money with which to go up into the
mountains, or down to the sea.

Charlie Whitaker was an "outsider," I knew, but not by any fault of his
own. He lived in Florence mostly on the charity of his friends. A tall,
lithe, good-looking fellow of thirty-two, he came of a Yorkshire stock,
and for seven or eight years had lived the gay life of town, and been a
member of the Stock Exchange. Left very well off, he had developed keen
business instincts, and had been so successful that in three years he
had gained a comfortable fortune by speculation. He bought a bijou house
in Deanery Street, off Park Lane, turned it inside out, and made a
pretty bachelor residence of it.

Half London knew Charlie Whitaker. I first met him when he was about to
purchase a new "Napier." He gave smart luncheon-parties at the
Bachelors, dinners at the Savoy, and was the pet of certain countesses
of the smart set. Indeed, he led the London life of a man of ample means
untrammelled with a woman, until, of a sudden, he failed. Why, nobody
knew; even to his most intimate friends the crisis was a complete
mystery.

I only know that I met him in the Strand one night. He seemed sad and
pensive. Then, when he grasped my hand in farewell, he said--

"Well, Ewart, good-night. I may see you again some day."

That "some day" came very soon. Two months later he was living _en
pension_ at twenty-five lire a week in the attic of a great old mediaeval
palace close to the Piazza Santa Trinita. Florence, the greatest city
for gossip in the whole world, quickly knew his past, and nobody would
receive him. Snubbed everywhere, jeered at by the stuck-up foreign
colony of successful English shopkeepers, he received no invitations,
and I believe I was his only friend.

Even my friendship with him brought criticism upon me--modest chauffeur
that I was. Why did I make an intimate of such a man? Some declared him
to be an absconding bankrupt; others cast suspicion that he had fled
from England because of some grave scandal; while others made open
charges against him in the Club that were cruel to a degree.

Up at the villa, however, he was always welcome. I alone knew that he
was a man of sterling worth, that his misfortunes were none of his own
seeking, and that the charges against him were all false. He had made a
big speculation and had unfortunately burnt his fingers--that was all.

And on this hot, feverish night, with the clear white moon shining down
upon the Pi