Ever since I had first taken the affair in hand I had had one point continually before my eyes.  The mere fact that the man had been stabbed in the back seemed to me sufficient proof that the assassin was of foreign origin, and that the affair was the outcome of a vendetta, and not the act of an ordinary bloodthirsty crime.  The wound, so the doctors informed me, was an extremely deep and narrow one, such as might very well have been made by a stiletto.  Assuming my supposition to be correct, I returned to the house, and once more overhauled the dead man’s effects.  There was little or nothing there, however, to help me.  If he had laid himself out to conceal the identity of his enemy he could scarcely have done it more effectually.  Baffled in one direction, I turned for assistance to another.  In other words, I interviewed his left-hand neighbour, a lady with whom I had already had some slight acquaintance.  Our conversation took place across the fence that separated the two properties.

“Do you happen to be aware,” I asked, when we touched upon the one absorbing topic, “whether the unfortunate gentleman had ever been in Europe?”

“He had been almost everywhere,” the woman replied.  “I believe he was a sailor at one time, and I have often heard him boast that he knew almost every seaport in the world.”

“I suppose you never heard him say whether he had lived in Italy?” I inquired.

“He used to mention the country now and again,” she said.  “If it was a fine morning he would sometimes remark that it was a perfect Italian sky.  But nothing more than that.”

I was about to thank her and move away when she stopped me with an exclamation.

“Wait one moment,” she said, “now I come to think of it, I remember that about three months ago he received a letter from Italy.  I’ll tell you how I came to know it.  I was standing in the front verandah when the postman brought up the letters.  He gave me mine, and then I noticed that the top letter he held in his hand had a foreign stamp.  Now, my little boy, Willie, collects stamps; he’s tired of them now, but that doesn’t matter.  At that time, however, he was so taken up with them that he could talk of nothing else.  Well, as I was saying, I noticed this stamp, and asked the postman what country it came from.  He told me it was from Italy, and that the letter was for the gentleman next door.  ’The next time I see him,’ I said to myself, ’I’ll ask him for that stamp for Willie.’  I had my opportunity that self-same minute, for, just as I was going down the garden there to where my husband was doing a little cabbage-planting, he came into his front verandah.  He took the letter from the postman, and as he looked at the envelope, I saw him give a start of surprise.  His face was as white as death when he opened it, and he had no sooner glanced at it than he gave a sort of stagger, and if it hadn’t been for the verandah-rail I believe he’d have