Head down, deep in thought, I scarcely heard the expensive engine of the opulent car that came purring up the hill. Not until it was almost upon me and startled me with a blast on the horn that sent me leaping to the side of the track.
The next moment I was even more startled. Convinced that it must be a wealthy patient with sudden illness in a hurry to reach the hospital, I stared at the man gripping the steering wheel, an attractive woman by his side.
It was none other than the stranger of the train journey who had shared his coffee with me.
He certainly recognized me too, I knew instinctively even though he gave me no sign of it. Surely someone looking so fit could not be sick. Could he be a doctor?
Intrigued, I dropped my case and raced the few yards to where the track veered sharply, curious to see if he would turn in at the big white building.
He flashed straight past, toward the dark copse and the Villa Caterina. He could be going no further, for the track petered out there.
The truth hit me in a flash. He was none other than Enrico Gorini, the man who had met, married, and buried my dear Margaret in so short a space.
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