"And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd
Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was
saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather
childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What
was that?"

He had thrown something into the stream.

"What did you throw in?"

"Things I didn't want," he said crossly.

"Mr. Emerson!"

"Well?"

"Where are the photographs?"

He was silent.

"I believe it was my photographs that you threw away."

"I didn't know what to do with them," he cried. and his voice was
that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the
first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've
told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was
wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've
gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so,
and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out
to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me.