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And again the
thought pricked him, "Is not everything possible--even that?" All
through his life he had sought truth with persistence, sometimes
almost with cruelty, yet now he was conscious of timidity, almost of
cowardice--as if he feared to seek it.
Long ago he had known a cowardice akin to this, in Sicily. Then he had
been afraid, not for himself but for another. To-day again the
protective instinct was alive in him. It was that instinct which made
him afraid, but it was also that instinct which kept him to his first
intention, which pushed him on to Mergellina. No safety can be in
ignorance for a strong man. He must know. Then he can act.
When Artois reached Mergellina he looked about for Ruffo, but he could
not see the boy. He had never inquired Ruffo's second name. He might
make a guess at it. Should he? He looked at a group of fishermen who
were talking loudly on the sand just beyond the low wall. One of them
had a handsome face bronzed by the sun, frank hazel eyes, a mouth
oddly sensitive for one of his class.


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