“Yes, certainly, I am Antonio Strollo,” replied the latter.

“Do you know Antonio Torsielli?” continued Petrosini.

“To be sure,” answered Strollo.  “I knew him well,” he added almost insolently.

“Why did you accompany him to New York?” inquired Petrosini sharply.  Strollo paled.  He had not known that the police were aware of the fact.

“I had errands in the city.  I needed clothes,” said Strollo.

“He has been murdered,” said Petrosini quietly.  “Will you come to New York to identify the body?”

Strollo hesitated.

“Why—­yes—­certainly.  I will go to New York.”  Then he added, thinking that his words seemed insufficient, “I am sorry if Torsielli has been murdered, for he was a friend of mine.”

There was a wait of several hours before the train started for New York and Strollo utilized it by giving Petrosini a detailed account of his trip with Torsielli.  He took his time about it and thought each statement over very carefully before he made it, for he was a clever fellow, this Strollo.  He even went into the family history of Torsielli and explained about the correspondence with the long-lost brother, in which he acted as amanuensis, for he had come to the conclusion that in the long run honesty (up to a certain point) would prove the best policy.  Thus he told the detective many things which the latter did not know or even suspect.  Strollo’s account of what had happened was briefly as follows: 

He and Toni had reached New York about twelve o’clock and had spent an hour or so in the neighborhood of Mott Street looking at the parade of “San Rocco.”  Then they had started for Yonkers and gone as far as the terminal of the Second Avenue El.  It was about five o’clock in the afternoon.  They had got out and started to walk.  As they proceeded they suddenly had seen a man standing under a tree and Torsielli had said to Strollo: 

“That man standing under that tree looks like my brother.”

Strollo had replied: 

“You know I am not acquainted with your brother.”

As they reached the tree the stranger had stepped forward and said to Torsielli: 

“Who are you?”

“Who?  Me?  My name is Antonio Torsielli,” had been the reply.  “Who are you?”

“I am Vito Torsielli,” had answered the stranger.  Then the two had rushed into each other’s arms.

“And what did you do?” inquired Petrosini, as Strollo naively concluded this extraordinary story.

“Me?” answered Strollo innocently.  “Why, there was nothing for me to do, so I went back to New York.”