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"Signore, it is midnight."
Artois drew out his watch quickly. The hands pointed to twelve
o'clock. The crowd was growing thinner, was surely melting away.
"We had better go to the hotel," Artois said. "Perhaps they are there.
If they are not there--"
He did not finish the sentence. They found a cab and drove swiftly
towards the Marina. All the time the little carriage rattled over the
stony streets Artois expected Gaspare to speak to him, to tell him
more, to tell him something tremendous. He felt as if the Sicilian
were beset by an imperious need to break a long reserve. But, if it
were so, this reserve was too strong for its enemy. Gaspare's lips
were closed. He did not say a word till the cabman drew up before the
hotel.
As Artois got out he knew that he was terribly excited. The hall was
almost dark, and the night concierge came from his little room on the
right of the door to turn on the light and accompany Artois to the
lift.
"There is a lady waiting in your room, Signore," he said.


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