was a fierce, haunted look as that of a
man who was straining every effort to remain calm under the gravest
circumstances.

"I have no game to play," I declared. "I only demand the truth. Why
was I invited into your house in Stretton Street to be present as
witness at the poor girl's death?"

"I don't know. Find out for yourself, my dear Mr. Garfield," laughed
the rich man. "I have no time to discuss this silly affair further.
I'm sorry you have troubled to come out from London to see me. But
really yours has been a fool's errand," and he turned towards the
door.

"A fool's errand!" I echoed. "I am no fool and my errand is in deep
earnestness. You may try to befool me, but I tell you that I will
leave no stone unturned to solve the problem which you alone can
explain."

"Well, get along with your work," he laughed in open defiance. "I have
no further time to waste," and glancing at his watch he opened the
door and abruptly left me.

CHAPTER THE FIFTH

THE CITY OF THE LILY

Full of indignation I remained for a few further moments in that
wonderful old room, the room of faded tapestries with the marvellous
painted ceiling.

From the window was afforded a glorious view over the gardens where,
even in winter, tangled masses of flowers ran riot, while beyond lay
the picturesque old red-roofed Tuscan city. Fiesole is distinctly a
village of the wealthy, for the several colossal villas, built in the
days of the Medici and even before, are now owned by rich foreigners,
many of them English.

Oswald De Gex was one of them.

He had certainly foiled me. I gritted my teeth and vowed that, come
what might, I would compel him to accept the inevitable and reveal to
me the truth. I left the room and found my way alone across the great
marble entrance hall, and out to where my taxi awaited me.

I drove back to Florence, where, at the station, I obtained my bag,
and then went to the Savoy Hotel in the Piazza Vittorio Emanuele,
where I engaged a room.

For a long time I sat at my window gazing down upon the busy square
below, one of the centres of Florentine life. The bell of the Duomo
was ringing, the shops were mostly closed, and all Florence was out in
the streets, it being the Festa of the Befana, one of the greatest of
all the ever-recurring festas of Florence. Street urchins were
parading the thoroughfares with horns and wildly shouting, and there
was an exchange of presents on every hand. At the Befana eve