"If you were to tell me to what particular crime you refer," I said coldly, "I might tell you whether I agree with you or not." He looked at me as if he thought me an idiot, then he rejoined dryly: "You don't mean to say that you have never thought of the Moorland Tragedy!" "Yes," I said, "often!" "And don't you think that the story is as romantic as any you have read in fiction recently?" "Yes, I do think that the story is romantic, but only because of its _mise en scène_. The same thing might have occurred in a London slum, and then it would have been merely sordid. Of course, it is all very mysterious, and I, for one, have often wondered what has become of that Italian--I forget his name." "Antonio Vissio. A queer creature, wasn't he? And we can well imagine with what suspicion he was regarded by the yokels in the neighbouring villages. Yorkshire yokels! Just think of them in connection with an exotic creature like Vissio. He had a curious history, too. His people owned a little farm somewhere in the mountains near Santa Catarina in Liguria, and during the war an English intelligence officer--Captain Arnott--lodged with them for a time. They were, it seems, extraordinarily kind to him. The family consisted of a widow, two daughters, and the son, Antonio. As he was the only son of a widow, he was, of course, exempt from military service, and helped his mother to look after the farm. His passion, however--and one, by the way, which is very common to Italian peasants--was shooting. There is very little game in that part of Italy, and it means long tramps before you can get as much as a rabbit or a partridge; but there was nothing that Antonio loved more than those tramps with a gun and a dog, and when Captain Arnott had leisure, the two of them would go off together at daybreak and never return till late at night.