I
Kestner, crossed to his hotel window and looked out. It was spring,—and spring in Rome. Yet his heart was heavy.
The City of the Seven Hills lay before him, bathed in a golden mist. Beyond the soft tones of grey and yellow he could see the dark squares of ilex and cypress and orange, where old gardens stood amid close-huddled roofs and walls. Off towards Monte Gianicala, where the shadowy valleys were already touched with their purple mists, a stately row of stone-pines reminded Kestner that he was indeed back in the city of his youth.
But he had no eye for its beauty. He crossed to the writing-table where his mail of the past month awaited him. He sat down before that pile of duly assorted letters and telegrams, regarded them for a meditative moment or two, and then began his task of going through them. He did so slowly and methodically. But his heart sank when he came to the end. He was still without a clue.
It had been the same thing over and over again, for months, the same wandering from place to place, the same fruitless search, the same patiently put questions. And the answer had always been the same. Maura Lambert had escaped him.
A recurring sense of desolation crept over Kestner
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