For what reason had Moroni come to London and taken her with him to Florence? But for the matter of that, what could be the motive of the whole puzzling affair--and further, whose was the body that had been cremated? The points I had established all combined to form an enigma which now seemed utterly beyond solution. The pale tragic figure before me held me incensed against those whose victim she had been, for it seemed that for some distinct reason her mental balance had been wantonly destroyed. Again and again, as she sat with her hands lying idly in her lap, she stared at the carpet and repeated to herself in a horrified voice those strange words: "Red, green and gold!--red, green and gold!" "Cannot you recollect about those colours?" I asked her kindly. "Try and think about them. Where did you see them?" She drew a long breath, and turning her tired eyes upon mine, she replied wearily: "I--I can't remember. I really can't remember anything!" Sometimes her eyes were fixed straight before her just as I had seen her in the Via Calzajoli in Florence--when I had believed her to be blind. At such times her gaze was vacant, and she seemed to be entirely oblivious to all about her. At others she seemed quite normal, save that she could not recall what had occurred in those days when she was lost to her friends--days when I, too, had been missing and had returned to my senses with my own memory either distorted or blotted out. Could it be that the same drug, or other diabolical method, had been used upon us both, and that I, the stronger of the two, had recovered, while she still remained in that half demented state? It certainly seemed so. Hence the more I reflected the more intense became my resolve to fathom the mystery and bring those responsible to justice. Further, she had been terrified by being told that I intended to come there to kill her! Moroni had purposely told her that, evidently in anticipation that we might meet! He had pointed me out in Florence and warned her that I was her bitterest enemy. Was it therefore any wonder that she would not tell me more than absolutely obliged? "Do you recollect ever meeting a French gentleman named Monsieur Suzor?" I asked her presently. Instantly she exchanged glances with the woman Alford. "No," was her slow reply, her eyes again downcast. "I have no knowledge of any such man." It was upon the tip of my tongue to point out that they had met that mysterious Frenchman in Kensington Gardens, but I hesitated. They certainly were unaware that I had watched them. Again, my French friend was a mystery. I did not lose sight of the fact that our first meeting had taken place on the day before my startling adventure in Stretton Street, and I began to wonder whether the man from Paris had not followed me up to York and purposely joined the train in which I had travelled back to London.