uckingham Palace Road, still holding my knife, my hands
smeared with the blood of my enemies, and the cord still around my
neck.

I went direct to the police-station, and within five minutes half a
dozen constables were on their way round to the house. But on arrival
they found that the men, notwithstanding their severe wounds, had fled,
fearing the information I should give. The owner of the house knew
nothing, save that he had let it furnished a fortnight before to the
grey-bearded man, who had given the name of Burton, although he was a
foreigner.

The shock had upset my nerves considerably, but, accompanied by Blythe
and Bindo, I drove the car down to Dover, took her across to Calais, and
then drove across France to Marseilles, and along the Riviera to Genoa
and Pisa, and on to Florence--a delightful journey, which I had
accomplished on three previous occasions, for we preferred the car to
the stuffy _wagon-lit_ of the Rome express.

Times without number I wondered what was the nature of those documents,
and why the gang desired to obtain possession of them. But it was all a
mystery, inscrutable and complete. And I told the Count nothing.

Our season at Florence was a gay one, and there were many pleasant
gatherings at Bindo's villa. The season was, however, an empty one as
far as _coups_ were concerned. The various _festas_ had succeeded one
another, and the month of May, the brightest and merriest in Italy, was
nearly at an end, when one afternoon I was walking in the Cascine, the
Hyde Park of the Florentines, idly watching the procession of carriages,
many of whose fair occupants were known to me. Of a sudden there passed
a smart victoria-and-pair, among the cushions of which lolled the figure
of a well-dressed woman.

Our eyes met. In an instant the recognition was mutual, and she gave an
order to stop. It was the sweet-faced wayfarer of the Great North
Road--the woman who had enchanted me!

I stood in the roadway, hat in hand, as Italian etiquette requires.

"Ah! I am so pleased to meet you again," she said in French. "I have
much to tell you. Can you call on me--to-night at seven, if you have no
prior engagement? We have the Villa Simoncini, in the Viale. Anyone will
direct you to it. We cannot talk here."

"I shall be delighted. I know the villa quite well," was my answer; and
then, with a smile, she drove on, and somehow I thought that the idlers
watching us looked at me strangely.

At seven o'clo