"By the signore's friend--a signorina inglese." "Her name?" "The Signorina Mortimer." Mention of that name caused Dudley to start and fix his eyes upon the stranger with the sallow face. "She has sent you. Why?" "To deliver to you an urgent message," was the man's response. "I have here a credential." And fumbling in the breast pocket of his coat he produced an envelope, open and without superscription, which he handed to Chisholm. From it the latter drew forth a piece of folded white paper, which he opened carefully. What he saw struck him aghast. Within the folds was concealed an object, simple, it is true, but of a nature to cause him to hold his breath in sheer astonishment. The paper contained what Dudley had believed to be still reposing in the safe at Wroxeter. It was the revered relic of a day long past, the token of a love long dead--the little curl he had so faithfully treasured. The woman into whose hands he had so irretrievably given himself had stolen it. She had secured it by stealth on that night when, conversing with him in the library, she had confessed her knowledge of his secret, so that he had been forced by overwhelming circumstances to make the unholy compact which was driving him to despair. Time after time he had risked his life against fearful odds, snatched it from savage treachery, fought for it in open fight in wild regions where the foot of a white man had never before trod, plucked it from the heart of battle; but never had he cast it so recklessly upon the dice-board of Fate as on that night when she, the Devil's angel, had appeared to him in the guise of a saviour. His mouth grew hard as he thought of it. What did it matter? Life was sweet after all, and she had rescued him from suicide. Impulse rode roughshod over reason, as it so often does with impetuous men of Dudley Chisholm's stamp; his inborn love of adventure, which had carried him far afield into remote corners of the earth, was up in arms against sober thought. Upon the paper in which the lock of hair was wrapped were a few words, written in ink in a firm feminine hand. He spread the paper out and read them. The message was very brief, but very pointed: "The bearer, Francesco Marucci, is to be trusted implicitly.--Muriel Mortimer." That was all. Surely no better credential could there be than the return of the treasured love-token which she had so ingeniously secured. "Well?" he inquired, refolding the paper and replacing it in its envelope. "And your message? What is it?" "A confidential one," replied the Tuscan. "The Signorina ordered me to find you at once, the instant that I reached London. I left Florence the day before yesterday and travelled straight through, by way of Milan and Bale. She gave me the address of that palazzo where you have been visiting, and I waited in the street until you came out." "But you have told me that I am watched," said Dudley. "Who is taking an interest in my movements?"