The tall grey-faced man in the long overcoat--the mysterious Mr Miller who was carrying thousands of pounds in stolen notes upon him--returned to us, and a few minutes later we had landed at Dover and were seated in the train for Charing Cross.

I got my pretty travelling companion a cup of tea, and soon after we had started she closed her eyes, and, tired out, dropped off to sleep.

Miller, however, as full of good-humour as ever, kept up a continual chatter. Little did he dream that I had been an eye-witness of that wild scene of excitement when the dead man's h.o.a.rd had been discovered, or that I knew the truth concerning the unfortunate guard who had been struck down by a cowardly but unerring hand.

"Oh!" he sighed. "After all, it's good to be back again in England. A spell at home will do Lucie good. She's growing far too foreign in her ways and ideas. For a long time she's wanted to spend a year or so in England, and now I'm going to indulge her."

"Then you won't be returning abroad for some time?"

"Not for a year, I think. This winter I shall do a little hunting up in the Midlands, I know a nice hunting-box to let at Market Harborough.

Years ago I used to love a run with the hounds, and even now the sight of the pink always sends a thrill through me."

"Does Lucie ride?"

"Ride, of course. She's ridden to hounds lots of times. She had her first pony when she was eight."

"Then she'll enjoy it. There's very good society about Market Harborough, I've heard."

"Oh! yes. I know the hunting lot there quite well, and a merry crowd they are. The Continent's all very well for many things, but for real good sport of any kind you must come to England. In the Forest of Fontainebleau they hunt with an ambulance waggon in the rear!" he laughed.

And in the same strain he chattered until just after dawn we ran into Charing Cross, where we parted, he and Lucie going to the Buckingham Palace Hotel, while I took a cab out to Granville Gardens, Shepherd's Bush.

When I walked into Sammy's room at seven o'clock he sat up in bed and stared at me.

"Why? What on earth has brought you back so soon, old chap? I thought you were going to be away all the autumn and winter!" he exclaimed.

"Oh, got a bit sick of travelling, you know," I laughed, "so I simply came back, that's all. They can give me a room here, I hear, so I'll stay."

"You'll stay here till you go away again, eh?" my friend laughed, for he knew what an erratic wanderer I was.

I sat on the edge of the bed and chatted to him while he shaved and dressed.

While we breakfasted together in his sitting-room he suddenly said:--

"There was a fellow here the other day making inquiries regarding our dead Italian friend."

"Oh, what was he? A detective?"

"No. I don't think so. Miss Gilbert referred him to me. He was a thin-faced, clean-shaven chap, and gave his name as Gordon-Wright."

"Gordon-Wright!" I gasped, starting to my feet. "Has that fellow been here? What did you tell him?"

"Well, I told him nothing that he wanted to know. I didn't care about him, somehow, so I treated him to a few picturesque fictions," Sammy laughed.

"You didn't tell him that the dead man was Nardini?"

"Not likely. You recollect that you urged me to say nothing, as the Italian Emba.s.sy did not wish the fact revealed."

"Ah! That's fortunate!" I cried, much relieved. "What did you tell him?"

"I said that it was true an Italian gentleman did die here, but he was a very old man named Ma.s.sari. Before he died his son joined him, and after his death took all his belongings away. Was that right?"

"Excellent."

"The stranger made very careful inquiries as to the appearance of the man who died, and I gave an entirely wrong description of him. I said that he had white hair and a long white beard, and that he walked rather lame, with the help of a stick. In fact I showed him a stick in the hall which I said belonged to the dead man. He was also very inquisitive regarding the man's son who I said had taken away all his belongings. I described him as having a short reddish beard, but a man of rather gentlemanly bearing. The fellow Gordon-Wright struck me as an awful bounder, and that's why I filled him up with lies. Do you know him? Is he a friend of yours?"

"Friend!" I echoed. "No, the reverse. I wonder what he wanted to discover. You didn't mention me, I suppose?"

"No. Why should I?"

"I'm glad of that, for there's evidently some fresh conspiracy in progress."

"Probably there is. He's a shrewd fellow without a doubt."

"An outsider, my dear Sammy," I declared. "That fellow's a thief--a friend of Miller's."

"Of Miller's!" he cried, in his turn surprised. "Is he really one of the gang?"

"Certainly he is. Moreover, I happened to be present when he robbed an American in a hotel at Nervi, near Genoa, and if I said a word to the police he'd `do time,' depend upon it."

"Then why don't you?"

"Because just at the present time it doesn't suit my purpose," was my reply. "I want first to find out the reason of his visit here."

"Wants to establish the death of the fugitive, I suppose. He certainly, however, got nothing out of me. You know me too well, and can trust me not to give away anything that's a secret."

"Was he alone?"

"Yes. He came here alone, but Miss Gilbert says that a lady was waiting for him in a hansom a few doors along the road--a young lady, she thinks."

Was it my Ella, I wondered? If so, she might be in London staying with her aunt, as she so frequently did in the old days.

"How long ago did all this occur?" I asked.

"On Sat.u.r.day--that would be four days ago. He came about five in the afternoon. When Miss Gilbert referred him to me he apparently resented it, believing that he could induce her to tell him all he wanted."

"But even she doesn't know that it was the notorious Nardini who died up stairs."

"No, but I don't fancy she's such a ready liar as I am, old chap,"

laughed Sammy. "He started the haw-haw att.i.tude, and with me that don't pay--as you know. I did the haw-haw likewise, and led him to believe that I was most delighted to be of any a.s.sistance to him in helping him to trace his friend."

"His friend! Did he say that Nardini was his friend?"

"He didn't mention his name. He only said that an intimate friend of his, an Italian from Rome, had, he knew, arrived in London and suddenly disappeared. He had prosecuted most diligent search, and having ascertained from the registrar of deaths that an Italian had died there he wondered whether it might not be his friend. Whereupon I at once described a man something like Father Christmas without his m.u.f.f and holly, and at length he went away quite satisfied that the man who died upstairs was not the person he was in search of."

"He didn't say where he was living, or leave any address?"

"He wasn't likely to if he's one of Miller's crowd," my friend exclaimed. "But I wonder what's in the wind? He has some distinct object in establishing Nardini's death."