"Mr. De Gex is greatly respected here," he hastened to tell me. "Since he bought the Villa Clementini outside Fiesole he has lived here for about eight months out of the twelve. Italians love rich people, and because of his wealth he is most popular. I see a good deal of him, for we act as agents for his property in Italy. He has quite a large estate--mostly wine-growing." I mentioned that I had met him in London, and then asked in curiosity: "Do you happen to know anything of his niece, a tall, very handsome, dark-haired girl, Miss Engledue?" For a moment he reflected. Then he said: "I recollect when up at the villa just before he went to London--that was about three months ago--seeing a tall, dark-haired young lady. She came into the library while I was chatting with him. But I don't know her name." "Was she about twenty-one?" I asked eagerly. "Yes--about that age," was his reply. "But, of course, I have no idea whether it is the young lady you mean." "Had you seen her before?" "I think so--once before. She was in the car in the Cascine with Mrs. De Gex." "I wonder how I could discover more about her?" I asked. "Who would know?" "Robertson, the butler, or Mr. Henderson, the secretary." "The butler would be best," I said. "How could I approach him, do you think? I don't want to go up to the villa." "It would be easy. He's often down at the Gambrinus in the afternoon. I frequently meet him there, and we have a drink and a chat." "Would he be there this afternoon? I do wish you would introduce me," I urged. "The matter is an important personal one concerning myself." "He might be down this afternoon--about four o'clock," replied the alert young Englishman who spoke Italian so well. "I'll look in there at four, if you will be about." "I certainly will be there," I said, and then we went along to Giacosa's, where we each had that cocktail-like speciality known as a "piccolo." At five minutes to four that afternoon I entered the big Gambrinus Café, which was nearly opposite my hotel on the other side of the piazza, and I took a seat just inside the door. The orchestra was playing, and the place was well filled with a gay cosmopolitan crowd, many of them winter idlers. I looked around, wondering if the butler, Robertson, had arrived, and waited in patience for the coming of my friend. Punctually at four he appeared, and greeting me, cast his eyes over the many small tables, until suddenly he exclaimed: "Ah! There he is!" We walked to a table some distance away, where a stoutish, grey-haired, clean-shaven Englishman was smoking a cigarette and reading a newspaper, with a glass of vermouth and seltzer before him. "Hallo, Arthur!" he exclaimed as he raised his eyes to my friend.