challenge. He would have put daylight through me at the first
stroke."

"I don't know about that," replied Merrihew loyally. "You are the crack
fencer in New York."

"But New York isn't Florence, my boy. I'll show you some fencing
to-morrow. If my old fencing master, Foresti Paoli, is yet in Florence,
I'll have him arrange some matches. New York affairs will look tame to
you then."

"But what has he to do with your vanishing lady?"

"I should like to know."

"I wish I had thought to ask a waiter who the duffer is. Did you notice
how respectful the _carabinieri_ were?"

"It set me thinking. Oh, I've a premonition that we haven't seen the
last of this distinguished gentleman. Perhaps we'll find out who he is
sooner than we care to."

"When the time comes," said Merrihew with a laugh, "be sure you soak it
to him, and an extra one for me."

Early on the morrow they rode out to the Cascine, formerly a dairy-farm,
but now a splendid park. The bridle-paths are the finest in the world,
not excepting those in the Bois de Bologne in Paris. They are not so
long, perhaps, but they are infinitely more beautiful. Take, for
instance, the long path under a tunnel of enormous trees, a bridle-path
where ten men may ride abreast with room to spare, and nearly half a
mile in length; there is nothing like it.

"I tell you what it is, Jack; Italy may put a tax on salt and sea-water,
but always gives something in return; she puts up a picture-gallery or a
museum, or a park like this. What do we get back in America? _Niente!_"

For two hours they romped through the park, running races, hurdling, and
playing rough pranks upon each other, such as only expert riders dare
attempt. They were both hardened by the long ride down to Florence, a
pair of animals as healthy as their mounts. They had determined not to
sell the horses till the last moment. A riding-master in the Via Lorenzo
ii Magnifico agreed to board them against the time of sale.

In the three days in Florence they had been through the galleries and
the museums; and Merrihew, to his great delight, began to find that he
could tell a Botticelli from a Lippi at first glance. He was beginning
to understand why people raved over this style or that. There was
something so gentle, so peaceful in a Botticelli that he really
preferred it to some of the famed colorists, always excepting Veronese,
to whom he had given his first admiration.

For luncheon this day Hillard took him to