A communal official raised no difficulty about giving the name of the occupant of the grave marked by the seventh cross from the tomb she described. A child was buried there, a boy who died three years ago. With Beryl Wragg's assistance, she cross examined the man, but could not shake his faith in the register. The parents still lived in the village. The official knew them, and remembered the boy quite well. He had contracted a fever, and died suddenly. This was disappointing. Millicent, prepared to hear of a tragedy, was confronted by the commonplace. But the special imp that attends all mischief makers prompted her next question. "Do you know Christian Stampa, the guide?" she asked. The man grinned. "Yes, _signora_. He has been on the road for years, ever since he lost his daughter." "Was he any relation to the boy? What interest would he have in this particular grave?" The custodian of parish records stroked his chin. He took thought, and reached for another ledger. He ran a finger through an index and turned up a page. "A strange thing!" he cried. "Why, that is the very place where Etta Stampa is buried. You see, _signora_," he explained, "it is a small cemetery, and our people are poor." Etta Stampa! Was this the clew? Millicent's heart throbbed. How stupid that she had not thought of a woman earlier! "How old was Etta Stampa?" she inquired. "Her age is given here as nineteen, _signora_; but that is a guess. It was a sad case. She killed herself. She came from Zermatt. I have lived nearly all my life in this valley, and hers is the only suicide I can recall." "Why did she kill herself, and when?" The official supplied the date; but he had no knowledge of the affair beyond a village rumor that she had been crossed in love. As for poor old Stampa, who met with an accident about the same time, he never mentioned her. "Stampa is the lame Johnny who went up the Forno yesterday," volunteered Georgie, when they quitted the office. "But, I say, Miss Jaques, his daughter couldn't be a friend of yours?" Millicent did not answer. She was thinking deeply. Then she realized that Beryl Wragg was watching her intently. "No," she said, "I did not mean to convey that she was my friend; only that one whom I know well was interested in her. Can you tell me how I can find out more of her history?" "Some of the villagers may help," said Miss Wragg. "Shall we make inquiries? It is marvelous how one comes across things in the most unlikely quarters." Vavasour, whose stroll with a pretty actress had resolved itself into a depressing quest into the records of the local cemetery, looked at his watch. "Time's up," he announced firmly. "The luncheon gong will go in a minute or two, and this keen air makes one peckish--Eh, what?"