Then, setting down his portmanteau on a bench, he surreptitiously
tore off the label on which his name was written, and tearing it up
in small bits scattered the fragments on the line. After this, he
walked away leisurely, leaving the portmanteau behind him for there
was nothing in it by which he could be traced, and sauntered slowly
out of the station into the streets of Rome once more. Hailing the
first fiacre he saw, he told the driver to take him to Frascati. The
man was either lazy or sulky.
"Why not take the train, Signor?"
"Because I wish to drive!" replied Varillo. "What is your fare?"
"Twenty-five francs for half the way!" said the man, showing his
white teeth in a mischievous grin.
"Good!"
The driver was surprised, as he had not thought his terms would be
accepted. But he made no further demur, and Varillo jumped into the
vehicle, his teeth chattering with an inward terror he could not
control. "Drive quickly!" he said.
The man shouted an affirmative, and they clattered away through the
streets, Varillo shrinking back in the carriage overcome by panic.
What a fool he had been!--what a fool! He ought to have told Pon-
Pon. If the dagger-sheath were found and taken to his residence, it
would be recognised instantly! And all Rome would rise against
Angela Sovrani's murderer.
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