"Certainly, signora," said the Pretore; "we are very sorry to disturb you, but it is our duty."
He had gray hair and a dark mustache, and his black eyes looked as if they had been varnished.
Hermione went to the writing-table, while the men stood in silence filling up the little room.
"What shall I say?" she thought.
She heard the boots of the Cancelliere creak as he shifted his feet upon the floor. The Maresciallo cleared his throat. There was a moment of hesitation. Then he went to the steps and spat upon the terrace.
"Don't come yet," she wrote, slowly.
Then she turned round.
"How long will your inquiry take, do you think, signore?" she asked of the Pretore. "When will—when can the funeral take place?"
"Signora, I trust to-morrow. I hope—I do not suppose there will be any reason to suspect, after what Dr. Marini has told us and we have seen, that the death was anything but an accident—an accident which we all most deeply grieve for."
"It was an accident."