The artistic side of the ancient Lily City did not interest me. I knew it of old. I had strolled on the Lung Arno, I had long ago with my father on a winter tour looked into the little shops of the coral and pearl merchants on the Ponte Vecchio, and I had taken my apératif at Doneys or at Giacosas. I was no stranger in Florence. My mind was fully occupied by the deep mystery of Gabrielle Engledues death, and of the millionaires flat denial that we had ever met before.
As I sat gazing across the square my anger and indignation increased. That De Gex should have dared to affect such entire ignorance surpassed belief.
I tried to form a scheme for further action, but could think of no way by which to force him to acknowledge our previous meeting. That the beautiful girl had died, and that her body had been cremated upon the false certificate I had given, was beyond all doubt. But what had been the rich mans motive?
How very perturbed and anxious he was I had noticed, though he put such a very brave face upon it and appeared so imperturbable. That he could treat such a serious matter as a joke utterly amazed me. Nevertheless, I recollected that he had long earned the reputation of being highly eccentric.
That afternoon I spent in wandering about the sunny streets of Florence. In the evening I dined at Boncianis, in the Via Panzani, an unpretentious place at which I well remembered having eaten famously when on my last visit to Florence. Afterwards, having nothing to do, I went to a variety show at the Alhambra.
Florence was full of French and English visitors, as it always is in winter, so next day I formed a plan, and in pretence of desiring to rent a furnished flat, I called at the office of a well-known English house-agent in the Via Tornabuoni. My real object was to ascertain some facts concerning Oswald De Gex.
The English clerk became quite enthusiastic when I mentioned him.
Mr. De Gex is greatly respected here, he hastened to tell me. Since he bought the Villa Clementini outside Fiesole he has lived here for about eight months out of the twelve. Italians love rich people, and because of his wealth he is most popular. I see a good deal of him, for we act as agents for his property in Italy. He has quite a large estate mostly wine-growing.
I mentioned that I had met him in London, and then asked in curiosity:
Do you happen to know anything of his niece, a tall, very handsome, dark-haired girl, Miss Engledue?
For a moment he reflected. Then he said:
I recollect when up at the villa just before he went to London that was about three months ago seeing a tall, dark-haired young lady. She came into the library while I was chatting with him. But I dont know her name.
Was she about twenty-one? I asked eagerly.
Yes about that age, was his reply. But, of course, I have no idea whether it is the young lady you mean.
Had you seen her before?
I think so once before. She was in the car in the Cascine with Mrs. De Gex.
I wonder how I could discover more about her? I asked. Who would know?
Robertson, the butler, or Mr. Henderson, the secretary.
The butler would be best, I said. How could I approach him, do you think? I dont want to go up to the villa.
It would be easy. Hes often down at the Gambrinus in the afternoon. I frequently meet him there, and we have a drink and a chat.
Would he be there this afternoon? I do wish you would introduce me, I urged. The matter is an important personal one concerning myself.
He might be down this afternoon about four oclock, replied the alert young Englishman who spoke Italian so well. Ill look in there at four, if you will be about.
I certainly will be there, I said, and then we went along to Giacosas, where we each had that cocktail-like speciality known as a piccolo.
At five minutes to four that afternoon I entered the big Gambrinus Café, which was nearly opposite my hotel on the other side of the piazza, and I took a seat just inside the door. The orchestra was playing, and the place was well filled with a gay cosmopolitan crowd, many of them winter idlers.
I looked around, wondering if the butler, Robertson, had arrived, and waited in patience for the coming of my friend.
Punctually at four he appeared, and greeting me, cast his eyes over the many small tables, until suddenly he exclaimed:
Ah! There he is!
We walked to a table some distance away, where a stoutish, grey-haired, clean-shaven Englishman was smoking a cigarette and reading a newspaper, with a glass of vermouth and seltzer before him.
Hallo, Arthur! he exclaimed as he raised his eyes to my friend.
This is a friend of mine, Mr. Garfield, my companion said, introducing me, and then we sat down and began to chat. At last I could possess myself in patience no longer, and addressing the millionaires butler, told him frankly that I was in search of information concerning the dark-haired young lady who had been guest up at the villa about three months ago.
Oh! I suppose you mean Miss Thurston the young American lady, dont you? But shes fair-haired!
The lady I mean is named Engledue, I replied.
Oh! I dont know anyone of that name, was his reply. Miss Thurston has stayed with us in London and down in Cornwall, and has been here several times. I fancy shes some relation of the mistresss. She first came to stay about three years ago, when she left school in Paris. Then she went home to America, and after six months came back again to us.
You havent any idea who her parents are or where she lived in America?
She lived somewhere near Detroit, I believe. Thats all I know about her. I believe her people are motor-car makers and extremely wealthy. At least, somebody said so and shes very free with tips to the under-servants.
When did she leave here?
When the master went to London. I was to go too, but I had influenza and had to remain here.
And where was Mrs. De Gex? I inquired.
She was already at Stretton Street. She and the little boy went to London early in October, but came back at the end of the month.
Then I questioned the estimable Robertson concerning the domestic happiness of his master. I said I had heard rumours in London of matrimonial differences.
Well, thats a lie, he replied quickly. There isnt a pair in the whole of London Society who are more devoted to each other.
This greatly surprised me after the words that had fallen from the millionaires lips.
Again I referred to the mysterious Gabrielle whom I described as minutely as I was able, and apparently my description fitted that of Rose Thurston, save for the colour of her hair.
You have no idea where she is, I suppose?
Not the slightest. Back in America, perhaps. She seems to come over every year.
I wonder if you could find out her address? I asked. If you could, it would be of very great service to me, and I handed him my card, expressing a hope that he would refrain from mentioning the matter to his master.
Ill try, he said. But I fear I shant succeed. Mr. Henderson, the masters secretary, would know, of course.
The point at issue now was whether the young American girl, who had been the millionaires guest at the villa, and Gabrielle Engledue were actually one and the same person. If they were, then I had made one step towards the solution of the enigma.
I confess to utter bewilderment. My brain was still confused. Sometimes my skull seemed wrapped in cotton wool. From a mere unimportant person in the world of electrical engineering I had suddenly become a man upon whom rested a great and criminal responsibility!