Edmund next drove to the nearest chemist, and there found out that Dr. Larrone was the name of Madame Danterre’s medical man.  He already knew the name of her lawyer from Mr. Murray, who had been in perfunctory communication with him during the years in which Sir David had paid a large allowance to Madame Danterre.  But he knew that any direct attempt to see these men would probably be worse than useless.  What he wished to do was to come across Madame Danterre socially, and with all the appearance of an accidental meeting.  His two friends in Florence did their best for him, but they were before long driven to recommend Pietrino, a well-known detective, as the only person who could find out for Grosse in what houses it might be possible to meet Madame Danterre.

Grosse soon recognised the remarkable gifts of the Italian detective, and confided to him the whole case in all its apparent hopelessness.  There was, indeed, a touch of kindred feeling between them, for both men had a certain pleasure in dealing with human beings—­humanity was the material they loved to work upon.  The detective was too wise to let his zeal for the wealthy Englishman outrun discretion.  He did very little in the case, and brought back a distinct opinion that Grosse could, at present, do nothing but mischief by interference.  Madame Danterre had always lived a very retired life, and was either a real invalid or a valetudinarian.  Her great, her enormous accession of wealth had only been used apparently in the sacred cause of bodily health.  She saw at most six people, including two doctors and her lawyer; and on rare occasions, some elderly man visiting Florence—­a Frenchman maybe, or an Englishman—­would seek her out.  She never paid any visits, although she kept a splendid stable and took long drives almost daily.  The detective was depressed, for he had really been fired by Grosse’s view as to the will, and he had come to so favourable an opinion of Grosse’s ability that he had wished greatly for an interview between the latter and Madame Danterre to come off.

Edmund was loth to leave Florence until one evening when he despaired, for the first time, of doing any good.  It was the evening on which he succeeded in seeing Madame Danterre without the knowledge of that lady.  The garden of the villa into which he so much wished to penetrate was walled about with those amazing masses of brickwork which point to a date when labour was cheap indeed.  Edmund had more than once dawdled under the deep shadow of these shapeless masses of wall at the hour of the general siesta.

He felt more alert while most of the world was asleep, and he could study the defences of Madame Danterre undisturbed.  A lost joy of boyhood was in his heart when he discovered a corner where the brickwork was partly crumbled away, and partly, evidently, broken by use.  It looked as if a tiny loophole in the wall some fifteen feet from the ground had been used as an entrance to the forbidden garden by some small