‘No, I am not ill. Listen, and speak softly. Something has happened, as to which it pleases me to take you into my confidence. I can trust you.... My daughter is downstairs----’ He paused for a moment; Hamilton stared at him as if fascinated, and then said, almost in a whisper: ‘Fulvia?’ ‘Yes, Fulvia; she is in dire distress. Something which she does not choose to explain to me yet, or which she cannot explain, has happened. She has left her house; I do not call it her home----’ ‘No, you are right,’ said Hamilton in a deep voice. ‘Well?’ ‘She has chosen to break down the barrier which has always hitherto been between us. She has claimed my help, and has required that I shall take her away from here at once, now, you understand. It is her right, and it is my pleasure to do it. She refuses to see Minna. I think she is too much broken to be able to endure even Minna’s sympathy. I leave everything loose that belongs to me. I look to you to make all clear, and to explain to your sister why I leave thus.’ ‘But where are you going? What are you going to do?’ asked Hamilton in his clear tones, which always sounded so cold, and which yet were so much to be trusted. ‘I don’t know. I suppose we are two pilgrims to----’ ‘That is madness. Look here: you must do something, or she will be worse off than ever.’ ‘I shall take her to Italy,’ said Signor Giuseppe, after a moment’s pause. ‘Not to Rome, I hope?’ ‘No, not to Rome. I will take her to Sicily, to my home there which she has never seen.’ ‘That is right--yes, that is the right thing to do; and to set about it you must go to London; and there is a train to London in two hours from now, at ---- Junction, which is six miles away. I will drive you there,’ said Hamilton with utter _sang-froid_, as he cast the bedclothes from him and prepared to get up. ‘Do you go and pack up whatever you may wish to take, and in five minutes I will be ready. This is a business which needs speed.’ ‘You are right. Your head is clear,’ said Signor Oriole, with the ghost of his old smile, at once sarcastic and approving. He left the room and went to his own, where he collected all he could think of into a small portmanteau, stowed away his pocket-book, some notes and gold, and a cheque-book on his London bankers, and was ready. As he emerged from his room after this occupation, Hamilton came out of his, looking as cool, as self-possessed, and as fit as if he were going down to breakfast in the everyday way. ‘I have written a note to Minna,’ he said: ‘I will put it outside her door, so she will have it when she is called. Now let us go downstairs. Of course Mrs. Marchmont will hate me for being in at this, but there’s nothing else for it.’ Softly they went downstairs, and the slumbering inmates of the rambling old house knew nothing of what was going on. Without hesitation or explanation they went straight to Signor Oriole’s study.