Italy firmly believed in his innocence, and her mother just as firmly believed in his guilt. Who could blame her? for had not Francis Murray and his mother turned the cold shoulder to her with the rest of the world? “And all the while he was guilty, the dastard!” she cried loathingly, and shrank with abhorrence from meeting his mother. It was cruelly hard for Italy. She loved them both, these two saddened women, and she would fain have brought them together. But Mrs. Murray, as well as Mrs. Vale, realized the impossibility of this union. “No, she believes my son guilty, I should suffocate in her presence,” cried Mrs. Murray. “Her son killed my husband. I could not breathe the same air with that woman!” cried Mrs. Vale. So they had never met, and it was but rarely Italy could gain her mother’s consent to go to Winthrop. Mrs. Murray’s life at The Lodge was now inexpressibly lonely, and worn with keen suspense, for the clever detectives had failed entirely to trace the mysterious sailor. It was believed that he must have shipped the same night upon another vessel, for he had never been seen again after he staggered out of the low saloon where, in a half-maudlin condition, he had related to a reporter and a score of other listeners, the thrilling story of Francis Murray’s confession of Ronald Vale’s murder. In addition to the search that was going on privately, there were advertisements inserted in all the leading newspapers offering inducements to the sailor to return. Mr. Gardner was secretly much discouraged at all these failures. He began to dread that there was nothing more to discover. “And yet poor Francis Murray was my true friend. How can I believe him guilty?” he would ask himself reproachfully. As Mrs. Vale and Italy sat together at the window this Christmas morning, an obsequious servant entered and presented a card to the former. Mrs. Vale’s pale, beautiful face became, if possible, paler, and her voice was imperious, as she said: “Tell the gentleman we are not at home.” The trim, becapped maid glided out, and Italy somewhat curiously took up the card that her mother had thrown carelessly down upon the floor. She read on the bit of cardboard the name: “Percy Seabright.” Italy had not seen Mr. Seabright since that day in October at Ralph Allen’s studio, but knowing his wandering, Bohemian habits, she had felt no surprise. Alexie Audenreid had told her only a week previous that he was in New York, and that Aunt Ione was furious because one of her friends there had written her he was dancing attendance on an actress there, a married woman at that, and that a divorce would very likely come of the flirtation.