“Mere skirmishing,” Peter Ruff continued, “but I think--yes, I think that it may lead to something.” “Whom am I to watch?” she asked. “Any one who looks interesting,” Peter Ruff answered. “For instance, if this person Vincent Cawdor should be about.” “He would recognize me!” she declared. Peter Ruff shrugged his shoulders. “One must hold the candle,” he remarked. “I decline to flirt with him,” she declared. “Nothing would induce me to be pleasant to such an odious creature.” “He will be too busy to attempt anything of the sort. Of course he may not be there. It may be the merest fancy on my part. At any rate, you may rely upon it that he will not make any overtures in a public place like the Milan. Mr. Vincent Cawdor may be a curious sort of person, but I do not fancy that he is a fool!” “Very well,” Miss Brown said, “I will go.” “Be back soon after three,” Peter Ruff said. “I am going up to my room to do my exercises.” “And afterwards?” she asked. “I shall have my lunch sent in,” he answered. “Don’t hurry back, though. I shall not expect you till a quarter past three.” It was a few minutes past that time when Miss Brown returned. Peter Ruff was sitting at his desk, looking as though he had never moved. He was absorbed by a book of patterns sent in by his new tailor, and he only glanced up when she entered the room. “Violet,” he said, earnestly, “come in and sit down. I want to consult you. There is a new material here--a sort of mouse-coloured cheviot. I wonder whether it would suit me?” Violet was looking very handsome and a little flushed. She raised her veil and came over to his side. “Put that stupid book away, Peter,” she said. “I want to tell you about the Milan.” He leaned back in his chair. “Ah!” he said. “I had forgotten! Was Mr. Vincent Cawdor there?” “Yes!” she answered, still a little breathless. “There was some one else there, too, in whom you are still more interested.” He nodded. “Go on,” he said. “Mr. Vincent Cawdor,” she continued, “came in alone. He looked just as objectionable as ever, and he stared at me till I nearly threw my wine glass at him.” “He did not speak to you?” Peter Ruff asked. “I was afraid that he was going to,” Miss Brown said, “but fortunately he met a friend who came to his table and lunched with him.” “A friend,” Ruff remarked. “Good! What was he like?” “Fair, slight, Teutonic,” Miss Brown answered. “He wore thick spectacles, and his moustache was positively yellow.” Ruff nodded. “Go on,” he said. “Towards the end of luncheon,” she continued, “an American came up to them.” “An American?” Peter Ruff interrupted. “How do you know that?” Miss Brown smiled. “He was clean-shaven and he wore neat clothes,” she said. “He talked with an accent you could have cut with a knife and he had a Baedeker sticking out of his pocket. After luncheon, they all three went away to the smoking room.” Peter Ruff nodded. “Anything else?” he asked. The girl smiled triumphantly.