It was Merrihew who woke the sleeping cabby, pushed Hillard into a seat, and gave the final orders which were to take them out of the Villa Ariadne for ever. He was genuinely moved over the visible misery of his friend. He readily believed that Hillard's hurt was of the incurable kind, and so long as memory lasted the full stab of the pain would recur. So to get him away from the scene at once was the best possible thing he could do. Merrihew noticed the little group of men collected at the edge of the road, but he was too deeply absorbed in his own affairs to stop and make inquiries. The principal thing was to reach Florence without delay. He smoked two cigars and offered scarcely a dozen words to Hillard. When they arrived at the white hotel in the Borgognissanti and the night watchman drew the great bolts to admit them, Merrihew was glad. And all this to evolve from an unknown woman singing under Hillard's window but six months ago! And a princess! Truly the world was full of surprises.

He went to bed, advising Hillard to do the same. Mental repose was needed before they could sit down and discuss the affair rationally.

At nine in the morning Hillard heard a fist banging on the panels of the door.

"Open, Jack; hurry!" cried Merrihew outside. There was great agitation in his voice.

Hillard opened the door. "What's the trouble, Dan?" he asked.

Merrihew closed the door and whispered: "Dead!" As the light from the window fell upon his face it disclosed pale cheeks and widely opened eyes.

"Who?" Hillard's heart contracted. "In God's name, who?"

"The prince. They found him and his horse at the bottom of the gorge. There was a broken place in the road, and over this they had gone. The concierge says that there has been foul play. Tracks in the dust, a strange cut in the neck of the horse, and a scabbard minus its saber. Now, what the devil shall I do with the blamed sword?"

Dead! Hillard sat down on the edge of the bed. Dead! Then she was free, free.

"What shall I do with it?" demanded Merrihew a second time.

"The sword? You really brought it?"

"Yes. And if they find us with it—"

"Put it in the bottom of the trunk and leave it there till you land in New York. But the prince dead? You are sure?"

"All Florence is ringing with the story of the ball, the wind-up, and the tragedy. He's dead, no doubt of it. Shall we go up to the villa this morning?"

"No, Dan;" but all the weariness went out of Hillard's eyes.

And then Merrihew noticed. Hillard still wore his evening clothes and the bed was untouched.

"That's very foolish."

"Why? I couldn't have closed my eyes," replied Hillard.

"But won't she need you up there?" Merrihew was obviously troubled.

"If she needs me she'll send for me. But I am not needed, and she will not send for me. I shall remain here and wait."

"He's dead. Things work out queerly, don't they?"

"She is free. Thank God!"

"You are not sorry, are you?"

"Sorry? In a way, yes. He was a blackleg, but it isn't pleasant to contemplate the manner of his end."

"Well, I can frankly say that there's no such sentiment on my side. He'd have cut you down if I hadn't stopped him," said Merrihew, rubbing his swollen knuckles.

"It was measure for measure: I should have killed him had not you and O'Mally interfered."

"That's true. But what's back of all this muddle? Why was she masquerading as an opera singer, when fortune and place were under her hand?"

"She has promised to write."

"By George!"

"What now?"

"Didn't Giovanni tell us that he had friends in Fiesole, and that he was going to visit them?"

"Giovanni? I had forgotten. But what had my old valet against the prince?"

"Giovanni had a daughter," said Merrihew. "His knife left a scar on the man. The prince carried a long scar on his cheek. Two and two make four."

"But Giovanni had promised us."

"If this man did not cross his path. It looks as if he did."

Hillard had nothing to offer. He simply began dressing in his day-clothes, stopping at times and frowning at the walls. Merrihew wisely refrained from adding any questions. He was human; he knew that somewhere in Hillard's breast the fires of hope burned anew.

The day passed without additional news. But at night the last of the American Comic Opera Company straggled into the hotel, plus various pieces of luggage. O'Mally, verbose as ever, did all the talking and vending of news.

