Long before we arrived the driver pointed out the huge, mediæval country house situated among the olives and vines, and commanding extensive views over Florence and the Arno, with the blue mountains beyond. It was a great white house with red tiles and overhanging eaves, palatial indeed in its dimensions, and for centuries the summer residence of the head of the great family of Clementini, from whom the English millionaire had bought it fifteen years before, together with all its pictures, tapestries, and antiques, with the farms adjoining. On entering the great gates of seventeenth century wrought iron, we found ourselves in a glorious old-world Italian garden, with a wonderful marble fountain, and a good deal of antique statuary, and then driving through the extensive grounds--past a lake--I at last rang the bell. Quickly the great iron-studded door was opened by an elderly Englishman in livery, to whom I gave my card, and asked to see his master. The man, without hesitation, ushered me through a huge marble-built hall, with a wonderfully frescoed ceiling, into a large room hung with priceless tapestry, and furnished with old gilt chairs covered with faded green silk damask. I, however, took very little note of my surroundings, so anxious was I to again meet my host of Stretton Street face to face. Not long did I have to wait before the door opened, and he stood before me. "Well, Mr. Garfield?" he asked quietly, as he advanced. "To what do I owe the honour of this visit?" "Ah!" I cried. "Then you recollect me, I see! You know my name?" "Yes. It was upon your card," was his quiet reply. "But, forgive me, I do not recollect ever having met you before!" I held my breath. I tried to speak, but for the moment words failed me, so angry was I at his cleverly pretended ignorance and flat denial. CHAPTER THE FOURTH FACING THE MUSIC "Do you seriously mean to say that you have no knowledge of me?" I demanded angrily, looking the millionaire straight in the face. "Yes, sir," he replied. "I seriously mean what I say. But, tell me," he demanded resentfully, "why are you here to claim acquaintance with me?" "Do you really deny you have ever seen me before?" I asked, astounded at his barefaced pretence of ignorance. "Never to my knowledge," replied the sallow-faced man whose countenance I so well recollected. "Then you forget a certain night not so long ago when I was called into your house in Stretton Street, and you chatted confidentially with me--about your wife and your little son?" "My dear sir!" he cried. "Whatever do you mean? I have never seen you at Stretton Street; and I have certainly never discussed my wife with you!" I stood aghast at his continued denial. "But you _did_," I asserted. "And there was another matter--a matter about which I must question you--the----"