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Rh "Oh, Mr. Pagett, what a thin pretence. I shall tell Sir Eustace"

I got no further. He gave another jump. The man's nerves seemed in a shocking state.

"What is it you want to know?"

The resigned martyrdom of his tone made me smile inwardly.

"Oh, everything! The pictures, the olive trees"

I paused, rather at a loss myself.

"I suppose you speak Italian?" I resumed.

"Not a word, unfortunately. But of course, with hall porters and—er—guides."

"Exactly," I hastened to reply. "And which was your favourite picture?"

"Oh, er—the Madonna—er—Raphael, you know."

"Dear old Florence," I murmured sentimentally. "So picturesque on the banks of the Arno. A beautiful river. And the Duomo, you remember the Duomo?"

"Of course, of course."

"Another beautiful river, is it not?" I hazarded. "Almost more beautiful than the Arno?"

"Decidedly so, I should say."

Emboldened by the success of my little trap, I proceeded further. But there was little room for doubt. Mr. Pagett delivered himself into my hands with every word he uttered. The man had never been in Florence in his life.

But, if not in Florence, where had he been? In England? Actually in England at the time of the Mill House Mystery? I decided on a bold step.

"The curious thing is," I said, "that I fancied I had seen you before somewhere. But I must be mistaken—since you were in Florence at the time. And yet"

I studied him frankly. There was a hunted look in his eyes. He passed his tongue over his dry lips.