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?”