Having exchanged these confidences in the half-dumb language which servants command, they reached the gate.  The footman rushed out to call the carriage, the valet delivered the tickets and followed the footman more slowly, carrying Corbario’s bag and coat, and Corbario lighted a cigar and followed his man at a leisurely pace, absorbed in thought.

Until the moment of passing the gate he had meant to drive directly to the hospital, which is at some distance from the station in a direction almost opposite to that of the Janiculum.  He could have driven there in ten minutes, whereas he must lose more than an hour by going home first and then coming back.  But his courage failed him, he felt faint and sick, and quite unable to bear any great emotion until he had rested and refreshed himself a little.  A long railway journey stupefies some men, but makes others nervous and inclined to exaggerate danger or trouble.  During the last twelve hours Corbario had been forcing himself to decide that he would go to the hospital and know the worst at once, but now that the moment was come he could not do it.

He was walking slowly through the outer hall of the station when a large man came up with him and greeted him quietly.  It was Professor Kalmon.  Corbario started at the sound of his voice.  They had not met since Kalmon had been at the cottage.

“I wish I had known that you were in the train,” the Professor said.

“So do I,” answered Corbario without enthusiasm.  “Not that I am very good company,” he added, looking sideways at the other’s face and meeting a scrutinising glance.

“You look ill,” Kalmon replied.  “I don’t wonder.”

“I sometimes wish I had one of those tablets of yours that send people to sleep for ever,” said Corbario, making a great effort to speak steadily.

But his voice shook, and a sudden terror seized him, the abject fright that takes hold of a man who has been accustomed to do something very dangerous and who suddenly finds that his nerve is gone at the very moment of doing it again.

The cold sweat stood on Folco’s forehead under his hat; he stopped where he was and tried to draw a long breath, but something choked him.  Kalmon’s voice seemed to reach him from a great distance.  Then he felt the Professor’s strong arm under his own, supporting him and making him move forward.

“The weather is hot,” Kalmon said, “and you are ill and tired.  Come outside.”

“It is nothing,” Corbario tried to say.  “I was dizzy for a moment.”

Kalmon and the footman helped him into his low carriage, and raised the hood, for the afternoon sun was still very hot.

“Shall I go home with you?” Kalmon asked.

“No, no!” cried Corbario nervously.  “You are very kind.  I am quite well now.  Good-bye.  Home!” he added to the footman, as he settled himself back under the hood, quite out of sight.

The Professor stood still in the glaring heat, looking after the carriage, his travelling-bag in his hand, while the crowd poured out of the station, making for the cabs and omnibuses that were drawn up in rows, or crossing the burning pavement on foot to take the tram.