"Not much, Mr. Holmes, among the millions of London."

"Perhaps not. That is why I thought it best to summon this lady
to your aid."

We all turned round at the words. There, framed in the doorway,
was a tall and beautiful woman--the mysterious lodger of
Bloomsbury. Slowly she advanced, her face pale and drawn with a
frightful apprehension, her eyes fixed and staring, her terrified
gaze riveted upon the dark figure on the floor.

"You have killed him!" she muttered. "Oh, Dio mio, you have
killed him!" Then I heard a sudden sharp intake of her breath,
and she sprang into the air with a cry of joy. Round and round
the room she danced, her hands clapping, her dark eyes gleaming
with delighted wonder, and a thousand pretty Italian exclamations
pouring from her lips. It was terrible and amazing to see such a
woman so convulsed with joy at such a sight. Suddenly she
stopped and gazed at us all with a questioning stare.

"But you! You are police, are you not? You have killed Giuseppe
Gorgiano. Is it not so?"

"We are police, madam."

She looked round into the shadows of the room.

"But where, then, is Gennaro?" she asked. "He is my husband,
Gennaro Lucca. I am Emilia Lucca, and we are both from New York.
Where is Gennaro? He called me this moment from this window, and