"Then some document has been stamped and sealed!" I gasped.
"Yes. And my signature forged to it, no doubt. They've fabricated some
certificate or other which, bearing the stamp, seal and signature of the
Consulate, will be accepted as a legal document. I wonder what it is?"
"Ah!" I said. "I wonder!" And the three of us looked at each other in
sheer bewilderment.
"The reason the papers are all upset is because they were evidently in
search of some blank form or other, which they hoped to find," remarked
my friend. "As you say, the whole affair was most carefully and
ingeniously planned."
We crossed the great sunlit piazza together and entered the Questura,
that sun-blanched old palace with its long cool loggia where the sentry
paces day and night. The Chief of Police, whom we saw, had no further
information. The mysterious yacht had not put in at any Italian port.
From him, however, we learned the name of the detective who had seen the
two strangers leave Leghorn by the early morning train, and an hour
afterwards the police-officer, a black-eyed man short of stature, but of
an intelligent type, sat in the Consulate replying to our questions.
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