"Yes. Go on."
"The patient has come to himself. He remembers everything."
"Everything!" Corbario's voice shook.
"He is Marcello Consalvi. He asks for his mother, and for you."
"How—in what way does he ask for me? Will my presence do him good—or excite him?"
The moment had come, and Folco's nerve was restored with the sense of danger. His face grew cold and expressionless as he waited for the answer.
"He speaks most affectionately of you. But you had better not come until this afternoon, and then you must not stay long. The doctors say he must rest quietly."
"I will come at four o'clock. Thank you. Good-bye."
"Good-bye."
The click of the instrument, as Folco hung the receiver on the hook, and it was over. He shut his eyes and leaned back in his chair, his arms hanging by his sides as if there were no strength in them, and his head falling forward till his chin rested on his chest. He remained so for a long time without moving.