"Business, my dear, will detain me here till over to-morrow," said Haggard, as he embraced his pretty wife upon the platform; "but, please God, I shall see you then." Perhaps his voice faltered a little, as the possibility flashed through his mind that perchance, in this world, he might never gaze again into those loving, trustful eyes. One more kiss at the carriage-window and the train started, for even Italian trains must start at last. Haggard stood gazing after the disappearing carriages. Then he lit a big cigar and went back to his hotel. Then, as a good man of business, he made his will. It was short and to the point. He left everything he had in the world to his dear wife, Georgina Haggard. He rang for a couple of waiters, who duly witnessed it. And then from his pocket-book he took a little packet of tissue-paper. In it was a magnificent lock of hair. Alas, its colour was other than the deep chestnut bronze of Georgie Haggard's. He twined it round his finger, smoothing its glossy threads, and then he carefully dropped it into the hottest part of the wood fire which smouldered on the hearth. It curled and twisted in the embers as if it had been a living thing; a puff of smoke, a pungent odour, and it was gone. Haggard flung himself upon the sofa, and then he slept the dreamless sleep of a little child. Punctually as the clock struck five, Monsieur Barbiche's faultless brougham and high-stepping horse drew up at the old mill, the only building which remained of the ancient village of St. Stefano. The place was well chosen. There was not a soul about. Barbiche, his face still very pale, dressed in spotless black, in his button-hole the red ribbon, so dear to every Frenchman's heart, and accompanied by his friend De Kerguel, stepped out. They were followed by a little dried-up Italian army surgeon, who carried under his arm an ominous-looking black case. They made for the miller's orchard at once. They were not destined to be kept in suspense, for Haggard and his party had preceded them. All three Englishmen, Haggard, the general and Lord Spunyarn, were attired in ordinary walking dress; the general and Spunyarn advanced to meet De Kerguel. Barbiche and the surgeon remained a little apart. "Gentlemen," said De Kerguel, as he courteously raised his hat, "we owe you an apology." General Pepper's ruddy face assumed a purple hue. "Did these fellows mean to cry off after all?" But he was soon reassured. "We have thought it better," said the Frenchman with a smile, "to avoid mixing up any one else in this unfortunate affair. Hence, gentlemen, we have dispensed with the usual second _témoin_. Dr. Battista, of the Papal Zouaves, is present. We had better perhaps lose no time." "Be good enough," said the general, "to look at these." And from under his blue military cloak, which lay upon the ground, he drew a pair of regulation sabres, perhaps a little exceeding the ordinary length. They were heavy, murderous-looking weapons.