"Did he ever meet Ella, do you think?" I asked suddenly. "Never to my knowledge. Why?" "I was only wondering--that's all. Perhaps he knew Gordon-Wright." "I believe he did. They met one night when we were living in rooms at Fulham, if I recollect aright, and about six months later they went for a holiday together in Germany." "Did you ever meet that Italian doctor Gennaro Gavazzi who lived in Rome?" She looked at me with a quick suspicion that she was unable to disguise. "Why do you ask that?" she inquired, without reply to my question. "Because he was a friend of your father's. You told me so. I once knew him slightly," I added, in order to reassure her. "And you didn't know much good concerning him, eh?" she asked, looking at me apprehensively. "He was private secretary to Nardini, I believe, was he not?" "Yes, and his factotum. He did all his dirty work--a scoundrel of the very first water." "And yet your father was very friendly with him. He has been staying in Rome with him." "I believe he did. But I could never discover why poor dad was so fond of that man's society. To me, it was always a mystery." And then she went on, in a low, broken voice, to describe to me all that had occurred at the inquest. "There was a short, dark-bearded Italian present who asked me quite a number of questions regarding poor old dad. I wonder who he was." "One of your father's Italian friends most probably," I said, reassuring her, for I did not wish her to learn that the man was a police agent from Rome seeking to establish the dead man's identity. "But," I added, suddenly changing the subject because she had grown despairing, "you have told me nothing of Ella. Did you go to Porchester Terrace last night, as you promised?" "I did, but she has left London with her father. She returned to Wichenford the day before yesterday." "Gone! And where is Gordon-Wright?" "All I've been able to find out is that he is absent from London. I called myself at his rooms in Half Moon Street, and his man told me that he was out of town--on the Continent, he believes, but is not certain." "Or he may be with my love," I remarked bitterly, clenching my hands in my fierce antagonism. For me nothing lived or breathed save one life, that of my love; for her alone the sun shone and set. The days dragged wearily by, for I was still kept in the hospital. The shock my system had suffered had been a terrible one, and according to the doctors it had been little short of a miracle that my life had been saved. The funeral of Mr Miller, attended by his sister and three other friends, had taken place, and Lucie had accompanied her aunt back to Studland, taking with her all the dead man's effects. She had said nothing about the large sum in Italian bank-notes that must have been in his possession, and this somewhat puzzled me. The proceeds of the great theft at the Villa Verde must be concealed somewhere--but where?