"And has she been identified?" she asked eagerly. "I believe not. All that is known about her is that she was your friend." "Ah, yes!" she sighed, as though she had previous knowledge of the tragedy. "And they know that--do they? Then they will probably endeavour to find me, eh?" "Most probably." "Perhaps it is best that I should return to England, then," she remarked, as though speaking to herself. "I wonder if they will discover me here?" "I understand that they know your name, but are ignorant of where you reside. Besides, in England your name is not an uncommon one." "I hope they'll never find me, for I have no desire to answer their inquiries. The affair is an unpleasant one, to say the least." "The police have some ulterior object in view by hushing it up," I remarked. "Yes. But how did you know?" "A friend told me," was my vague reply. She, of course, never dreamed that I had been in Rome. "He told you my name?" "He was an Italian, therefore could not pronounce it properly. The police evidently do not know, even now, that Nardini is dead." "No, I suppose not," she said. "But--well, what you've told me is utterly staggering." "Then you were not aware of the mysterious affair?" "Aware of it! How should I be?" "Well, you were Nardini's friend. You were a frequent visitor at the Villa Verde. You told me so yourself, remember." She did not reply, but sat staring straight before her at the stream of moonlight upon the rolling waters. Whether she were really acquainted with the details of the tragic affair or not, I was unable to decide. She, however, offered me no explanation as to who the unknown woman was, and from her attitude I saw that she did not intend to reveal to me anything. Perhaps the mere fact that I had gained secret knowledge caused her to hold me in fear lest I should betray her whereabouts. The situation was hourly becoming more complicated, but upon one point I felt confident, namely, that she held no knowledge of the second tragedy at the villa--a tragedy in which her father was most certainly implicated. The tall grey-faced man in the long overcoat--the mysterious Mr Miller who was carrying thousands of pounds in stolen notes upon him--returned to us, and a few minutes later we had landed at Dover and were seated in the train for Charing Cross. I got my pretty travelling companion a cup of tea, and soon after we had started she closed her eyes, and, tired out, dropped off to sleep. Miller, however, as full of good-humour as ever, kept up a continual chatter. Little did he dream that I had been an eye-witness of that wild scene of excitement when the dead man's hoard had been discovered, or that I knew the truth concerning the unfortunate guard who had been struck down by a cowardly but unerring hand.