The splendid band of the Bersagliéri was playing in the great Piazza Vittorio, in front of the British Consulate, where the Consular flag was waving because the war-ships were in the port. The music was there in acknowledgment of the fact that the British marine band had played before the Prefecture on the previous evening. The Consulate was illuminated, and at the balcony with a large party was Her Britannic Majesty’s Consul himself, the popular Jack Hutchinson, known to every English and American resident throughout Tuscany as the merriest and happiest of good fellows. But I hurried on across the great square, feeling that no time should be lost, yet not knowing what to do. The mysterious assassination of poor Reggie and the curious events which followed, coupled with this startling discovery I had made on the previous night, had completely unnerved me. As I tried to reflect calmly and logically, I came to the conclusion that it was eminently necessary to ascertain the identity of the man who held the Steel King beneath his thrall--the man who had suggested the blowing up of the yacht. This man intended, without a doubt, to leave the vessel under cover of night, or if he were actually one of the guests he could, of course, easily excuse himself and leave the others, as I had done. I entered the Hotel Giappone, where I had once stayed with some friends after leaving the convent, and after succeeding in changing some money, went forth again among the chattering crowd, when suddenly it occurred to me that if our host intended to leave Leghorn he must leave by train. Therefore I entered a tram and alighted at the station. Several trains had, I ascertained, left for Pisa in connection with the main line from Genoa to Rome since Keppel had landed. Perhaps, therefore, he had already left. The great platform was dimly lit and deserted, for no train would depart, they told me, for another hour. It was the mail, and ran to Pisa to catch the night express to the French frontier at Modane. Should I remain and watch? The idea occurred to me that if the unseen individual who had been present in the deck-house intended to come ashore he would certainly meet Keppel somewhere, where the explosive would be prepared and packed in the box ready to be sent on board early in the morning. Most probably the pair would contrive to catch this, the last train from Leghorn. So I resolved to remain. The time dragged on. The short train was backed into the station, but no passenger appeared. A controller inquired if I intended to go to Pisa, but I replied in the negative. At last one or two passengers approached leisurely, as is usual in Italy, carrying wicker-covered flasks of Chianti to drink en voyage; the inevitable pair of white-gloved carabineers strolled up and down, and the train prepared to start.