Sammy was silent, thinking deeply. A sigh escaped him. "And then?" "What happened immediately afterwards will probably never be known," he said, in a hard, hoarse voice. "I only know that somewhere about nine o'clock that same evening Carrera's despatch-box in his room at the Continental was opened with its proper key, and Chilian Government securities which he had only that day redeemed from the bank and intended to carry back to Valparaiso as well as a lot of negotiable bonds were all abstracted, together with a large sum in French bank-notes--the value altogether being about eighty thousand pounds. At midnight the poor fellow lay in the same room with a bullet in his brain. He realised how he had been tricked; how the key had been taken from his jacket pocket while he had taken the fair Lucie out upon the lake, and in a fit of chagrin and despair he took his revolver and ended his life." "He committed suicide!" I gasped. "Didn't you see him after he went out upon the lake; didn't you warn him?" "No. I meant to. But, alas! I was too late. I waited an hour at the Casino; then returned to Paris; and imagine my horror when I discovered next morning what had happened." "What did you do?" "I went at once to the Prefecture of Police and gave information. With three detectives I went down to Enghien, but we found the Villa du Lac uninhabited. The mysterious Mr Miller and his pretty daughter had already flown. That was three years ago, and from that afternoon until half an hour ago I have never set eyes upon the dark-eyed girl who so cleverly assisted her father in his ingenious schemes." "But are you sure she is the same?" I asked. "You admit that she has changed." "She has. She's grown more beautiful, but she is the same, my dear fellow--the same. Is it any wonder that I hate her?" CHAPTER SIX. THE TRUTH ABOUT THE STRANGER. I sat staring at my friend, unable to utter a word. In the past twenty-four hours, through no fault or seeking of my own, I had suddenly been plunged into a maze of mystery, and there had been revealed to me a grave personal peril of which I had been in utter ignorance. What the sweet, open-faced girl had divulged to me had caused me much amazement, yet this extraordinary story of Sammy's was utterly dumbfounding. I could not bring myself to believe that the girl who had so simply confessed to me her distress had wilfully assisted her father in robbing young Carrera, thereby causing him to take his life. To me it was utterly incredible. Yet the fact that she had any connection with the mysterious Italian now lying dead above caused me to ponder. She knew the secret of that incident in quiet old Pisa. Yes. She was a mystery. Had she told me the actual truth? That was the question which greatly puzzled me.