The serious-looking valet was therefore summoned, and the lawyer shortly explained to him the state of affairs. "I believe there was an application of some kind made to my lord respecting his daughter," said he, slowly and reflectively; "but it was a long time back--nearly three years ago." "Tell us what you know about it," said Wilton. "It was in the summer time, just before we left for Scotland that year, and my lord was not very well, when one morning the hall-porter called me and said there was a foreign gentleman wanted to see my lord about a picture. I knew he expected one or two he had bought in Italy, a few weeks before, to be sent after him--the only thing he seemed to care about lately was art; so I went and spoke to the gentleman--for, though he was a queer-looking customer, he did not seem a common fellow. He spoke a sort of broken French, and said he was Italian (I can speak French, but not Italian,) and added that he had called to see Lord St. George about a picture. So, as he seemed quite fit to speak to my lord, I went and told him. He says, 'Show the fellow up.' I did so, and left them together. I waited outside, in case my lord should want me, and presently I heard them thundering at each other in Italian--not that my lord spoke very loud, but there was that in his voice as would make any man jump. Presently he rang very sharp; I went in and found him half-raised in his chair, holding on by the sides as if he would dig his fingers into them, as white as marble, and his eyes blazing fire. There was some torn paper lying at his feet, and a picture in an open case on the floor at a little distance. The foreign chap," continued the valet, warming into naturalness, "was standing looking at him with a dark frown on his face--the sort of murderous scowl those Italians can put on--and I went close up between them, lest he might draw a knife. 'Turn this scoundrel out!' says my lord; 'and mark him, Saunders; if you ever find him loitering about the place, hand him over to the police!' With that the foreigner gave an odd sort of smile, and said a few words in Italian, hissing them through his teeth. My lord's face changed as he listened, but he waved his hand toward the door; and the other, with a deep, low bow, walked out. My lord had a sort of fainting-fit, and I was a good deal taken up with him, but I kept the picture, thinking the Italian might come back for it; but he did not. I think it is a miniature of my lord's daughter, for it is very like all the other portraits." "But the pieces of torn paper," asked the lawyer, quickly--"did you not by accident see if anything was written on them, and what?"