had been purposely left in my pocket. I had
already copied the numbers, and had called upon the millionaire's
bankers in Pall Mall, but there was no record that any of them had
been issued to him. That payment had evidently been very well
concealed.

On every hand it appeared quite plain that I had been the victim of
some strange and remarkable conspiracy, the motive of which was
entirely obscure. Surely I must have been watched, and my habits
noted. De Gex had known that I frequently passed his door on my way to
visit my uncle, and further, he must have known that I should pass on
that fateful night in November when Horton was sent out to entice me
within.

But the chief point of that complex puzzle was the fact that there, in
Florence, within a mile or two of the millionaire's almost regal
residence, I had encountered a living girl who, in every feature, was
the exact counterpart of the poor girl whose death and cremation stood
recorded in the official registry at Somerset House!

When in London I had been half inclined to call upon Doctor Gordon
Garfield and explain the situation. But such confession must, I knew,
lead to my prosecution and inevitable imprisonment. I had taken a
false step while under the baneful influence of some drug which had
stultified my own volition and held me powerless to resist the
temptation. I was now endeavouring to seek the truth.

That the amazing adventure in Stretton Street was not the outcome of
imagination was proved by the entry in the register at Somerset House,
and also by the evidence of the cremation of the body. But that the
beautiful girl I had seen lying dead could now be walking about the
streets of Florence was, of course, utterly absurd.

Was my memory, in my rather weak state of health, playing tricks with
me? I began to fear that such was the case.

As I sat over my "bock" watching the tide of Florentine life pass and
repass across the great piazza, I began to laugh at myself, and felt
half inclined to abandon the inquiry. Still it was all most mysterious
and mystifying. Why had I been marked down as a tool to further the
millionaire's ends? And who, after all, was the victim?

I tried to dismiss the apparently sightless girl from my mind, but
somehow the affair obsessed me. I seemed impelled to go farther and
try to elucidate the mystery. I endeavoured to make up my mind to
forget it all and return to England and to my work at Francis and
Goldsmith's--but all