He dreaded the coming heat of midday.  It was quite warm enough already, as he climbed slowly upward by the short cuts that intersected the driving road, availing himself of every little patch of shade that fell from trees or cottages athwart the pathway.

The country seemed deserted, the funeral ceremony having attracted all the natives from far and near.  Yet one figure was moving rapidly up the road in front of him.  Muhlen!  Even at this distance he was recognizable; he looked, as usual, overdressed.  What was he doing there, at this hour?  Mr. Heard remembered seeing him go up, once before, at the same time of the day.

He called to mind what he had heard from Keith in the boat.  He was quite prepared to believe that this man lived on blackmail and women; that was precisely what he looked like.  A villainous personality, masquerading under an assumed name.  The sight of the fellow annoyed him.  What business had he to transact up there?  Retlow!  Once more he began to puzzle where he had heard that name.  It conjured up, dimly, some unpleasant connotation.  Where?  Long ago; so much was clear.  For a brief moment he felt on the verge of remembering.  Then his mind became blank as before; the revelation had slipped away, past recall.

He was glad to enter the shady garden of the villa Mon Repos.  Old Caterina sat, sphinx-like, on the stones at the house entrance.  There was some knitting-work on her lap, with brown wool and curiously shaped needles; one foot rested on the base of the cradle, which she rocked from time to time.  At his approach she rose up, stark and hieratic, without a trace of a friendly smile on her countenance.  Was the lady indoors?  No, she was out.  Out!  Where?  There was a definite but enigmatical movement of her withered brown arm; it appeared to embrace the universe.  And when would she be back?  No reply whatever.  Only a slight upward movement of the eyes, as much as to say:  God knows!

“I’ll wait,” thought Mr. Heard.

He walked past the forbidding hag who seemed to exhale a positive hostility towards him, and entered his cousin’s sitting-room.  He would wait.  He waited.  He glanced through a pile of illustrated newspapers that lay about.  And still he waited.  The room looked different somehow; almost untidy.  There were no rouses about.  An hour passed.  And still no sign of his cousin.

Out.  Always out.  What could this mean?  Where could she be?  It was all rather mysterious and unsatisfactory.

At last he took out his watch.  Ten minutes to one!  No use waiting any longer.  He scribbled a hasty note, left it on the writing-table, and walked into the garden past the impenetrable Caterina, who barely deigned to glance up from her knitting.  He would look for a carriage, and give himself the luxury of a drive down.  It was too hot to walk at that hour.

Strolling along he espied a familiar courtyard that gave upon the street; Count Caloveglia’s place.  On an impulse he entered the massive portal which stood invitingly ajar.  Two elderly gentlemen sat discoursing in the shade of the fig tree; there was no difficulty in recognizing the stranger as Mr. van Koppen, the American millionaire, a frequent visitor, they said, of Count Caloveglia.