r out with an old woman the other day. But
I have no idea who she is."

"Is Doctor Moroni a doctor of medicine?" I inquired.

"Yes. The people at the _pension_ of the Lung Arno where I live,
always call him in. I was ill six months ago, and he attended me. He
lives in the Via Cavezzo, near the Porta Romona--number six, I
believe."

"I am sure I am extremely obliged to you," I replied very gratefully.
"I have a very strong reason for asking these questions--reasons which
concern the young lady," I added.

The American woman smiled, and then, reiterating my thanks, I raised
my hat and left her.

At least I had discovered the identity of the girl's companion. He was
a doctor, hence it was most probable that she was under his charge.
Nevertheless, it was strange that he should take her to the Duomo and
pray at her side. Doctors do not usually act in that manner with their
patients.

When I returned to the Piazza the pair were nowhere to be seen,
therefore I strolled to the nearest cafe, and sat down with a
cigarette to think out the remarkable affair.

One or two features of the problem now became more than ever puzzling.
First, in view of the fact that I had seen Gabrielle Engledue lying
dead and had, for a bribe of five thousand pounds, signed a death
certificate purporting to be from Doctor Gordon Garfield, of Queen
Anne Street, Cavendish Square, it seemed beyond credence that the girl
who had died and been cremated should be led about the streets of
Florence by this Italian, Doctor Moroni. Oswald De Gex's denials were,
in themselves, only thin, and yet they were all very clever and
carefully prepared. The story of how his wife had left his little son
in Westbourne Grove to be discovered by the police was no doubt well
thought out. De Gex and his wife were actually on most affectionate
terms, hence the tale he had told had been purposely concocted, in
order to mislead me. Besides, his pretence that the dead girl had been
his niece was, of course, a similarly concocted story to mislead me,
and also to discredit me if perchance I made any unwelcome inquiries.

That I had been half asphyxiated and then drugged until my mental
balance had been upset, was quite plain. And it was equally plain that
De Gex did not intend that I should be capable of making inquiries
concerning the events of that memorable November night. When I had
been thrown out of the motor-car on that French highway, near St.
Malo, the bank-notes