rtson might get for me the
information which, in the circumstances, I was naturally most eager to
obtain.

In the course of my erratic wanderings through the grand old city,
with its host of monuments of a glorious past, I was one morning
passing the great marble-built cathedral and noticed a number of
people entering. There seemed to be an unusual number of visitors, so
having nothing to do I passed through the narrow door into the sombre
gloom of the magnificent old place--one of the most noteworthy and
most beautiful sacred buildings in the world.

At first, entering from the bright sunshine of the piazza, I could
scarcely see, so dim was the huge interior, but slowly my vision,
rather bad since my strange adventure, grew accustomed to the
half-darkness, and I saw that upon the high altar there were many long
candles burning in their brass sconces and before the high altar three
priests in gorgeous vestments were kneeling.

In the great cavernous place, with its choir beneath the dome, I heard
low prayers in Latin. Men and women who passed me bowed and crossed
themselves while many knelt.

The glorious cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore, so called from the
Lily which figures in the Arms of Florence--hence "the Lily City"--had
always an attraction for me, as it has for every visitor to the
ancient Tuscan capital. The stained glass of Ghiberti, the wonderful
mosaics of Gaddo Gaddi, the frescoes of angels by Santi di Tito, and
the beautiful pictures by the great mediaeval masters, all are
marvellous, and worth crossing the world to see.

From before the altar a long spiral mist of incense was rising, and
about me as I stood in the centre of the enormous interior, many
visitors were passing out from the dim religious gloom into the light
of the open doorway.

Suddenly my eyes caught sight of a countenance.

I held my breath, standing rooted to the spot. What I saw staggered
belief. Was it only a chimera of my unbalanced imagination--or was it
actual fact?

For a few seconds I remained undecided. Then, aghast and amazed, I
became convinced that it was a stern reality.

The mystery of the affair at Stretton Street became in that single
moment a problem even more than ever bewildering.

CHAPTER THE SIXTH

ANOTHER PUZZLE

Kneeling before Donatello's magnificent picture of the Virgin over one
of the side altars, her outline dimly illuminated by the light of many
candles, was a slim, dark-haired young