Beroviero reflected that in his experience this was usually the way in which liars introduced their accounts of events.  For truth is like a work of genius:  it carries conviction with it at once, and therefore needs no recommendation, nor other artificial support.

“After you left,” Giovanni continued, “I came here one morning, out of pure friendliness to Zorzi, and as we talked I chanced to look at those things on the shelf.  When I admired them, he admitted rather reluctantly that he had made them, and other things which you have in your house.”

Beroviero gravely nodded his assent to the statement.

“I asked him to make me something,” Giovanni went on to say, “but he told me that he had no white glass in the furnace, and that what was there was the result of your experiments.”

Again Beroviero bent his head.

“So I asked him to bring his blow-pipe to the main furnace room, where they were still working at that time, and we went there together.  He at once made a very beautiful piece, and was just finishing it when a bad accident happened to him.  Another man let his blow-pipe fly from his hand and it fell upon Zorzi’s foot with a large lump of hot glass.”

Beroviero looked keenly at Giovanni.

“You know as well as I that it could not have been an accident,” he said.  “It was done out of spite.”

“That may be,” replied Giovanni, “for the men do not like him, as you know.  But Zorzi accepted it as being an accident, and said so.  He was badly hurt, and is still lame.  Nella dressed the wound, and then Marietta came with her.”

“Are you sure Marietta came here?” asked Beroviero, growing paler.

“Quite sure.  They were on their way here together early in the morning when I stopped them, and asked Marietta where she was going, and she boldly said she was going to see Zorzi.  I could not prevent her, and I saw them both go in.”

“Do you mean to say that although Zorzi was so badly hurt you did not have him brought to the house?”

“Of course I proposed that at once,” Giovanni answered.  “But he said that he would not leave the furnace.”

“That was like him,” said old Beroviero.

“He knew what he was doing.  It was on that same day that a night boy told me how he had seen you and Zorzi burying something in the laboratory the night before you left.”

Beroviero started and leaned forward.  Giovanni smiled thoughtfully, for he saw how his father was moved, and he knew that the strongest part of his story was yet untold.

“It would have been better to leave Paolo Godi’s manuscript with me,” he said, in a tone of sympathy.  “I grew anxious for its safety as soon as I knew that Zorzi had charge of it.  Yesterday morning I came in again.  Zorzi was sitting on the working-stool, finishing a beautiful beaker of white glass.”

“White glass?” repeated Beroviero in evident surprise.  “White glass?  Here?”