A few moments later they were seated side by side in a cab, riding rapidly toward their destination. Italy’s companion exerted himself to be entertaining while she listened almost in silence and with a desolate pain at her heart as she thought how easily she had been vanquished in her brave attempt at piercing the dark veil of a hidden and torturing mystery. Was it a mockery of Fate that within a few blocks of the law-office there whirled past them a light, open vehicle, in which sat a man of magnificent physique, with a fair, handsome face, clouded and grave now with keen anxiety? Italy saw him and drew back from sight with a stifled cry. “What is the matter?” asked Craig Severn, and she answered evasively: “Nothing.” But to herself she said: “Mr. Murray suspected I had gone to Mr. Gardner for protection. He is following, searching for me. Perhaps he repents his harshness, and has come to take me back. He will soon find me at the lawyer’s,” and somehow the desolate pain at her heart grew less keen and bitter. “Here we are,” said Craig Severn presently, and, having dismissed the cab, he led Italy up a broad, graveled path to a house built of red bricks in an old-fashioned style, and standing in a thick grove of trees. It was at some distance from any other habitation, and the dark front and shuttered windows looked very gloomy in the deepening twilight and the shadows of the trees. Italy’s heart sank strangely while they waited after ringing the door-bell. Would Mr. Gardner be angry at her unceremonious invasion? Would his wife be kind and tender? Would they help her in her quest, or, like Francis Murray, “command her not to interfere with the long-pronounced verdict of the jury--and the world?” A trim maid admitted them into a dim, square hall, and then to a bright, well-furnished parlor. “You will wait here just one moment, while I bring Mr. Gardner from his study to welcome you,” Craig Severn said, disappearing. Italy’s glance, roving carelessly at first from one to another of the handsome pictures that adorned the walls, suddenly paused with some interest before a portrait, half life-size, that hung over the mantel. It was a man’s face, not strictly handsome, but fascinating, as many faces are. The brow was high and white, the hair dark and thin, with curling locks at the parting; the eyes were dark, keen, and mirthful, closely set together over a handsome nose, large in size and almost Roman in shape, just enough to give the face a slight Jewish cast. A round, almost womanish chin, indented with a very slight dimple, supplemented a weak mouth, the curve of whose thin red lips was scarcely hidden by a thin black mustache, elaborately curled at the ends, bespeaking some masculine vanity. At first glance this face seemed very boyish. A closer inspection showed the lines of at least thirty years. To this portrait Italy’s eyes returned again and again while she waited.