He thanked the little tobacco merchant for his courtesy, and bade him farewell, promising to remember him most affectionately to Zevenboom when next he should see him. After that he went off to make arrangements about his journey from Paris to Naples. It was at a late hour of the night when he reached that famous Italian city. Tired out he betook himself to his hotel, slept the sleep of the just, and rose in the morning with the pleasant feeling that the day before him was likely to prove a busy and also an exciting one. After he had breakfasted, which he made a point of doing in the solid English fashion, he smoked a contemplative cigar, and interested himself after his own fashion in the billings and cooings of a young newly married couple, who were staying at the hotel awaiting the arrival of the out-going Australian Mail Boat. Then, having discovered the interpreter whom the hotel manager had found for him, he set off for the street in which he had been told Teresina Cardi and her mother had dwelt. “‘See Naples and die’ they say,” he muttered to himself, as he made his way out of one into another tortuous and unsavoury street. “It should have been ‘_smell_ Naples and die.’ A connoisseur could discover a hundred fresh unsavouries in every hundred yards.” At last they found themselves in the street in question, and, after some little hunting, discovered the house in which the murdered girl had resided with her mother. The interpreter questioned the head of the family who lived on the ground floor. With many flourishes and bows, the latter, whose only work in life, it would appear, was to smoke cigarettes upon the doorstep, informed him that the Signora Cardi was dead and that the funeral had been a most imposing one. “Ask him what has become of the daughter,” said Burrell, who was anxious to discover whether or not the man were aware of the murder. “Gone,” was the laconic reply. Eventually he condescended to add, “An Englishman came to see her, and the signorina went away with him. I can tell you no more.” He manufactured for himself another cigarette, with the air of a man who has done everything he could to prove himself hospitable, and is not quite certain whether he has succeeded in the attempt. At this juncture Burrell rattled the money in his pocket. “Ask him if he thinks he would know the man again if he were to see him,” he said. “Tell him also that I will pay him well for any information he may give me.” A vehement debate ensued--which might have lasted from three to five minutes. At the end the interpreter translated. “He says, your Excellency, that he could pick the man out from a hundred.” “He’s been a jolly long time saying it,” said Burrell, and as he spoke he took from his pocket half-a-dozen photographs which he had brought with him for that purpose. “However, he shall try!”