He was reflecting deeply, wondering what he should do with the lady, when suddenly he was startled by the door-bell ringing. With military promptness he answered it, and found his master's new acquaintance, Arnoldo Romanelli. The latter had spent several evenings at Tristram's chambers since the night they had dined together at Bonciani's, therefore Smayle knew him well. "The Captain's not at home, sir," he answered, in reply to the visitor's inquiry. "Is he away?" "He left this evening suddenly." "On important business, I suppose?" "Yes, sir," Smayle answered. Then he added, "Excuse me, sir, but you are Italian, aren't you?" "Yes; why?" Arnoldo asked in surprise. Smayle hesitated, fidgeted a moment, and then answered-- "Well, sir, there's a lady there, in the Captain's sitting-room, and she's not well, and she can't speak English." "A lady?" cried Romanelli, suddenly interested. "Young or old?" "Young, sir. She's Italian, I believe. And I thought, sir, that perhaps you wouldn't mind assisting a friend of my master's." "Of course not. Take me to her at once," he said. "Is she very ill?" "She had a bad fainting fit," answered the servant as he led the way to the sitting-room. She was still lying back in the chair, now quite conscious, but still pale, dishevelled, and so exhausted as to be scarcely able to move her limbs. They seemed paralysed by the excruciating torture she had undergone. The opening of the door aroused her, and looking up, her eyes met those of the young Italian. "You--Gemma!" he cried in profound surprise, rushing forward. "Why are you here--in London? And in Tristram's rooms?" She held her breath in amazement at this unexpected meeting. "I--I called here," she explained in a low, weak voice, "and became seized with a sudden faintness. I--I think I fell." "I trust you're not hurt," he said quickly. "You are pale and trembling. Shall I call a doctor?" "No, no," she answered. "In a few minutes I shall be quite right again." Romanelli noticed her necklet at his feet, and picked it up. Then he glanced across the room and saw the broken statuette, and his quick, dark eyes detected signs of a struggle in the disarranged hearth-rug and the chairs pushed out of place. "Merely fainting did not break this," he said gravely, holding up the chain and picking up the tiny medallion enamelled with the picture of a dog's head with the words beneath, "Toujours Fidele." The chain and its pendant were simple and old-fashioned, the one remaining link of her girlhood days at the Convent of San Paolo della Croce. She held out her hand in silence, and the young man placed both chain and medallion in her palm. Then, with her great, pain-darkened eyes fixed upon him, she kissed the chain reverently, afterwards slipping both into her glove, and sighing. "Gemma," continued Romanelli, bending beside her chair, "what does this mean? Tell me. Why have you come to London?" She shook her head.