rtling
fact had been revealed to me by Robertson, namely, that Moroni was De
Gex's medical attendant.

In the night-time when the narrow ancient side-streets of Florence,
with their ponderous prison-like palaces with iron-barred windows are
so ill-lit and cavernous, the place seems a city of evil deeds, as
indeed it was in the days of the Medici and of the Borgias.

As I trod those streets between the Porta Romana and Santa Maria
Novella, I confess that I became apprehensive of a nervous breakdown.

That a girl had been wilfully done to death in that West End mansion,
and that I had accepted a bribe to aid and abet the assassin, were
undeniable facts. The wealthy man evidently believed that, for my own
sake and in order to escape prosecution, I would not seek to solve the
enigma. Now, as I reflected upon my interview at the Villa Clementini,
I realized how artful he was in denying everything, and yet allowing
me a loophole for escape. He had mentioned blackmail--an ugly word
with ugly consequences--well-knowing that I dare not go to the
Metropolitan Police and make any statement of what I had witnessed or
of how I had acted.

I still held that five thousand pounds bribe intact. The accursed
notes were at the flat at Rivermead Mansions. My position was now
untenable. When that night I retired to my room I realized that the
situation was hopeless. How could I support any charge against a man
who, being a millionaire, could purchase manufactured evidence--as is
done every day--just as easily as he could purchase a cigar?

The evidence given in judicial courts in every European capital in
cases where the party, either plaintiff or defendant, is well
possessed of this world's goods, is usually tainted. In no place on
earth can money work more marvels than in a court of law. Witnesses
who make testimony a profession for big fees appear in every Assize
court in the world. And some of them are, alas! experts. True it is
that every man has his price, and the more so in these hard, post-war
days of riot and ruin. Justice and brotherly love departed with the
Victorian era. The old game of "Beat-your-neighbour-out-of-doors,"
played by our grandfathers, seems to be the only one practised in our
modern times.

With such thoughts I fell asleep.

Next day I spent in again wandering the old-world streets of Florence,
hoping to obtain another glimpse of Moroni and his fair charge. I went
to the Duomo and waited near that side-ch