The letters occupied us some considerable time. They were in two packets secured by broad elastic bands, and all were, without exception, letters from poor unfortunate victims who were in his clutches financially and who begged for further time in which to pay. Some of them, written in illiterate calligraphy, were heartrending appeals for wife, family, honour--even life. They were the collection of a hard-hearted man whose delight it was to crush and oppress rich and poor alike. The letters showed that. More than one was full of bitter reproach and withering sarcasm, revealing plainly that what the English girl had said concerning him was the actual truth. And yet in my short acquaintance with him prior to his decease I had never dreamed that his character was as such. Nevertheless at that moment, as I afterwards discovered, the Italian press was full of bitter abuse of the man who for the past four years or so had been one of the most popular in Italy. But he had been found out, and in ignorance of his death they were now hounding him down and appealing to the Government to arrest and prosecute him. We had nearly completed our investigation, Price taking a careful inventory of the contents of the portmanteaux, when I discovered an envelope in which was a large yellow printed form filled in with a quantity of microscopic writing. Within was a folded sheet of grey notepaper--a letter in Italian which I read eagerly, holding my breath, for what was contained there staggered me. My companions watched my change of countenance in wonder. And well, indeed, they might, for it was the appeal of a desperate woman, a letter that revealed to me an amazing truth--a letter signed "Lucie." And when I had finished reading it, I sat there, staring as the written lines danced before my eyes, amazed, unable to utter a single word in response to their questions. CHAPTER SEVEN. DESCRIBES SOME CONFIDENTIAL DOCUMENTS. I had no right to divulge the girl's secret to my two companions. I recognised this in an instant. She had told me in confidence, and here was plain proof of what she had explained. "What is it?" asked Price. "Something that surprises you?" "Well, yes," I answered as carelessly as I could. "It's a letter from a woman." "From Lucie Miller!" cried Sammy, whose sharp eyes had caught the signature. "What does she say? Tell us," he asked eagerly. "No," I said firmly. "Recollect that whatever or whoever this man is, he is dead. Therefore let his private affairs rest. It is surely no concern of ours." "No--of yours, perhaps," my friend laughed. "Remember what I told you about her." "I recollect every word." "And yet you are all the time anxious to meet her again, Godfrey! Do you know, I really believe the girl has captivated you--like she has so many others." "You don't take me for a fool--do you?" I snapped, rather annoyed. "She was in distress and I am wondering if she has yet extricated herself."