drive more slowly as the car, making rumbling noises of impatience, turned and twisted through the crooked streets. In the poor quarter they were compelled suddenly to draw up altogether and stop for a moment. In front of them, before the door of an ancient palace, stood a crowd that filled the street from side to side. It was the ancient Palazzo Gonfarini where Miss Annie Spragg had died two days before. The throng made way sullenly for the big motor and as it passed the door of the palace Winnery discerned in the dim light from a battered jet of gas three figures—a stout Italian woman leaning on a broom made of twigs, a gigantic nun, and a fat short little priest. These were no doubt the janitress and Father Baldessare and Sister Annunziata, the witnesses of the miracle. Against the grey wall just beneath the gaslight knelt the black figures of two peasant women, praying.
Winnery shouted suddenly to the Princess, "I will get down here. . . ." The car stopped abruptly before the pastry-cake façade of St. Stefano and he descended. Thanking them, he bade them good-night. The car suddenly shot ahead, leaving him on the sidewalk alone, knowing that he would never see them again. They did not belong to his world. They were not interested in him. They were gone about their business and he felt a sudden wild pang of literary curiosity. Where was the d'Orobelli bound in such haste? What would they be doing that night? Why was her hand so feverish? Why did it tremble so violently? Where had they come from? What tragedies, what delights, had touched their lives? Why had they gone to the Villa
