Three years passed, long, weary years, during which I had waited patiently for Santina's return. _Ahi sorte avversa_! The villa remained in just the same condition, but none of the servants knew the whereabouts of their mistress, and it had been whispered that the police, in order to learn something of events on the night of the murder, had vainly endeavoured to trace her. With me things went badly. True, the statue of the Countess, that I had christened "Folly," had gained a medal at the International Exhibition at Turin, but my later works had proved ignominious failures. I thought nothing of Art, only of the woman who had entranced me, and my hand had somehow lost its cunning. The carved Amida had brought me ill-fortune, it seemed, for I was now at the end of my resources. Pietro had long ago accepted a lucrative post in the orchestra at La Scala, at Milan, and I lived alone and friendless in the old palazzo. One evening, when Genoa was in _festa_, I had starved all day, and in desperation I at last resolved to change the bank-note Santina had sent me. Putting on my hat, I descended the stairs into the gaily-decked street, and pushed my way through the laughing crowd in the Via Nouvissima, at last turning into the narrow Via degli Orefici in search of a money-changer's. A group of children were playing under a dark, ancient archway. How happy they seemed, with their bright chubby faces, like the carved cupids and cherubs in San Lorenzo! All the world was gay, and I alone was desolate. The little office I entered was kept by a hook-nosed Jew, who, when I asked for gold in exchange for the limp piece of paper, took it and examined it carefully through his hornrimmed spectacles. Taking a book from a shelf, he consulted it, started, and then looked sharply up at me. "This note," he said, "does not belong to you." "It does," I answered indignantly. "Can you tell me whence you obtained it?" "It is no business of yours!" I cried. "_Corpo di Bacco_, signore! It were best for you to answer such a simple and necessary question with at least a semblance of civility." "Why should I, when you roundly accuse me of possessing stolen property? What grounds have you for saying the note does not belong to me?" "I did but speak the truth. This note is not rightfully yours." "You waste my time. Give me back the note; I will change it elsewhere." "Signore, I _dare not_ return you the note." "And why, pray?" I asked, suppressing my angry indignation. "_Avvertite_! It was stolen." "Stolen?" I cried. "Yes. Stolen from the man who was murdered at the Villa Pallanzeno three years ago. There is a big reward. I must inform the police." I was dumbfounded. The note Santina had sent me had been filched from a murdered man? Impossible!