I raised my hat, and after a graceful bow she turned, and, walking away along the quiet, old-world street, was soon lost in the gathering gloom. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ One evening, quite recently, I was sitting in the Trattoria di Piazza San Carlo, that great, gilded restaurant that overlooks the handsome square in the centre of Turin. Major Malaspina, of the National Guard, was with me, and we were chatting over our coffee and cigars. Giulio Malaspina is an old friend whom I first met ten years ago, when, in the performance of my journalistic duties, I visited the cholera hospitals of Naples with King Humbert and Queen Margherita. Mainly through him, various facilities were afforded me for visiting the hospitals and passing the military _cordon_ as often as I pleased, hence our acquaintance ripened into warm and lasting friendship. Short and thick-set, with closely-cropped, iron-grey hair, and a fierce, bristly moustache, he is a merry little man, and at the present time the most popular officer of the Turin garrison. He was glancing through the _Tribuna_, which the waiter had just brought, while I sat lazily contemplating the groups of diners through a veil of tobacco smoke. "Ah!" he exclaimed suddenly, removing the cigar from his lips and looking up from the paper. "I see they've captured a band of robbers in the Carpathians. It is really remarkable that brigands should exist in Europe in these highly civilised days." "Are there any in the Alps?" I asked, half inclined to relate my extraordinary experience, but suddenly remembering that I had bound myself to secrecy. "There were, but there are none now. I assisted in clearing out the last band. They were clever, daring scoundrels, who exhibited much remarkable ingenuity. The discovery of the gang caused a good deal of sensation about two years ago. But of course you were in England at that time; possibly you heard nothing about it?" "No; tell me," I said anxiously. "I'm always interested in stories of brigands." "Plots for novels, eh?" he said, laughing merrily, contemplating the fine diamond that glittered on his finger. "Well," he began, "for a long time it had been known that a number of contrabandists were smuggling goods from France over the almost impassable summit of Mont Cenis." "They were Piedmontese brigands, then?" I exclaimed in surprise.