“That does not remove the terrible stigma upon me,” she said. “It does not remove my guilt!” And with those words upon her white lips she passed through the door which Hubert unlocked for her and down the stairs to the busy street; he following in silence.
In order not to attract notice she would not allow him to call a vettura, but preferred to walk. Therefore, slipping out of the door with another whispered adieu, she was instantly lost to his sight.
When he returned upstairs the telephone bell was ringing, and he responded.
He heard the detective, Pucci, speaking.
“You missed me, signore—eh?” he said cheerily, though the voice sounded far away. “I am at Orvieto—at the Hôtel Belle Arti—eighty miles from Rome. I could not communicate with you before leaving. Can you come here? It is most important. I cannot leave.”
“Neither can I,” Waldron replied. “Why have you gone to the country?”
“I am keeping observation upon a friend of yours, signore.”
“A friend of mine! Who?”
“The gentleman whom you spoke with at the station in Rome last night—a foreigner.”
Waldron started. Could he mean Henn Pujalet?