Gino was still out.  The woman took him to the reception-room, just as she had taken Miss Abbott in the morning, and dusted a circle for him on one of the horsehair chairs.  But it was dark now, so she left the guest a little lamp.

“I will be as quick as I can,” she told him.  “But there are many streets in Monteriano; he is sometimes difficult to find.  I could not find him this morning.”

“Go first to the Caffe Garibaldi,” said Philip, remembering that this was the hour appointed by his friends of yesterday.

He occupied the time he was left alone not in thinking—­there was nothing to think about; he simply had to tell a few facts—­but in trying to make a sling for his broken arm.  The trouble was in the elbow-joint, and as long as he kept this motionless he could go on as usual.  But inflammation was beginning, and the slightest jar gave him agony.  The sling was not fitted before Gino leapt up the stairs, crying—­

“So you are back!  How glad I am!  We are all waiting—­”

Philip had seen too much to be nervous.  In low, even tones he told what had happened; and the other, also perfectly calm, heard him to the end.  In the silence Perfetta called up that she had forgotten the baby’s evening milk; she must fetch it.  When she had gone Gino took up the lamp without a word, and they went into the other room.

“My sister is ill,” said Philip, “and Miss Abbott is guiltless.  I should be glad if you did not have to trouble them.”

Gino had stooped down by the way, and was feeling the place where his son had lain.  Now and then he frowned a little and glanced at Philip.

“It is through me,” he continued.  “It happened because I was cowardly and idle.  I have come to know what you will do.”

Gino had left the rug, and began to pat the table from the end, as if he was blind.  The action was so uncanny that Philip was driven to intervene.

“Gently, man, gently; he is not here.”

He went up and touched him on the shoulder.

He twitched away, and began to pass his hands over things more rapidly—­over the table, the chairs, the entire floor, the walls as high as he could reach them.  Philip had not presumed to comfort him.  But now the tension was too great—­he tried.

“Break down, Gino; you must break down.  Scream and curse and give in for a little; you must break down.”

There was no reply, and no cessation of the sweeping hands.

“It is time to be unhappy.  Break down or you will be ill like my sister.  You will go—­”

The tour of the room was over.  He had touched everything in it except Philip.  Now he approached him.  He face was that of a man who has lost his old reason for life and seeks a new one.

“Gino!”

He stopped for a moment; then he came nearer.  Philip stood his ground.

“You are to do what you like with me, Gino.  Your son is dead, Gino.  He died in my arms, remember.  It does not excuse me; but he did die in my arms.”