“I did not kill him,” protested Spatola.  “There were many times when it was in my heart to do so.  But I did not do it!”

“I’ve heard you say all that before,” stated Osborne, wearily.  Then to the turnkey:  “Take him away, Curtis.”

“Just a moment,” interposed Ashton-Kirk.  “I came here to have a few words with this prisoner, and by your leave, I’ll speak to him now.”

“All right,” replied Osborne.  “Help yourself.”

He led Bernstine and Sime out of the cell room; the turnkey, with professional courtesy, moved away to a safe distance, and Ashton-Kirk turned to the Italian.

“You were once first violin with Karlson,” said he.  “I remember you well.  I always admired your art.”

An eager look came into the prisoner’s face.

“I thank you,” he said.  “It is not many who will remember in me a man who once did worthy things.  I am young,” with despair, “yet how I have sunken.”

“It is something of a drop,” admitted Ashton-Kirk.  “From a position of first violin with Karlson to that of a street musician.  How did it happen?”

Sadly the young Italian tapped his forehead with one long finger.

“The fault,” he declared, “is here.  I have not the—­what do you call it—­sense?  What happened with Karlson happened a dozen times before—­in Italy, in France, in Spain.  I have not the good sense!”

But justification came into his eyes, and his hands began to gesticulate eloquently.

“Karlson is a Swede,” with contempt.  “The Swedes know the science of music; but they are hard; they are seldom artists; they cannot express.  And when one of this nation—­a man with the ice of his country in his soul—­tried to instruct me how to play the warm music of my own Italy, I called him a fool!”

“I see,” said the investigator.

“I am to blame,” said Spatola, contritely.  “But I could not help it.  He was a fool, and fools seldom like to hear the truth.”

“The Germans, now,” said Ashton-Kirk, insinuatingly, “are somewhat different from the Swedes.  Were you ever employed under a German conductor?”

“Twice,” replied the violinist, with a shrug.  “Nobody can deny the art of the Germans.  But they have their faults.  They say they know the violin.  And they do; but the Italian has taught them.  The violin belongs to Italy.  It was the glory of Cremona, was it not?  The tender hands of the Amatis, of Josef Guarnerius, of old Antonio Stradivari, placed a soul within the wooden box; and that soul is the soul of Italy!”

“Haupt, a German, wrote a treatise on the violin,” said Ashton-Kirk.  “If you would read that—­”

“I have read it,” cried Spatola.  “I have read it!  It is like that,” and he snapped his fingers impatiently.

“But you’ve probably read a translation in the English or Italian,” insisted the investigator, smoothly.  “And all translations lose something of their vitality, you know.”