was permitted to continue my quest unhindered.

Ever since I had first taken the affair in hand I had had one point
continually before my eyes. The mere fact that the man had been stabbed
in the back seemed to me sufficient proof that the assassin was of
foreign origin, and that the affair was the outcome of a vendetta, and
not the act of an ordinary bloodthirsty crime. The wound, so the doctors
informed me, was an extremely deep and narrow one, such as might very
well have been made by a stiletto. Assuming my supposition to be
correct, I returned to the house, and once more overhauled the dead
man's effects. There was little or nothing there, however, to help me.
If he had laid himself out to conceal the identity of his enemy he could
scarcely have done it more effectually. Baffled in one direction, I
turned for assistance to another. In other words, I interviewed his
left-hand neighbour, a lady with whom I had already had some slight
acquaintance. Our conversation took place across the fence that
separated the two properties.

"Do you happen to be aware," I asked, when we touched upon the one
absorbing topic, "whether the unfortunate gentleman had ever been
in Europe?"

"He had been almost everywhere," the woman replied. "I believe he was a
sailor at one time, and I have often heard him boast that he knew almost
every seaport in the world."

"I suppose you never heard him say whether he had lived in Italy?" I
inquired.

"He used to mention the country now and again," she said. "If it was a