Lorenzo was waiting for me, I told him to
make discreet inquiry regarding the pair when in the steward's room,
where he ate his meals. Soon after noon he came to me, saying he had
discovered that the young lady had been heard by the night-porter
weeping alone in her room for hours, and that, as soon as it was dawn,
she had gone out for a long walk alone along the lake-side. It was
apparent that she and her father were not on the very best of terms.

"The servants believe they are French, sir," my man added; "but it
seems that they tell people they are English. The man speaks English
like an Englishman. I heard him, half-an-hour ago, asking the
hall-porter about a telegram."

"Well, Lorenzo," I said, "just keep your eyes and ears open. I want to
learn all I can about Mr. Pennington and his daughter. She hasn't a
maid, I suppose?"

"Not with her, sir," he replied. "If she had, I'd soon get to know all
about them."

I was well aware of that, for Lorenzo Merli, like all Italians, was a
great gossip, and quite a lady-killer in the servants' hall. He was a
dark-haired, good-looking young man whose character was excellent, and
who had served me most faithfully. His father was farm-bailiff to an
Italian marquis I knew, and with whom I had stayed near Parma, while
before entering my service he had been valet to the young Marchese di
Viterbo, one of the beaux of Roman society.

When I reposed a confidence in Lorenzo I knew he would never betray
it. And I knew that, now I had expressed an ardent desire for
information regarding the man Pennington and his daughter, he would
strain every effort to learn what I wanted to know.

The pair sat at their usual table at luncheon. She was in a neat gown
of navy blue serge, and wore a pretty cream hat which suited her
admirably. Her taste in dress was certainly wonderful for an
Englishwoman. Yet the pair always spoke French together, and presented
no single characteristic of the British whatsoever.

Because of his epicurean tastes, the stout, bald-headed man received
the greatest attention from the waiters; but those splendid eyes of
his daughter betrayed no evidence of either tears or sleeplessness.
They were the same, wistful yet wonderful, with just that slightest
trace of sadness which had filled me with curiosity.

After luncheon he strolled along the broad palm-lined terrace in the
sunshine beside the water's edge, while she lolled in one of the long
cane chairs. Yet, as I wa