I was just as determined as Isaac Lalonde that Rosario should never conclude that loan.  I told him so that night—­Starling and I together.  It was thought necessary, by those whose word I am content to accept, that what I had to say to Rosario should come through Starling.  It was Starling, therefore, who told him what his position would be if he proceeded further.  I must admit that the fellow showed courage.  He took a note of Starling’s words, which he declared at the time should be deposited in his safe, so that if anything should happen to him, some evidence might be forthcoming.  The police, without a doubt, have been in possession of this document, and, curiously enough, Starling was at the Milan that day.  You will perceive, therefore, that in the absence, even, of a reasonable alibi it might be difficult to prove his innocence.  To our surprise, however, for we had some faith in the fellow, instead of taking this matter with the indifference of a brave man, he has chosen to behave like a child.  In his present half maudlin state he would, I am afraid, if in serious danger of conviction, make statements likely to cause a good deal of inconvenience to myself, my sister’s friends, and others.”

“Does he know himself who committed the murder?” Arnold asked.

Sabatini smiled.

“Perfectly well,” he admitted, “but the fact helps him very little.  Isaac Lalonde is rather a notable figure among European criminals.  He belongs to a company of anarchists, well-meaning but bloodthirsty, who hold by one another to the death.  If Starling, to save himself, were to disclose the name of the real murderer, he would simply make his exit from this life with a knife through his heart instead of the hangman’s rope about his neck.  These fellows, I believe, seldom commit crimes, but they are very much in earnest and very dangerous.  If you ever happen to meet one of them with a red signet-ring upon his fourth finger, you can look out for trouble.”

Arnold shivered for a moment.

“I have seen that ring,” he murmured.

“You were a spectator of the tragedy, I remember,” Sabatini agreed, pleasantly.  “Now are you quite satisfied about Starling?”

“I have heard all I want to about that,” Arnold admitted.

“We come, then, to your last question,” Sabatini said.  “You demand to know the meaning of the unfortunate incident which occurred in my sister’s boudoir.  Here I think that I am really going to surprise you.”

“Nothing,” Arnold declared, fervently, “could surprise me.  However, go on.”

“Neither Fenella nor myself,” Sabatini asserted, “have the slightest idea as to how that man met with his death.”

“But you know who he was?” Arnold asked.  “You know why he was watching your house, why he seems to have broken into it?”