. My thoughts had
been very far away from that dark ancient street. But next moment I felt
in my pocket. My wallet--in which one carries the paper currency of
Italy--was gone, and with it Whitaker's precious letter!

Those men had evidently watched me take out my wallet when on the Lung
Arno, and waited for me as I walked home.

I turned to look after them, but they had already disappeared into
that maze of crooked, squalid streets around the Pitti. Fortunately,
there was not more than a sovereign in it. I was filled with regret,
however, on account of my friend's letter. He had trusted me with some
secret. I had accepted the confidence he reposed in me, and yet, by my
carelessness, the secret, whatever it was, had passed into other hands.
Should I tell him? I hesitated. What would you have done in such
circumstances?

Well, I decided to say nothing. If the thief knew me, as he most
probably did, he might return the letter anonymously when he discovered
that it was of no value. And that there was anything of value within was
entirely out of the question.

So months went by. I was ordered to take the car back to England, and
then went to Germany and to France. Only once Whitaker wrote to me.
Florence, he declared, was very dull now I had left.

A _coup_ had been made in Biarritz,--a little matter of a few
sparklers,--and Bindo and I found ourselves living, early in January,
at the Villa Igiea, at Palermo.

As I sat alone, smoking and gazing out upon the blue bay, with the
distant mountains purple in the calm sundown, the quick _frou-frou_
of silken skirts passed close by me, and a tall, slender girl, very
elegantly dressed, went forth alone into the beautiful gardens that
slope down to the sea. I noted her neat figure, her gait, the red-gold
tint of her hair, and the peculiar manner in which she carried her left
hand when walking.

Could it be Vivi? I sat up, staring after her in wonder. Her figure was
perfect, her elegant cream gown was evidently the "creation" of one of
the man-milliners of the Rue de la Paix, and I noticed that the women
sitting around had turned and were admiring her for her general _chic_.

She turned into the gardens ere I could catch a glimpse of her face, and
I sat back again, laughing at my own foolishness. Somehow, during the
past three years, I had fancied I saw her a dozen times--in London,
in Rome, in Paris, in Nice, and elsewhere. But I had always, alas!
discovered it to be an ill