"Sandro means that no matter how hard up I was I wouldn't break the law by selling an Italian work of art for export," she explained lightly. "And this one, least of all. It came from my late husband's home," she went on, "and is one of the few things I managed to save." "Is there a law about taking such things out of Italy?" asked Mr. Pegg. "I should say there was!" exclaimed the duke. "The country was being stripped by moneyed foreigners until it was enforced. We natives feel strongly on the subject, Mr. Pegg. But it is a dangerous thing to smuggle a masterpiece out of Italy now, I am happy to say." "Then how do you suppose Mr. Markheim succeeded in getting the Madonna of the Lamp," I put in, "which he bought last month?" "Markheim has Raphael's masterpiece!" he cried sharply. "Since when?" "Well, young man, you needn't look at me like that," I said. "I didn't smuggle it for him, I'm sure! He bought it in New York; why, on the very day that you discovered that robbery at the Gordons'!" "Curious that I didn't see the notice," he murmured, still staring at me. "I beg pardon, Miss Talbot. I didn't mean to be rude, I'm sure. But this was the first I had heard of it, and such things interest me greatly." "They would interest any Italian," declared Abby. "You see, things are occasionally smuggled out in spite of an eternal vigilance on the part of the secret service. Though as I remember, it's a good long while since the Madonna of the Lamp disappeared. It was reported to be in Berlin years ago, but this is the first time it has actually come to light. Very interesting, I'm sure. And if we really should go to war with Austria I expect we would have the opportunity of bringing back a great many things across the mountains yonder. Let's go out, by the way, and have a look at them in the moonlight." She tucked her arm into that of Mr. Pegg in the most exasperatingly familiar way, which he did not seem to resent in the least, and together they went out through the window into the moon-filled garden. And even as they went Peaches appeared in the doorway, her hair wind-blown and her magnificent dress a trifle disordered, but if possible even more lovely than ever. "Oh, there you are, Sandro!" she said, catching sight of the duke. "Come outside, quick! There's an aëroplane flying right into the moon. They say it's Caproni himself!" And forthwith they vanished, leaving me to absorb a detailed description of Sir Anthony's indigestion, delivered by himself, which description lasted for the remainder of the evening. But my thoughts were on other things, though I said "Yes?" and "Indeed!" automatically whenever Sir Anthony came to a full stop.