I recollected that the old lady, whoever she might be, lived at Number 10 Toddington Terrace, Regent's Park, and I resolved to call and see her in pretence that I had not recognised her in Abbazia, and was unaware of her presence there. Autumn gave place to winter, and I was still wandering about the Continent on matters more or less lucrative. To Venice Naples and down to Constantinople I went, returning at last in the dark days of late January to the rain and mud of London; different, indeed, to the sunshine and brightness of the beautiful Bosphorus. One afternoon, while seated here in Dover Street, lazily looking forth upon the traffic, I suddenly made up my mind to call upon the old lady, and with that purpose took a taxi-cab. As we pulled up before Number 10, I at once recognised the truth, for the green Venetian blinds were all down. In answer to my ring, a narrow-faced, consumptive-looking woman, evidently the caretaker, opened the door. "No, sir. Madame Demidoff and Elise left home again for the Continent a fortnight ago, and they won't be back till the beginning of April." She spoke of Elise familiarly without the prefix "Miss." That was curious. "Do you know where they are?" "I send their letters to the Excelsior Hotel, at Palermo." "Thank you. By the way," I added, "do you happen to know who is the landlord of these houses?" "Mr Epgrave, sir. He lives just there--that new-painted house at the corner;" and she pointed to the residence in question. And with that information I re-entered the cab and drove back to the club. So Madame was enjoying the war in Sicilian sunshine! Lucky old woman. I had only been back in London a week, and was already longing for warmth and brightness again. That night, seated alone, trying to form some plan for the immediate future, I found myself suggesting a flying visit to Palermo. The Villa Igiea was a favourite hotel of mine, and I could there enjoy the winter warmth, and at the same time keep an eye upon the modest old lady of Toddington Terrace, who appeared to blossom forth into a wealthy countess whenever occasion required. The idea grew upon me. Indeed, a fortnight later, constant traveller that I am, I ran from Paris to Naples in the "sixty," with Garrett, and shipped the car over to Palermo, where I soon found myself idling in the big white and pale green lounge of the Igiea, wondering how best to get sight of Madame, who I had already ascertained, was at the Excelsior at the other end of the town, still passing as Countess Gemsenberg. The pretty Elise was with her, and my informant--an Italian--told me in confidence that the young Marquis Torquato Torrini, head of the well-known firm of Genoese shipowners who was staying in the hotel, was head over heels in love with her, and that engagement was imminent. I heard this in silence. What, I wondered had become of the young Austrian millionaire, Hausner?