ryone in
Firenze goes mad with good intentions.

The artistic side of the ancient Lily City did not interest me. I knew
it of old. I had strolled on the Lung Arno, I had long ago with my
father on a winter tour looked into the little shops of the coral and
pearl merchants on the Ponte Vecchio, and I had taken my _aperatif_ at
Doney's or at Giacosa's. I was no stranger in Florence. My mind was
fully occupied by the deep mystery of Gabrielle Engledue's death, and
of the millionaire's flat denial that we had ever met before.

As I sat gazing across the square my anger and indignation increased.
That De Gex should have dared to affect such entire ignorance
surpassed belief.

I tried to form a scheme for further action, but could think of no way
by which to force him to acknowledge our previous meeting. That the
beautiful girl had died, and that her body had been cremated upon the
false certificate I had given, was beyond all doubt. But what had been
the rich man's motive?

How very perturbed and anxious he was I had noticed, though he put
such a very brave face upon it and appeared so imperturbable. That he
could treat such a serious matter as a joke utterly amazed me.
Nevertheless, I recollected that he had long earned the reputation of
being highly eccentric.

That afternoon I spent in wandering about the sunny streets of
Florence. In the evening I dined at Bonciani's, in the Via Panzani, an
unpretentious place at which I well remembered having eaten famously
when on my last visit to Florence. Afterwards, having nothing to do, I
went to a variety show at the Alhambra.

Florence was full of French and English visitors, as it always is in
winter, so next day I formed a plan, and in pretence of desiring to
rent a furnished flat, I called at the office of a well-known English
house-agent in the Via Tornabuoni. My real object was to ascertain
some facts concerning Oswald De Gex.

The English clerk became quite enthusiastic when I mentioned him.

"Mr. De Gex is greatly respected here," he hastened to tell me. "Since
he bought the Villa Clementini outside Fiesole he has lived here for
about eight months out of the twelve. Italians love rich people, and
because of his wealth he is most popular. I see a good deal of him,
for we act as agents for his property in Italy. He has quite a large
estate--mostly wine-growing."

I mentioned that I had met him in London, and then asked in curiosity:

"Do you happen to know anyth