I had been waiting for, perhaps, half-an-hour, when I heard the chugging of a motor newly started. There were no other travelers staying at the inn; I thought that I recognized the beat of the engine. As I listened, I felt sure that the car was being backed into the road. I expected to hear it stop, and to see Fiesole come from under the archway and signal for me. It did not stop. It began to gather speed. The sound droned fainter and fainter. Promise or no promise, I could not resist my excited curiosity. I ran across the orchard, through the courtyard, into the sunlit street. Far up the road, I saw a cloud of dust growing smaller, disappearing in the direction of Paris. I watched, confused and dumbfounded, as it dwindled. The old proprietress approached me shyly and touched me on the arm. “For Monsieur from Madame.” Snatching the note from her hand, I tore it open with trembling fingers. The writing was hasty and agitated. I read and re-read it, trying to twist its words into another meaning. The note ran: _My poor Dante, as you said to me, I have a woman’s memory; you’ll remember Potiphar’s wife and Joseph. I have tried to hate you intensely. You see, I’m what you made me: Lucrezia--your handiwork. For years I have promised myself that, if ever I had the chance, I would punish you. It was with this intention that I left Paris yesterday--you know the rest. So now, without me in the years that are to come, you will suffer all that you once made me suffer. And I’m almost sorry; for here, at Falaise, you nearly made me.... It can’t be done._ Raising my eyes, I stood alone, gazing along the gleaming road to Paris. The cloud of dust had vanished. THE END End of Project Gutenberg's The Garden Without Walls, by Coningsby Dawson