And so it was that neither Aldean nor Olive succeeded in extracting any pleasure out of their well-nigh meteoric flight to Florence. They could not give themselves up to the thing. Their object was ever before them, and they were conscious only of it and the hundred-and-one petty annoyances of a continental railway transit. They ate, they slept, they talked, they read--not for the sake of eating, talking, or reading, but merely to pass the time. They were acutely aware of an all-pervading mustiness, of the rumble of wheels, and of the fussy interference of various individuals terming themselves officers--customs and otherwise. Each station seemed more draughty than the last, and with each mile it seemed to grow more cold. At last--in the early morning of the second day--they found themselves at the Florence Centrale, in a temperature and fog which would have done credit to the estuary of the Thames. From Milan Aldean, ever practical, had telegraphed for rooms to the Hotel Magenta; and thither they proceeded in course of time, in what is known as an omnibus. A good breakfast, and both of them felt more at peace with themselves, though Olive had to give in and lie down for an hour or so. Aldean, whom nothing seemed to tire, shaved and bathed. He dressed himself in fresh clothes and felt as fresh as paint. (The simile was his own). Then, lighting a strong cigar--former experience had proved to him the luxury of tobacco in these parts--he took a brisk walk for the consideration of campaign details. In a city of the size of Florence you have the disadvantage of being able to run up against your next-door neighbour half-a-dozen times a day. From the Via Tornabouni--haunted by _forestieri_--to the end of the Lung 'Arno or Cascine Gardens is no very great stretch, and here, in the Hyde Park of Florence, Aldean had a notion that his stroll might prove most profitable. Failing that--the gentleman of whom he was in search having no very pronounced artistic cravings--he argued that Giacoso's rather than the Duomo, the Gambrinus Bier Halle rather than the Uffizi should prove remunerative as a hunting ground. But nowhere had he any luck. Perchance it was that Messieurs Semberry and friend were resting for the moment. At all events, they showed no signs of life, and Aldean, having drawn blank, returned to the hotel. Olive was up and waiting for him--sufficiently refreshed, she said, to get to business straight away. That their conversation might be unfettered--it was certain to revolve round the one topic--they lunched in a private room. Aldean deplored his bad luck. "It's worse than looking for a needle in a haystack," he declared. "Have you examined the visitors' list?" asked Olive. "No--no use. Semberry only arrived yesterday. They require somewhat longer notice for these things in this part of the world. As to Carson--well, of course, he will not be known as Carson here, and for his other name we can hardly look, seeing we don't know it."