“Be patient with him,” said the driver, turning round on the box. “It is the poor idiot.” And the landlady came out of the hotel and echoed “The poor idiot. He cannot speak. He takes messages for us all.”
Philip then saw that the messenger was a ghastly creature, quite bald, with trickling eyes and grey twitching nose. In another country he would have been shut up; here he was accepted as a public institution, and part of Nature’s scheme.
“Ugh!” shuddered the Englishman. “Signora padrona, find out from him; this note is from my sister. What does it mean? Where did he see her?”
“It is no good,” said the landlady. “He understands everything but he can explain nothing.”
“He has visions of the saints,” said the man who drove the cab.
“But my sister—where has she gone? How has she met him?”
“She has gone for a walk,” asserted the landlady. It was a nasty evening, but she was beginning to understand the English. “She has gone for a walk—perhaps to wish good-bye to her little nephew. Preferring to come back another way, she has sent you this note by the poor idiot and is waiting for you outside the Siena gate. Many of my guests do this.”
There was nothing to do but to obey the message. He shook hands with the landlady, gave the messenger a nickel piece, and drove away. After a dozen yards the carriage stopped. The poor idiot was running and whimpering behind.
“Go on,” cried Philip. “I have paid him plenty.”
A horrible hand pushed three soldi into his lap. It was part of the idiot’s malady only to receive what was just for his services. This was the change out of the nickel piece.