It was very early and the shops were hardly open, but he found one place where he could buy a suit, another some underclothes, and a third a pair of shoes.  The shoemaker, who was a thrifty man, asked Strollo what was the matter with the shoes he had on, so Strollo craftily said they hurt his feet.  Then he ate a hearty breakfast, and bought a better cigar than he had ever smoked before.  There was a bookstore near by and he purchased some books—­“Alto Amore” and “Sua Maesta e Sua Moneta” ("The Height of Love” and “His Majesty and His Money").  He would read them on the train.  He felt warm and comfortable now and not afraid at all.  By and by he went back on the train to Lambertville and smoked and read all the way, contented as the tiger is contented which has tracked down and slain a water-buffalo.

The same afternoon about sunset, in a lonely part of Van Cortlandt Park, the mushroom digger stumbled over Torsielli’s body lying face downward among the leaves.  He recognized it as that of the man who had asked the way to something to eat and given him a cigar.  He ran from the sight and, pallid with fear, notified the nearest police officer.  Then things took the usual course.  The body was removed to the morgue, an autopsy was performed, and “Headquarters” took charge of the case.  As the deceased was an Italian, Detective Sergeant Petrosini was called in.  Torsielli’s pockets were empty save for the band of a “Cremo” cigar in one waistcoat pocket and a tiny slip of paper in another, on which was penciled “Sabbatto Gizzi, P.O.  Box 239, Lambertville, New Jersey.”  Whether this last was the name of the deceased, the murderer, or some one else, no one knew.  Headquarters said it was a blind case, but Petrosini shrugged his shoulders and bought a ticket to Lambertville.

Here he found Sabbatto Gizzi, who expressed genuine horror at learning of Toni’s death and readily accompanied Petrosini to New York, where he identified the body as indeed that of Torsielli.  He told Petrosini that Toni had left Lambertville in the company of Strollo on Thursday, August 16th.  This was Saturday, August 18th, and less than thirty-six hours after the murder.  Strollo, reading “Alto Amore,” and drinking in the saloon, suspected nothing.  New York was seventy miles away—­too far for any harm to come.  But Monday morning, walking lazily down the street near the railroad station, Strollo found himself suddenly confronted by a heavily-built man with a round, moon-shaped face thickly covered with pockmarks.  Strollo did not like the way the latter’s gimlet-like eyes looked him over.  There was no time to turn and fly, and, besides, Strollo had no fear.  They might come and ask him questions, and he might even admit almost all—­almost all, and they could do nothing, for no one had seen what he had done to Toni in the wood.  So Strollo returned Petrosini’s gaze unflinchingly.

“Are you Antonio Strollo?” asked the detective, coming close to the murderer.