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Indeed, on the night of the ball at the Villa Clementini, he had in his pocket the wherewithal to bring upon you an illness which must inevitably prove fatal. He had a little glass tube which he had ordered Moroni to prepare, but which the doctor himself urged him not to break for fear of infecting himself and his family." She sat staring at me open-mouthed.

It was a great white house with red tiles and overhanging eaves, palatial indeed in its dimensions, and for centuries the summer residence of the head of the great family of Clementini, from whom the English millionaire had bought it fifteen years before, together with all its pictures, tapestries, and antiques, with the farms adjoining.

I was introduced by my hostess to her husband, Jack, a smartly-dressed man, and a typical young member of the Stock Exchange. Afterwards I succeeded in having quite a long conversation with his wife. Quite casually I mentioned the Villa Clementini, and its owner. "Do you know him?" she asked with interest. "He is such a dear, generous old thing."

He, however, gave me another prescription, and as he wrote it I wondered how he would act if he knew that my object in becoming his patient was to probe the mystery of the affair in Stretton Street. I had at least gained knowledge of his intended visit to the Villa Clementini unknown to the butler, Robertson. He was to be there either at eleven o'clock that night or at eleven next morning.

Even my wildest imagination was at fault. All I knew was that the sallow-faced De Gex the millionaire who lived up at the huge Villa Clementini had plotted against the handsome girl, and she had died in his wife's bedroom in Stretton Street. "Well, Mr. Robertson, how can I find out anything more about Miss Thurston? Give me your advice." "I'll try and see what I can do," he said.

I wanted to see, and if possible speak in secret with the girl who bore such a striking resemblance to the dead Gabrielle Engledue. On returning to the hotel I rang up the Villa Clementini and inquired for Robertson. In a few moments I spoke to him, asking if he were coming down to the Gambrinus. "I'm sorry," he replied. "I have to go to Pisa by the eight o'clock train.

Arriving at last in the little piazza, at Fiesole, where a number of people were awaiting the last tram to take them back into Florence, I alighted, paid the man, and continued my journey on foot, still climbing the high road which led through the chestnut woods of Ricorbico, until at last I found myself at the corner of the grounds of the Villa Clementini, close to a pair of gates of mediæval wrought-iron which closed the south entrance to the magnificent domain.

"Tell me more about Mrs. Cullerton," I went on. "She was in Florence when you were there." "In Florence!" exclaimed the girl, as though amazed. "What could she be doing there?" "She was living in a furnished villa with her husband. And she went on several visits to Mr. De Gex who lives up at Fiesole. Are you quite sure you do not know him?" I asked. "He lives at the Villa Clementini.

Now and then he emerged from the retirement of the Villa Clementini and would go to Paris, Brussels, or Rome, and there entertain most lavishly Ministers and aristocrats of various nations, and frequently give them presents at the dinner-table. One man declared to me that Oswald De Gex was the friend of mighty persons and the moulder of mighty events.

Now, as I reflected upon my interview at the Villa Clementini, I realized how artful he was in denying everything, and yet allowing me a loophole for escape. He had mentioned blackmail an ugly word with ugly consequences well-knowing that I dare not go to the Metropolitan Police and make any statement of what I had witnessed or of how I had acted.