H."
"Did the lady give you this note?" he cried.
The man was unintelligible.
"Speak up!" exclaimed Philip. "Who gave it you--and where?"
Nothing but horrible sighings and bubblings came out of
the man.
"Be patient with him," said the driver, turning round on
the box. "It is the poor idiot." And the landlady came out
of the hotel and echoed "The poor idiot. He cannot speak.
He takes messages for us all."
Philip then saw that the messenger was a ghastly
creature, quite bald, with trickling eyes and grey twitching
nose. In another country he would have been shut up; here
he was accepted as a public institution, and part of
Nature's scheme.
"Ugh!" shuddered the Englishman. "Signora padrona, find
out from him; this note is from my sister. What does it
mean? Where did he see her?"
"It is no good," said the landlady. "He understands
everything but he can explain nothing."
"He has visions of the saints," said the man who drove
the cab.
"But my sister--where has she gone? How has she met him?"
"She has gone for a walk," asserted the landlady. It
was a nasty evening, but she was beginning to understand the
English. "She has gone for a walk--perhaps to wish good-bye
to her little nephew. Preferring to come back another way,
she has sent you this note by the poor idiot and is waiting
for you outside the Siena gate. Many of my guests do this."
There was nothing to do but to obey the message. He
shook hands with the landlady, gave the messenger a nickel
piece, and drove away.
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