“Mr. Ashton-Kirk,” said he, “why did you not tell us about this piece of business?  Why did you not enlighten us?  How could you go away and leave us in the dark?  We are very much occupied, and have little time to look at the newspapers.  It was only by accident that Sime happened to see one.”  Lowering his voice, he added:  “There’s a smart fellow for you; he saw the whole thing in an instant.  And so we came right here to do what we can to help justice.”  He squared his shoulders importantly.

“He’s seen the bayonet and is prepared to swear to it,” stated Osborne, elated.

“What of the picture of Spatola in the paper?” asked the investigator.  “Does he recognize that?”

Osborne’s face fell once more.

“These half-tones done through coarse screens are never any good,” said he.  “They’d make Gladstone look like Pontius Pilate.  He’s going to have a look at the man himself, and that’ll settle it.”

With that a turnkey was dispatched; and in a few moments he returned, accompanied by a half dozen prisoners; one was a slim, dark young man with a nervous, expressive look, and a great tangle of curling black hair.  The face was haggard and drawn; the eyes were frightened; the whole manner of the man had a piteous appeal.

Osborne turned to Sime.

“Look them over carefully,” directed he.  “Take your time.”

“I don’t need to,” answered the freckled shipping clerk.  He pointed to the dark young man.  “That’s the man of the picture; but I never seen him before, anywhere.”

Osborne put his fingers under his collar and pulled as though to breathe more freely; then he motioned another attendant to take the remaining prisoners away.

“I see,” said he.  “He was too foxy to buy the thing himself.  He sent someone else.”  Then he fixed his eye on the prisoner and continued:  “We’ve got the bayonet on you; so you might as well tell us all about it.”

“I don’t understand,” said Spatola, anxiously.

“The easier you make it for us, the easier it will be for you,” Osborne told him.  “If you make us sweat, fitting this thing to you, we’ll give you the limit.  Don’t forget that.”

“I have done nothing,” said Spatola, earnestly.  “I have done nothing.  And yet you keep me here.  Is there not a law?”

“There is,” said Osborne, grimly.  “That’s what I’m trying to tell you about.  Now, who bought the bayonet?”

“The bayonet?” Spatola stared.

“The bayonet that Hume was killed with.”

With a truly Latin gesture of despair, the Italian put his hands to his forehead.

“Always Hume,” he said.  “Always Hume!  I can not be free of him.  He was evil!” in a sort of shrill whisper.  “Even when he is dead, I am mocked by him.  He was all evil!  I believe he was a devil!”

“That was no reason why you should kill him,” said Osborne in the positive manner of the third degree.