mes in his hand.

"Read, Adrea," he cried, thrusting it into my hand. "A horrible thing
has happened!"

I let the paper fall through my fingers. An agony of fear was upon me.
"I know! I know! Do not ask me to read it."

"You knew, and you did not tell me!"

"No! I--no!"

There was a deadly swimming before my eyes, and a throbbing in my
ears. I sank back, grateful for the unconsciousness which gave me
respite, however short. When recovered, I was on the verge of a fever;
and Paul, seeing my condition, did not refer to the news which had
been such a shock to him. But for an hour the next day he was away
from me, writing letters home. When he returned there was a restraint
between us. He was kind as ever, but restless and unsettled. As yet he
had no suspicion, but I could see that he was longing to get back to
England.... The thought was like madness to me.

Then came the beginning of the end. We were staying in a villa which
we had rented for a month near Florence, and one day we drove into the
city together to do some shopping. Paul was at the post-office, and I
was crossing the square to go to him, when of a sudden I felt a hand
upon my dress, and a hoarse whisper in my ear. I started round in
terror. A man, pale and hollow-eyed, stood by my side. It was Gomez!

"Listen quickly!" he said. "I must not stay by your side! You are in
danger! The English police are upon your track!"

I caught hold of the railing to prevent myself from falling. Above my
head, a little flock of pigeons lazily flapped their wings against the
deep blue sky. All around, the sunlit air was full of laughing voices,
and gaily dressed crowds of people were passing backwards and forwards
only a few yards away. Already, one or two were glancing in
my direction curiously. In a moment Paul would come out of the
post-office, looking for me. I made a great effort, and steadied
myself.

"Tell me! What can I do?"

He answered me quickly, keeping his back turned to the stream of
people. "You must fly! It may be already too late, but in twenty-four
hours you will certainly be arrested if you are in Florence. I have
travelled night and day to find you. The holy saints grant that it may
not be too late. Call yourself by a strange name; and if Paul de Vaux
be with you, see that he alters his also. There are already two of the
detectives in Florence searching for you. A third, with a warrant,
may be here at any time. Get to the furthest corner of the