My Jehu promised to await me _tutta via_, and I was admitted into a medieval courtyard--ancient in architectural design, that is--because the building was not old. Troubled though I was, a glance showed that the mansion was modern enough in its luxuries and equipment. Beyond a Grecian colonnade lay a smooth carpet of grass. Behind it, a series of terraces stretched down to the lake. Although the water was crimson with the glory of the setting sun, although clipped shrubs and ornamental flower-beds were still glorious in the light of day, I was positively startled to see that the nearest lawn was the identical spot I had visited during the momentary spell Karl had cast upon me when we dined together on the night of my return from Heidelberg. The knowledge shocked distrust out of my heart. I was thrice armed now. The whole crowd of extraordinary experiences which I had undergone since the uneventful picnic in the Schonau Forest rushed in on my memory. To lose belief in Karl was to account myself insane. In popular idiom, we speak of certain events serving to “stiffen our backbone.” The phrase has an added peculiarity when examined in its telegnomic significance, but, whatever its inward meaning, it had a salutary force for me just then. I had scarce noted the landscape of my waking dream when a tall elegant-looking young man came to me. I recognized him at once. He was the third figure of that uncanny moonlit scene--the “Italian, of good birth, madly in love with Maggie.” “I regret to say Miss Hutchinson is indisposed,” he said in excellent English. I have encountered several well-born Italians who are warranted to get up a frantic passion in five minutes for any nice young lady dowered with great wealth. I am glad to say I took this cavalier’s measure at a glance. Perhaps, by and by, I may cultivate a sixth sense of my own. At any rate, I was quite sure he had snatched my card from the stupid domestic who came with him to the courtyard, and was interposing a barrier between Maggie and me. “Did Miss Hutchinson send that message to me?” I asked. “No; not exactly. She does not receive at this hour.” “You have mistaken an urgent matter for a mere social call,” I answered. “I have come straight to this house from London. I must see Miss Hutchinson immediately. Kindly send my card to her. She knows my name.” To avoid a scene, I let him down lightly. But when one man wishes to tell another that he is a cur, there are many varieties of speech. He flushed darkly, yet he had the wit to take the _via media_ I offered. “I am sorry,” he said, with a bow of excessive courtesy. “The servant did not explain matters.”