"Circumstances," he remarked simply, with a mysterious smile upon his grey face. What, I wondered, was his meaning? Did he really intend to convey that the circumstances of his dishonourable profession compelled him to hide himself in a small flat in that somewhat obscure town--obscure as far as English life went? When he learnt that I knew some of his friends in Leghorn he became enthusiastic, and began to discuss the town and its notabilities. What did I think of the English parson? And whether I did not think that seeing the small English congregation the church ought not to be removed to some town with a larger English colony. It was absurd to keep a parson there for half a dozen people. And while my sharp eyes were busy examining the photographs set among vases of fresh-cut flowers, I made replies and sometimes laughed at his witty criticisms of persons known to both of us in "the Brighton of Italy." "What a contrast is the quiet rural life here, with all its old-world English tranquillity, to that of the gay, garish, sun-blanched _passeggiata_ of Leghorn, with its bright-eyed women, its oleanders, its noise, movement, the glare and strident music of the _cafe-chantants_, and the brightness of the newly discovered spa," I said. He sighed, pursing his lips. "Yes, Mr Leaf, you are quite right," he answered. "I love Italy, but I confess I very often long to be back here at Studland, in my own quiet old home. Lucie is always begging me to forsake the Continent and return. But it is impossible--utterly impossible." "Why impossible?" I asked, looking into his deeply furrowed face. "Well--there is a reason," was his response. "A strong reason, one of health, which induces--nay, compels me to live abroad. And I greatly prefer Italy to any other country." Little did he dream that I had that secret document of the Italian Detective Department in my possession, or that I had learnt the truth from my friend Sampson, the friend of the young Chilian Carrera. We were chatting on, having halted at the open window which looked across the old-fashioned garden with its rose arbours, moss-grown terrace and grey weather-beaten sundial, away to the park beyond, when I suddenly crossed to another table, whereon were other photographs. One of them I thought I recognised even in the distance. Yes! I was not mistaken! I took it in my trembling hand with a word of apology, and looked into the picture intently. Sight of it staggered me. "Who is this?" I asked hoarsely, and my host must, I think, have noticed the great change in my countenance. "A friend of my daughter's, I think. Do you know her?" "I knew her," I replied in a hard, low tone, for sight of that smiling face brought back to me all the bitter remembrance of a part that I would have fain forgotten. "It is Ella Murray!" "Ah!--yes, that's her name. I recollect now," he said; and I saw by his face that he was interested. "I think they were at school together."