‘But we don’t know that,’ I urged, still cravenly averse from the deed of blood. ‘If it could speak, it might say it preferred to live at all costs.’ But I couldn’t move Angela from her purpose.

‘Let’s go and explore the island,’ she said, ‘until it’s time to bathe. The cat will have got over its fright and be hungry again by then, and I’m sure I shall be able to catch it. I promise I won’t murder it except as a last resource.’

The word ‘murder’ lingered unpleasantly in my mind as we made our survey of the island. You couldn’t imagine a better place for one. During the war a battery had been mounted there. The concrete emplacement, about as long as a tennis court, remained: but nature and the weather had conspired to break it up, leaving black holes large enough to admit a man. These holes were like crevasses in a glacier, but masked by vegetation instead of snow. Even in the brilliant afternoon sunlight one had to tread cautiously. ‘Perhaps the cat has its lair down there,’ I said, indicating a gloomy cavern with a jagged edge. ‘I suppose its eyes would shine in the dark.’ Angela lay down on the pavement and peered in. ‘I thought I heard something move,’ she said, but it might be anywhere in this rabbit-warren.’

Our bathe was a great success. The water was so warm one hardly felt the shock of going in. The only drawback was the mud, which clung to Angela’s white bathing shoes, nasty sticky stuff. A little wind had got up. But the grassy rampart sheltered us; we leaned against it and smoked. Suddenly I noticed it was past five.

‘We ought to go soon,’ I said. “We promised, do you remember, to send the gondola to meet Walter’s train.’

‘All right,’ said Angela, just let me have a go at the cat first. Let’s put the food’ (we had brought some remnants of lunch with us) ‘here where we last saw it, and watch.’

There was no need to watch, for the cat appeared at once and made for the food. Angela and I stole up behind it, but I inadvertently kicked a stone and the cat was off like a flash. Angela looked at me reproachfully. ‘Perhaps you could manage better alone,’ I said. Angela seemed to think she could. I retreated a few yards, but the cat, no doubt scenting a trap, refused to come out.

Angela threw herself on the pavement. ‘I can see it,’ she muttered. ‘I must win its confidence again. Give me three minutes and I’ll catch it.’

Three minutes passed. I felt concerned for Angela, her lovely hair floating over the dark hole, her face as much as one could see of it, a little red. The air was getting chilly.

‘Look here,’ I said, ‘I’ll wait for you in the gondola. When you’ve caught it, give a shout and I’ll have the boat brought to land.’ Angela nodded; she dare not speak for fear of scaring her prey.

So I returned to the gondola. I could just see the line of Angela’s shoulders; her face, of course, was hidden. Mario stood up, eagerly watching the chase. ‘She loves it so much,’ he said, ‘that she wants to kill it.’ I remembered Oscar Wilde’s epigram, rather uncomfortably; still, nothing could be more disinterested than Angela’s attitude to the cat. ‘We ought to start,’ the gondolier warned me. ‘The signore will be waiting at the station and wonder what has happened.’

‘What about Walter?’ I called across the water. ‘He won’t know what to do.’

Her mind was clearly on something else as she said: ‘Oh, he’ll find his own way home.’

More minutes passed. The gondolier smiled. ‘One must have patience with ladies,’ he said; ‘always patience.’

I tried a last appeal. ‘If we started at once we could just do it.’

She didn’t answer. Presently I called out again. ‘What luck, Angela? Any hope of catching him?’

There was a pause: then I heard her say, in a curiously tense voice. ‘I’m not trying to catch him now.’

The need for immediate hurry had passed, since we were irrevocably late for Walter. A sense of relaxation stole over me; I wrapped the rug round me to keep off the treacherous cold sirocco and I fell asleep. Almost at once, it seemed, I began to dream. In my dream it was night; we were hurrying across the lagoon trying to be in time for Walter’s train. It was so dark I could see nothing but the dim blur of Venice ahead, and the little splash of whitish water where the oar dipped. Suddenly I stopped rowing and looked round. The seat behind me seemed to be empty. ‘Angela!’ I cried; but there was no answer. I grew frightened. ‘Mario!’ I shouted. ‘Where’s the signora? We have left her behind ! We must go back at once!’ The gondolier, too, stopped rowing and came towards me; I could just distinguish his face; it had a wild look. ‘She’s there, signore,’ he said. ‘But where? She’s not on the seat.’ ‘She wouldn’t stay on it,’ said the gondolier. And then, as is the way in dreams, I knew what his next words would be. ‘We loved her and so we had to kill her.’

An uprush of panic woke me. The feeling of relief at getting back to actuality was piercingly sweet. I was restored to the sunshine. At least I thought so, in the ecstasy of returning consciousness. The next moment I began to doubt, and an uneasiness, not unlike the beginning of nightmare, stirred in me again. I opened my eyes to the daylight but they didn’t receive it. I looked out on to darkness. At first I couldn’t believe my eyes: I wondered if I was fainting. But a glance at my watch explained everything. It was past seven o’clock. I had slept the brief twilight through and now it was night, though a few gleams lingered in the sky over Fusina.

Mario was not to be seen. I stood up and looked round. There he was on the poop, his knees drawn up, asleep. Before I had time to speak he opened his eyes, like a dog.

‘Signore,’ he said, ‘you went to sleep, so I did too.’ To sleep out of hours is considered a joke all the world over; we both laughed. ‘But the signora,’ he said. ‘Is she asleep? Or is she still trying to catch the cat?’

We strained our eyes towards the island which was much darker than the surrounding sky.

‘That’s where she was,’ said Mario, pointing, ‘but I can’t see her now.’

‘Angela!’ I called.

There was no answer, indeed no sound at all but the noise of the waves slapping against the gondola.

We stared at each other.

‘Let us hope she has taken no harm,’ said Mario, a note of anxiety in his voice. ‘The cat was very fierce, but it wasn’t big enough to hurt her, was it?’

‘No, no,’ I said. ‘It might have scratched her when she was putting her face—you know—into one of those holes.’

‘She was trying to kill it, wasn’t she?’ asked Mario.

I nodded.

‘Ha fatto male,’ said Mario. ‘In this country we are not accustomed to kill cats.’

‘You call, Mario,’ I said impatiently. ‘Your voice is stronger than mine.’

Mario obeyed with a shout that might have raised the dead. But no answer came.

‘Well,’ I said briskly, trying to conceal my agitation, ‘we must go and look for her or else we shall be late for dinner, and the signore will be getting worried. She must be a—a heavy sleeper.’

Mario didn’t answer.

‘Avanti!’ I said. ‘Andiamo! Coraggio!’ I could not understand why Mario, usually so quick to execute an order, did not move. He was staring straight in front of him.

‘There is someone on the island,’ he said at last, ‘but it’s not the signora.’

I must say, to do us justice, that within a couple of minutes we had beached the boat and landed. To my surprise Mario kept the oar in his hand. ‘I have a pocket-knife,’ he remarked, ‘but the blade is only so long,’ indicating the third joint of a stalwart little finger.

‘It was a man, then?’ said I.

‘It looked like a man’s head.’

‘But you’re not sure?’

‘No, because it didn’t walk like a man.’

‘How then?’

Mario bent forward and touched the ground with his free hand. I couldn’t imagine why a man should go on all fours, unless he didn’t want to be seen.