“Yes,” Godfrey replied. “It was after the theatre, and when I had seen Lady Devereux and Molly to their carriage. I was walking down the Strand in search of a cab to take me back to my hotel, when I met her. She recognised me at once, and informed me that her mother was dead, that she had married, she did not say whom, and that her husband was also dead. Though she seemed in great distress, for reasons of her own she would not let me help her. Feeling that she ought not to be in the streets at such an hour, I took a cab and drove her to her home, which was a house in a narrow street leading out of the Tottenham Court Road. I bade her good-bye on the pavement, and having once more vainly endeavoured to induce her to let me help her, walked back to my hotel.” As he said this, he crossed to the table on which the box had been placed, and once more removed the lid and paper. “A number of wedding presents have arrived to-day,” he continued, “and this box came with them. We opened it, and you may see for yourself what it contained.” Sir Vivian approached the table and looked into the box, only to start back with an exclamation of horror. His usually rubicund face turned ashen gray. “My dear boy, this is more terrible than I supposed!” he gasped. “What does it mean?” “I am afraid that it means murder,” said Godfrey, very quietly. “My poor little Italian friend has been brutally murdered, by whom we have yet to discover. But why these hands of hers should have been sent to me, I can not for the life of me understand.” “Are you sure they are her hands?” “Quite sure. There can be no doubt about it. Both Fensden and I recognised them at once.” “One thing is certain: the man who committed this dreadful deed must have been jealous of you, and have heard of your kindness to the girl. Is there any one you suspect?” “I have it,” said Fensden, suddenly, before Godfrey could answer. “The man in Naples, the lover who tried to assassinate you. He is the man, or I am much mistaken. We have the best of reasons for knowing that he was in love with her, and that he would not be likely to stop at murder. If he would have killed you, why should he not have killed her? You told me upstairs, when we were speaking of her distress, that the street was occupied by foreigners; what is more likely, therefore, than that he should have lived there too? Possibly, and very probably, he was her husband.” “But she told me her husband was dead,” Godfrey asserted. “She may have had some reason for saying so,” Fensden replied. “There are a hundred theories to account for her words. It is as likely as not that she did not want you to see him. He is a Neapolitan. For all we know to the contrary he may be an Anarchist, and in hiding. She might have been afraid that if you saw him it would lead to his arrest.”