I had dressed myself somewhat more suitably to my station in life, and at once called upon the minister in his little manse beside the graveyard.  He knew me, although it was more than nine years since we had met; and when I told him that I had been long upon a walking tour, and was behind with the news, readily lent me an armful of newspapers, dating from a month back to the day before.  With these I sought the tavern, and, ordering some breakfast, sat down to study the “Huddlestone Failure.”

It had been, it appeared, a very flagrant case.  Thousands of persons were reduced to poverty; and one in particular had blown out his brains as soon as payment was suspended.  It was strange to myself that, while I read these details, I continued rather to sympathize with Mr. Huddlestone than with his victims; so complete already was the empire of my love for my wife.  A price was naturally set upon the banker’s head; and, as the case was inexcusable and the public indignation thoroughly aroused, the unusual figure of L750 was offered for his capture.  He was reported to have large sums of money in his possession.  One day, he had been heard of in Spain; the next, there was sure intelligence that he was still lurking between Manchester and Liverpool, or along the border of Wales; and the day after, a telegram would announce his arrival in Cuba or Yucatan.  But in all this there was no word of an Italian, nor any sign of mystery.

In the very last paper, however, there was one item not so clear.  The accountants who were charged to verify the failure had, it seemed, come upon the traces of a very large number of thousands, which figured for some time in the transactions of the house of Huddlestone; but which came from nowhere, and disappeared in the same mysterious fashion.  It was only once referred to by name, and then under the initials “X.X.”; but it had plainly been floated for the first time into the business at a period of great depression some six years ago.  The name of a distinguished royal personage had been mentioned by rumor in connection with this sum.  “The cowardly desperado”—­such, I remember, was the editorial expression—­was supposed to have escaped with a large part of this mysterious fund still in his possession.

I was still brooding over the fact, and trying to torture it into some connection with Mr. Huddlestone’s danger, when a man entered the tavern and asked for some bread and cheese with a decided foreign accent.

“Siete Italiano?” said I.

“Si, Signor,” was his reply.

I said it was unusually far north to find one of his compatriots; at which he shrugged his shoulders, and replied that a man would go anywhere to find work.  What work he could hope to find at Graden Wester, I was totally unable to conceive; and the incident struck so unpleasantly upon my mind, that I asked the landlord, while he was counting me some change, whether he had ever before seen an Italian in the village.  He said he had once seen some Norwegians, who had been shipwrecked on the other side of Graden Ness and rescued by the lifeboat from Cauldhaven.