The latter, having left Florence, had learnt in Bologna of a vile, scandalous, and untrue story told of the Princess by the Marquess to the aristocratic idlers of the Florence Club, a story that was a foul and abominable lie, invented in order to besmirch the good name of a pure and unhappy woman. On hearing it he had returned at once to the Lily City, gone to the Marquess's palazzo on the Lung' Arno, and struck him in the face before his friends. This was followed by a challenge, which Jack, although he knew little of firearms, was forced to accept. Was he not champion and defender of the helpless and lonely woman he loved--the woman upon whom the Marquess had sworn within himself to be avenged? And so the pair, accompanied by their seconds and a doctor, now faced each other, revolvers in their hands. The Prince stood unflinching, his dark brow slightly contracted, his teeth hard set, his handsome countenance pale and serious. As he raised his weapon he murmured to himself some words. "For your honour, my own Angelica--my dear lost love!" The signal was given an instant later, and two shots sounded in rapid succession. Next moment it was seen that the Italian was hit, for he staggered, clutched at air, and fell forward upon his face, shot through the throat. Quickly the doctor was kneeling at his side, but though medical aid was rendered so quickly, he never spoke again, and five minutes afterwards he was dead. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Half an hour later Prince Albert was driving the hired car for all he was worth across the great plain towards the marble-built city of Pisa to catch the express to Paris. From that day Jack Cross has concealed his identity, and has never been traced by the pretty Crown-Princess. No doubt she often wonders what was the real status of the obscure good-looking young Englishman who spoke German so perfectly, who loved her devotedly, who fought bravely in vindication of her honour, and yet who afterwards so mysteriously disappeared into space. These lines will convey to her the truth. What will she think? CHAPTER NINE. A DOUBLE GAME. Lord Nassington drove his big red sixty horse-power six-cylinder "Napier" slowly up the Corso in Rome. By his side was his smart chauffeur, Garrett, in dark-green livery with the hand holding a garland proper, the crest of the Nassingtons, upon his bright buttons. It was four o'clock, the hour of the _passeggiata_, the hour when those wintering in the Eternal City go forth in carriages and cars to drive up and down the long, narrow Corso in order to see, and be seen, to exchange bows with each other, and to conclude the processional drive at slow pace owing to the crowded state of the street by a tour of the Pincian hill whence one obtains a magnificent view of Rome and the Tiber in the sunset.