"This man can't speak Italian," he explained, glancing at Smayle, who stood beside wondering. "We can talk quite freely. Come, tell me what has happened." "Nothing," she assured him. "But why are you in London? Were you not afraid?" "Afraid?" she echoed. "Why should I be? I am just as safe here in England, as I was in Florence or Livorno." "Vittorina died within the first hour she set foot in London," he observed with a grave, meaning look. "You loved her," she said. "You have all my sympathy, Arnoldo. Some day we shall know the truth; then those responsible for her death shall receive no mercy at our hands." "That chapter of my life has closed," the young Italian said, with a touch of sorrow in his voice. "She has been murdered, but by whom we cannot yet tell." He paused, then added, "What object had you, Gemma, in leaving Italy? And why have you come here? Surely you know that you have enemies in London--enemies as cruel, as unrelenting, as cunning as those who killed poor Vittorina." "I am well aware of that," she answered, stirring uneasily in her chair, and putting up her hand to her bruised throat. "I know I have enemies. To one person, at least, my death would be welcome," she added, remembering the fierce struggle in that room an hour before. "Then why have you risked everything and come here? You were safer in Italy," he said. "I was not safer there. I am safe nowhere," she replied. "The police have discovered some of the facts, and--" "The police!" he gasped in alarm. "Our secret is out, then?" "Not entirely. I was warned to leave Livorno within twenty-four hours, and advised to leave Italy altogether. Then--well, I came here." "With your lover, eh?" She nodded. "And you will marry him?" the young Italian observed slowly. "You do not fear the exposure which afterwards must come? These English are fond of looking closely into the woman's past, you know." She shrugged her shoulders, answering: "My past is secret. Fortunately the one person who knows the truth dares not speak." "Then what I know is of no account?" he said, somewhat surprised. She laughed. "If you and I have ever flirted, or even exchanged foolish letters, it was long ago, when we had not the experience of the world we now have. I do not dread exposure of your knowledge of my past." "But this lover of yours, this Englishman--why does he believe in you so blindly?" Romanelli inquired. "Is he so utterly infatuated that he thinks you absolutely innocent of the world and its ways?" "My affairs of the heart are of no concern to you now, Arnoldo," she answered a trifle coquettishly.