"Well," he laughed. "You really are a most dramatic person, Signor Gori, or whatever your name may be. I really don't understand you, unless you are attempting to blackmail me. And if you are, then I'll get my servant to show you the door." The stranger smiled meaningly, and asked quite quietly: "Is it not to your advantage, Signor Rayne, to talk this little matter over in a friendly spirit? I offer you the opportunity. If you refuse it----" And he shrugged his shoulders meaningly, without concluding his sentence. Rayne was silent for a few seconds. Then he said in quite a changed and genial tone: "I am much mystified at your visit, Signor Gori, for I certainly have no knowledge of you. But the hour is late. If you are staying in the neighborhood could you call again at noon to-morrow, when we will go further into this tangled affair? We seem to be at cross-purposes to-night." "As you wish," replied the visitor, bowing with exquisite politeness. "I am staying at the Fleece Hotel, at Thirsk, and I have motored out here. To-morrow at noon I will call upon you." And then he added in a hard, relentless tone: "And then I trust your memory will be refreshed. Signori, I wish you both _buona sera_." "Stay! I quite forgot! I shall not be here to-morrow," Rayne replied quickly. "I have to be out some part of the day, and also I expect visitors." "Then the day after?" suggested the visitor politely, to which Rayne sullenly replied: "Yes. The day after to-morrow, at six o'clock in the evening. I will be here to see you, if you still persist in pestering me. But I warn you, Signor Gori, that it is quite useless." The Italian smiled, bowed, and again wishing us good night, crossed the room as Rayne pressed the electric button for the servant. I realized that a big cloud of trouble had unexpectedly descended upon Overstow. When he had gone Rayne broke out into a furious series of imprecations and vows of vengeance upon some person whom he did not name, but whom he suspected of having made a _faux pas_. Suddenly, however, he bade me good night in his usual manner, as though nothing had occurred to disturb him. He was a man of abnormal intellect, defiant, fearless, and with a brain which, had it been put to proper usage, would undoubtedly have made him a world-famous Englishman. After all, the brains of great criminals, properly cultivated and directed, are the same brains as those possessed by our great leaders, whether political, commercial, or social. That night I scarcely closed my eyes in sleep. The Damoclean sword had apparently fallen upon the Squire of Overstow. And I recollected his daughter's warning. Next morning, directly after breakfast, which he ate with relish, and seemed quite his normal self, I drove with him at his orders over to Heathcote Hall, about five miles away, where lived Sir Johnson Burnham, one of the old Yorkshire aristocracy, who was also chairman of quarter sessions.