As the express arrived in London, the train in which she was to start was slowly filling with passengers. From the window of the second-class carriage, in which she had purposely seated herself, she had seen Paul Desfrayne alight, and then linger to speak with the young lady, whose appearance was completely unfamiliar to the Italian singer. She felt thankful that there would be no risk of meeting him at Holston. A porter happened to be near the door of the compartment, and she asked him when the next train would leave London for Holston. The man went to look at the time-table, and returned with the information that there would not be one until 6:15. She thanked the porter with a smile. “Good,” she thought to herself. “I shall have time enough for my little talk.” Arrived at Holston, she walked toward the barracks, which, unless she could not help herself, she did not intend to enter. There was a dingy, uninviting public house in the vicinity, and a few cottages sprinkled about. After a brief consideration, she went up to one of the most decent-looking of the latter, where an old woman sat knitting by the door. The old dame readily allowed her to sit down, and, after a short, desultory talk, the signora, who affected to be a very plain person indeed, asked the woman if there was any boy about who would run on a message to the barracks. “I want to see my husband,” she said very simply. “You see, he and I had a quarrel before he left London, and I am so unhappy. I believe I was to blame; but I don’t want to go there, and be looked at by the men there. My husband might be displeased by my coming.” The old dame sympathized with the young wife’s feelings, and readily found a lout of a boy, who stared with all his eyes at the beautiful stranger in the somber garments. Madam Guiscardini gave him a tiny note in a sealed envelope, directed to Mr. Gilardoni, and slipped a shilling into his hand. She could not venture to give him more, lest he should talk. The boy went, and the signora waited, listening to the old woman’s talk, and comprehending no more of her babble than she did of the buzzing of the bees and flies in the neat little garden. Within half an hour she saw, as she looked eagerly from the window, the well-known form of Leonardo Gilardoni rapidly approaching the cottage, accompanied by her messenger. Her note had contained only a line or two, in Italian: “Leonardo, I would see you. I have something of importance to say to you. The bearer of this will tell you where to find me. LUCIA.” She was still standing by the window when he entered the diminutive room. They had not met since that day he had surprised her in the garden at Florence. The recollection of that day came back on both with a rush. Leonardo paused on the threshold. Lucia did not move. “You have sent for me?” he said. The signora shrugged her shoulders and smiled mockingly, it seemed to her husband. “Why have you sent for me?” he demanded.