"You wouldn't know her," he said, referring to La Signorina—for they would always call her that. "When she heard of that duffer's death I swear that she believed you had a hand in it. But when she heard that the accident had occurred before you left the villa, she just collapsed. Oh, there was a devil of a mess; police agents, carabinieri, inspectors. It was a good thing that there were plenty of witnesses to prove that the prince had called La Signorina his wife, or she would be in jail this night, and we along with her. The police were hunting for the missing saber. Of course we knew nothing about it," with a wink at Merrihew. "I don't know what would have happened if her lawyer hadn't hurried up from Rome and straightened out things. Queer business. But she's a princess, all right; and she doesn't need any foreign handle, either. Kitty, you stick to America when you think of getting married."

"I shall," said Kitty demurely.

"My opinion," went on O'Mally, "is that the prince beat his nag out of pure deviltry, and the brute jumped into the gorge with him. The carabinieri claim that they saw a man in the gorge. They gave chase, but couldn't find hide nor hair of him."

Merrihew looked significantly at Hillard, who signed to him to be silent.

"I am glad that we can sail Saturday," said Kitty. She was very tired.

"So am I," echoed Smith. "All I want is a heart-to-heart talk with old Broadway. Never again for mine!"

"Go on!" said O'Mally. "You'll be talking about this for the next ten years."

"As to that I don't say. But never my name on a foreign contract again, unless it takes me to London. No more parle Italiano. Let's go over to the Grand. There's an American barkeep over there, and he'll sympathize with us."

"You're on!" said O'Mally willingly.

When they were gone, Hillard asked Kitty if she had any news.

"She said that she would write you, and for you to remain here till you received the letter."

"Was that all?"

"Yes. Have you seen anything of that wretched man Worth, who is the cause of all this trouble?"

"No, nor do I care to."

"Suppose the three of us take a stroll along the Lungarno?" suggested Merrihew. "It will be the last chance together."

"You two go. I am worn out," said Hillard. "I had no sleep last night."

So Kitty and Merrihew went out together. They climbed the Ponte Vecchio, leaned against the rail back of the bust of Cellini and contemplated the trembling lights on the sluggish waters.

"I hate to leave him alone," said Merrihew.

Kitty nestled snugly against his arm. "Don't worry about him. It is all well with him."

"How do you know?"

"I am a woman."

"Oh!" A bell crashed out across the river; it was nine o'clock. "Do you love me, Kitty Killigrew?"

"Very much, Mr. Merrihew."

"But why did you keep me waiting so long?"

"That's one of the few secrets I shall never tell you."

Merrihew pursued his investigations no further. "We shall have to live in a flat."

"I should be happy in a hut. What an adventure we have had! I regret none of it."

"Neither do I." And then, sure of the shadow and the propitiousness of the moment, he kissed her. Kitty would never have forgiven him if he hadn't. "I've bought you a cricket to take home."

"A cricket?"

"Yes. These Florentines consider crickets very lucky, that is, the first you find in May. You put him in a little wire cage and feed him lettuce, and if he sings, why, there's no doubt about the good luck. Funny little codger! Looks like a parson in a frockcoat and an old-fashioned stock."

"Good luck always," said Kitty, brushing his hand with her lips.

They were gone, and Hillard was alone. He missed them all sorely, Merrihew with his cheery laugh, Kitty with her bright eyes, and O'Mally with his harmless drolleries. And no letter. It would not be true to say that he waited patiently, that he was resigned; he waited because he must wait. There had been a great shock, and she required time to recover her poise. Was there a woman in all the world like her? No. She was well worth waiting for. And so he would wait. She was free now; but would that really matter? There was no barrier; but could she love him? And might not her letter, when it did come, be a valedictory?

Daily he searched the newspapers for news of Giovanni; but to all appearances Giovanni had vanished, as indeed he had, for ever out of Hillard's sight and knowledge.

The letter came one week after the departure of his friends. It was post-marked Venice. And the riddle was solved.