The old Jew was hobbling round the counter, intending to give the alarm, so, seeing my danger, I snatched the note from him, and ran away through many intricate byways until I reached my studio. Cramming a number of things I valued into my pockets, I tied up a few other necessaries in a handkerchief, and then sped downstairs again and out into the open country. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ In the east, the great arc of the sky, the distant mountains and the plains, were rose-coloured with the flush of dawn, for it was the hour when night and morning met and parted. My soul was mad with baffled hope, and I was mentally and physically ill. The softening influences of the glorious morning awoke no responsive echoes in my troubled brain, for I had walked the whole night through, and now, worn out, footsore, hungry, and altogether hopeless, I was resting beside a little wayside shrine of Our Lady of Good Counsels, and in the hazy distance could see the gold cross, red roofs, and the gleaming white towers of Florence. For many months I had been a homeless wanderer, a mere tramp, picking up a living as best as I could, but always moving from place to place over the smiling plains of Lombardy, or among the peaceful Tuscan vineyards, fearing that the police would pounce upon me and charge me with a crime of which I was innocent. I had tramped to Milan in search of Pietro, but he had left--gone to Naples, they thought. I think you, in English, have something like our old Tuscan saying, "_Le sciagure e le alle-grezze non vengono mai sole_." Ah me! There is bitter truth in it. Misfortunes always come in overwhelming numbers, and those who are not favourites of the jade might as well be in their graves. The more I reflected upon the strange tragedy, the more puzzling was the mystery. Where was Santina? If she were innocent, why should she hide herself? For two hours I tramped on over the dusty road to the city of Dante and Michael Angelo, at last entering the Porte Romano; and then wandering down the long street and around the Palazzo Pitti, I crossed the Vecchio Bridge, and passed on towards the great Duomo, with Brunelleschi's wondrous dome. I had taken a drink of water at the old Renaissance fountain in the Piazza del Mercato, and was strolling quietly on, gazing in wonderment at the grand old Gothic cathedral, when suddenly a heavy hand was laid upon my shoulder, and a stern voice said-- "Gasparo Corazzini, I arrest you." Almost before I was aware of it, two gendarmes, who had accompanied a little, shabbily-dressed police agent, seized me. "For what crime do you lay your hands upon me?" I cried indignantly. "You are accused of the murder of Colonel Rossano in Genoa," the detective replied. My heart sank within me. I was spellbound by the appalling charge. ------------------------------------------------------------------------