I was risking all, for her sake, because she was mine. I was striving to solve the mystery, and to gain knowledge that would place her beyond the reach of that blackguard who held her so irrevocably in his power. Summoning all my courage I gripped the bundle which contained a few necessaries--for the remainder of my luggage I had sent direct to Charing Cross and posted the receipt for it to my club--and went forward into the Custom House, displaying my belongings to the French _douanier_. They had been vised, I had tied them up again in the big handkerchief, and was passing out. Another moment and I should be upon French territory. Suddenly, however, a heavy hand was placed upon my shoulder, and a voice exclaimed in Italian:-- "One moment! Excuse me. I have a word to say to you!" Turning with a start I faced a short man in a light tweed suit, while behind him stood the two detectives. My heart sank within me. I knew that the affair at the Villa Verde had been discovered, and that I was lost! CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR. LOVE IN FETTERS. "Just step in here one moment," said the man in the grey suit. "I want to ask you a question." And he conducted me to a small office at the farther end of the platform, the bureau of the Italian police. "Now who are you?" he asked, fixing me with his keen dark eyes, while the two detectives, who had evidently been expecting my arrival and identified me from the telegraphed description, stood by watching. "My name is Sampson--Samuel Sampson," was my prompt reply, for during the whole of the previous day I had gradually concocted a story in readiness for any emergency. "Oh!" exclaimed the _delegato_ in disbelief. "And what are you?" "Under-steward on board the _Italia_ of the Anchor Line between Naples and New York. I landed yesterday morning at Leghorn, and am going home on a holiday to London. Why?" I asked, with feigned surprise. "You left Rome yesterday," he said, "and your name is Godfrey Leaf,"--he pronounced it "Lif." "Oh!" I laughed, "that's something new. What else? If you doubt me here's my passport. It's an English passport with the Italian vise, and I fancy it ought to be good enough for you." And I handed him Sammy Sampson's passport which had been in the writing-book in my suit-case for close upon a year--ever since he and I had taken a short trip to San Sebastian, over the Spanish border. The police inspector opened the document, glanced at the visa of the Italian Consulate-General in London, and carefully spelt the name of Sampson. "There is no description or profession," he remarked dubiously. "Well," I said, "I suppose that is not the first English passport you've seen, is it? But I don't think you have ever seen one different, or with fuller detail than that!" "Then you are not Godfrey `Lif'?" he asked, still dubious.