.

"You--you are Mr. Garfield--Hugh Garfield?" she asked, her hands
quivering nervously.

"Yes. That is my name," I replied. "How do you know it?"

"They--they told me. They told me in Florence. The doctor pointed you
out. He told me that you were my worst enemy--that you intend to kill
me!"

"Doctor Moroni told you that?" I inquired kindly.

"Yes. One day you were in the Via Tornabuoni and he made me take note
of you. It was then that he told me you were a man of evil intentions,
and warned me to be wary of you."

I paused. Here was yet another sinister action on the part of Moroni!
Besides, I was unaware that he had realized I had watched him!

"Ah! yes, I see," I replied, in an attempt to humour her, for she was
very sweet and full of grace and beauty. "The doctor tried to set you
against me. And yet, strangely enough, I am your friend. Why should he
seek to do this?"

"How can I tell?" replied the girl in a strange blank voice. "But he
evidently hates you. He told me that you were also his enemy, as well
as mine. He said that it was his intention to take steps to prevent
you from seeking mischief against both of us."

This struck me as distinctly curious. Though the poor girl's mind was
unbalanced it was evident that she could recollect some things, while
her memory did not serve her in others. Of course it was quite
feasible that Moroni, on discovering that I was on the alert, would
warn her against me.

Suddenly, hoping to further stir the chords of her memory, I asked:

"Have you seen Mr. De Gex lately?"

"Who?" she inquired blankly.

"Mr. Oswald De Gex--who lives in Stretton Street."

She shook her head blankly.

"I'm afraid I--I don't know him," she replied. "Who is he?"

"Surely you know Stretton Street?" I asked.

"No--where is it?" she inquired in that strange inert manner which
characterized her mentality.

I did not pursue the question further, for it was evident that she
now had no knowledge of the man in whose house I had seen her
lying--apparently dead. And if she were not dead whose body was it
that had been cremated? That was one of the main points of the problem
which, try how I would, I failed to grasp.

Would the enigma ever be solved?

As she stood in her mother's cosy little drawing-room Gabrielle
Tennison presented a strangely tragic figure. In the grey London light
she was very beautiful it was true, but upon her pale countenance was
that terribly vacant look which wa