“How, anything more?” he returned, in a daze.
“Then, don't you know? About his falling into the river? I know he didn't drown himself.”
Gregory shook his head. “When—what makes them think”—He stopped and stared at her.
“Why, they know that he went down to the Ponte Trinity last night; somebody saw him going. And then that peasant found his hat with his name in it in the drift-wood below the Cascine—”
“Yes,” said Gregory, lifelessly. He let his arms drop forward, and his helpless hands hang over his knees; his gaze fell from her face to the floor.
Neither spoke for a time that seemed long, and then it was Clementina who spoke. “But it isn't true!”
“Oh, yes, it is,” said Gregory, as before.
“Mr. Hinkle doesn't believe it is,” she urged.
“Mr. Hinkle?”
“He's an American who's staying in Florence. He came this mo'ning to tell me about it. Even if he's drowned Mr. Hinkle believes he didn't mean to; he must have just fallen in.”