The absurd idea darted through the girl’s brain that Mario had sent these people from Florence to spy upon her. She could not believe them ordinary visitors. Now they were crossing the ditch by the little paved bridge from the lane; but again they hesitated uneasily before going on. They looked almost felonious, and the smaller carried a black bag.

Joanna wondered if she could possibly slip past by the upper terrace, and so get unseen to the house before them. By the time she reached the gate they had disappeared round a bend in the path. Perhaps she was too late! Breathlessly she scrambled across to the higher path, and flew round by the podere.

But as she came down the flight of rough stone steps close to the villa, she saw that she was caught.

Immediately below her, on her right, were the two men, both now holding their hats in their hands, and on her left Maddalena, with a question in her face moved from the house to meet them.

Then Maddalena had been in the garden looking for her, thought Joanna. What should she do? She might still go back, and run round behind the house, entering by the other side. They had not noticed her. But she found she could not stir from the spot. She had to wait. She must see the meeting between the men and Maddalena, to whom clearly they were strangers.

Now they had met. The tall man started mopping his brow again: the little man was speaking.

Suddenly Maddalena’s hand flew to her mouth. She uttered a loud scream. And Joanna, leaping down the stone steps, was too late to help. Her sister-in-law had slipped down quite neatly and softly and was lying all her length across the terrace.

Mario was dead, Joanna knew that before they could tell her.

He had been killed in the Cascine. His “auto-velocipede,” the men said, had collided with a carriage. Death must have been instantaneous. His body was at the mortuary of the Misericordia, whither the Brothers had carried it from the scene of the accident. The smaller of the two men, who was a doctor, begged Joanna not to go there. And he looked her up and down searchingly with his wise eyes. The coffin could be brought home later, if they wished it, he said. But better have the funeral from the mortuary. Anyhow, God help them not to look on the poor, shattered body. It had been a terrible accident, terrible. But no suffering. That was something. All must have been over in a second of time. The poor signore had been riding his auto-velocipede at great speed, and on the wrong side of the road, at one of these sharp crossings near the race-course. The coachman of the carriage must be exonerated in the matter. He was, poor fellow, in a state of collapse. But he had not been to blame. Undoubtedly the signore had been riding on the wrong side.