At the same hour that Malvano had been reading the account of the previous day's inquest, Frank Tristram was sitting in his handsome, well-furnished chambers in St James's Street. He had breakfasted early, as was his wont, and had afterwards started his habitual cigarette. The room in which he sat was a typical bachelor's quarter, filled with all sorts of curios and bric-a-brac which its owner had picked up in the various corners of the earth he had visited bearing despatches from the Foreign Office. Upon the floor lay a couple of fine tiger-skins, presents from an Indian rajah, while around were inlaid coffee-stools and trays of beaten brass from Constantinople, a beautiful screen from Cairo, a rare statuette from Rome, quaint pictures and time-yellowed ivories from the curiosity shops of Florence and Vienna, savage weapons from Africa and South America, and a bright, shining samovar from St Petersburg. In a corner stood the much-worn travelling-bag which he kept always ready packed, and hanging upon a nail above the mantelshelf was the blue ribbon with its silver greyhound, the badge which carried its owner everywhere with the greatest amount of swiftness, and the least amount of personal discomfort. Over the fireplace, too, were many autographed portraits of British ambassadors and distinguished foreign statesmen, together with those of one or two ladies of this constant traveller's acquaintance. As he lay back in a wicker deck-chair--the same in which he had taken his after-luncheon nap on board many an ocean steamer--well-shaven, smart, and spruce, his legs stretched out lazily, his hands thrust deep into his pockets, he sighed deeply. "Italy again!" he grumbled to himself as he took up a scribbled note on official paper. "Just my infernal luck. Italy is the very last place I want to visit just now, yet, by Jove! the Chief sends me a message to start this morning." And rousing himself, he stretched his arms and glanced wearily at the little carriage clock. The discarded newspaper on the floor recalled all that he had read half an hour before. "I wonder," he went on--"I wonder if any one on Charing Cross platform except the porter spotted the girl?" Then he remained silent for a moment. "No. I oughtn't to go to Italy; it's far too risky. There's plenty of time yet for Marvin to be called. I must feign illness, and await my chance to go on a long trip to Pekin, Teheran, or Washington. Yes, a touch of fever will be a good excuse." But, after a moment's further consideration, he added, "Yet, after all, to be ill will be to arouse suspicion. No, I'll go;" and he pressed the electric bell. In answer to the summons his man-servant, a smart, tall ex-private of Dragoons, entered. "A foreign telegraph form, Smayle," he said. The man obeyed with military promptitude, and his master a minute later scribbled a few hasty words on the yellow form, securing a berth in the through sleeping-car leaving Paris that night for Rome.