Then I recollected how the dying man had fixed his eyes upon me with that hard, intense look; how his gaze had followed me about the room, and I saw his fierce hatred and deep regret that while he himself was dying I still lived. Perhaps he had intended that our positions should be reversed, but God had willed it otherwise. Did Lucie Miller herself know what had taken place in Pisa? I asked her point-blank, but from her replies I became reassured that she was entirely ignorant of the real facts. She knew that some extraordinary incident that concerned me had taken place there--that was all. By what means had the stranger obtained knowledge of my secret? To me, her allegation that I had had some narrow escape seemed incredible. I could not discern sufficient motive. Yet she repeated her allegation, adding:-- "His motives were always hidden ones." "Well," I declared, "to me the thing is really beyond credence. I can't see what I can have done to injure him. Was it in connection with the affair in Pisa, do you think?" "I believe it was, but of course I'm not quite certain," was her somewhat vague reply. Perhaps she desired to mislead me. The position was certainly a strange one. Had the dead man been a secret enemy of both of us? The sweet face had changed as she sat with her neat patent-leather shoe stretched forth upon the shabby hearth-rug. It was even paler and more serious, while her eyes were fixed upon mine with a curious, intense gaze that caused me surprise. "You have fortunately escaped," she said mechanically, after a brief pause. "I am, however, a victim, and doomed." And sighing her eyes fell upon the carpet. "But you will be able to clear yourself of this charge against you, Miss Miller--you must--you will. If the brute refused to clear you, then you must find other means. Why did he refuse? What had he to gain by refusing?" "Everything," was her low, hoarse answer. "If he had spoken the truth and cleared me then a terrible vengeance would have fallen upon him. But death overtook him instead." I wondered whether I should tell her of the commission he had entrusted to me, but decided that, for the present, I would say nothing. "Are you returning at once to Italy?" I inquired presently, for our mutual connection with the dead man had aroused my curiosity concerning her. I longed to know who she was, and who was the man who lay in that darkened upstairs room. "I hardly know what my future movements are to be," she replied. "I came post-haste to London to face him and to compel him to speak and clear me of the foul imputation against me. Now that all is in vain-- now that the future holds no hope for me--I don't know what I shall do." "You have friends in England, of course?"