It was long past midnight ere I found myself back in Fiesole, but I discovered a belated cab, and in it I drove back to Florence, full of grave reflections.
On the following day I bought in the Via Tornabuoni an English newspaper which publishes weekly a list of visitors to Florence, and from it discovered that Mr. and Mrs. Cullerton were living at the Villa Tassi, out at Montaguto, about three miles from the Porta Romana, on the opposite side of Florence. That same morning I took the steam tram from the Piazza della Signorina, and after three miles of dusty road, alighted at a spot beyond the little village of Galluzzo in the Val d’Ema. Crossing the brook I soon began to ascend the hill of Montaguto—a pretty eminence clothed with cypresses and olives—and was not long in discovering the neat, newly-built little villa, one of a number which are let furnished each season to wealthy foreigners. I noted as I passed that it was well-kept, that the garden was bright with flowers, even though it was winter, and that in the garage was a small light car which at the moment was being washed by an English chauffeur.
I longed to have some excuse to call upon Mrs. Cullerton, but could think of none. Therefore I returned to Florence and pursued fresh tactics. The afternoon I spent making inquiries regarding the Cullertons, and soon discovered that they were intimate friends of Monsieur Rameil, the French Consul, and his wife.
With this knowledge I lost no time in obtaining an introduction to the French Consul, and three days later received a card for one of Madame’s Friday afternoons. Naturally I went, and to my delight Mrs. Cullerton was there also. She was a strikingly pretty young woman, and apparently extremely popular, judging by the manner in which two or three young Italian elegants danced attendance upon her. Shortly before I left my hostess introduced me to her, and naturally I endeavoured to make myself extremely agreeable. But was not the situation a strange one? And this pretty woman had been marked down for destruction by the mysterious millionaire, just as I had been!
Yet had I told anyone of the knowledge I had gained I would not have been believed, any more than would credence have been given to the story of my strange adventure in Stretton Street.
We chatted for perhaps ten minutes. She asked me where I was staying and how long I should be in Florence, and then, expressing a hope that we should meet again, I bowed and left her.
I had accomplished one step towards ascertaining the identity of the girl I had seen dead in London.
Several days passed, during which I kept a good look out in the streets for sight of Doctor Moroni’s fair companion. But I was not successful. Perhaps she had gone to London, as my host of Stretton Street had asserted!
One afternoon, while haunting the streets, I suddenly encountered Mrs. Cullerton walking in the Via Tornabuoni, and, raising my hat, stopped to speak.
After a few seconds she recognized me, and I walked at her side chatting. Her car was waiting in the Piazza Santa Trinita, but before she entered it she had promised to send me a card for a little “at home” she was giving on the following Thursday.