ing of his niece, a tall, very handsome,
dark-haired girl, Miss Engledue?"

For a moment he reflected. Then he said:

"I recollect when up at the villa just before he went to London--that
was about three months ago--seeing a tall, dark-haired young lady. She
came into the library while I was chatting with him. But I don't know
her name."

"Was she about twenty-one?" I asked eagerly.

"Yes--about that age," was his reply. "But, of course, I have no idea
whether it is the young lady you mean."

"Had you seen her before?"

"I think so--once before. She was in the car in the Cascine with Mrs.
De Gex."

"I wonder how I could discover more about her?" I asked. "Who would
know?"

"Robertson, the butler, or Mr. Henderson, the secretary."

"The butler would be best," I said. "How could I approach him, do you
think? I don't want to go up to the villa."

"It would be easy. He's often down at the Gambrinus in the afternoon.
I frequently meet him there, and we have a drink and a chat."

"Would he be there this afternoon? I do wish you would introduce me,"
I urged. "The matter is an important personal one concerning myself."

"He might be down this afternoon--about four o'clock," replied the
alert young Englishman who spoke Italian so well. "I'll look in there
at four, if you will be about."

"I certainly will be there," I said, and then we went along to
Giacosa's, where we each had that cocktail-like speciality known as a
"piccolo."

At five minutes to four that afternoon I entered the big Gambrinus
Cafe, which was nearly opposite my hotel on the other side of the
piazza, and I took a seat just inside the door. The orchestra was
playing, and the place was well filled with a gay cosmopolitan crowd,
many of them winter idlers.

I looked around, wondering if the butler, Robertson, had arrived, and
waited in patience for the coming of my friend.

Punctually at four he appeared, and greeting me, cast his eyes over
the many small tables, until suddenly he exclaimed:

"Ah! There he is!"

We walked to a table some distance away, where a stoutish,
grey-haired, clean-shaven Englishman was smoking a cigarette and
reading a newspaper, with a glass of vermouth and seltzer before him.

"Hallo, Arthur!" he exclaimed as he raised his eyes to my friend.

"This is a friend of mine, Mr. Garfield," my companion said,
introducing me, and then we sat down and began to chat. At last I
could possess myself in patience no longer,