feeling that I had been struck on the back of the head.  Did you not hear any sound?”

“How could I, in such a gale as was blowing?  It all looks dreadfully likely and quite possible, and the Professor is convinced that your stepfather has done some worse things.”

“Worse?”

“Yes, because he did not fail in doing them, as he did when he tried to kill you.”

“But what must such a man be?” cried Marcello, suddenly breaking out in anger.  “What must his life have been in all the years before my mother married him?”

“He was a kind of adventurer in South America.  I don’t quite know what he did there, but Professor Kalmon has found out a great deal about him from the Argentine Republic, where he lived until he killed somebody and had to escape to Europe.  If I were you I would go and see the Professor, since he is in Rome.  He lives at No. 16, Via Sicilia.  He will tell you a great deal about that man when he knows that you have parted for good.”

“I’ll go and see him.  Thank you.  I cannot imagine that he could tell me anything worse than I have already heard.”

“Perhaps he may,” Aurora answered very gravely.

Then she was silent, and Marcello could not help looking at her as she leaned back in the corner of the sofa.  Of all things, at that moment, he dreaded lest he should lose command of himself under the unexpected influence of her beauty, of old memories, of the failing light, of the tender shadows that still lingered under her eyes, of that exquisite small hand that lay idly on the sofa beside her, just within his reach.  He rose abruptly, no longer trusting himself.

“I must be going,” he said.

“Already?  Why?” She looked up at him and their eyes met.

“Because I cannot be alone with you any longer.  I do not trust myself.”

“Yes, you do.  You are a man now, and I trust you.”

He had spoken roughly and harshly in his momentary self-contempt, but her words were clear and quiet, and rang true.  He stood still in silence for a moment.

“And besides,” she added softly, “she trusts you too.”

There was a little emphasis on the word “she” and in her tone that was a reproach, and he looked at her in wonder.