“I tell you I know nothing,” retorted the old man.  “Why do you come here and disturb me?” he added peevishly.

“Because I want to know the truth,” Benton answered.  “And I mean to!”

“Go away!” snapped the wilful old fellow.  “I’ve done with you all—­all the crowd of you!”

“Ah!” laughed Benton.  “Then you forget the little matter of the man Morel—­eh?  That is not forgotten by the police, remember!”

“And if you said a word to them, Signor Benton, then you would implicate yourself,” the old man growled.  Seeing hostility in the Englishman’s attitude he instantly resented it.

“Probably.  But as I have no intention of giving you away, my dear Giulio, I do not think we need discuss it.  What I am anxious to do is to establish the guilt—­or the innocence—­of Hugh Henfrey,” he went on.

“No doubt.  You have reason for establishing his guilt—­eh?”

“No.  Reasons for establishing his innocence.”

“For your own ends, Signor Benton,” was the shrewd old man’s reply.

“At one time there was a suspicion that you yourself had fired at Mademoiselle.”

“What!” gasped the old man, his countenance changing instantly.  “Who says that?” he asked angrily.

“The police were suspicious, I believe.  And as far as I can gather they are not yet altogether satisfied.”

“Ah!” growled the old Italian in a changed voice.  “They will have to prove it!”

“Well, they declare that the shot was fired by either one or the other of you,” Benton said, much surprised at the curious effect the allegation had upon the old fellow.

“So they think that if the Signorino Henfrey is innocent I am guilty of the murderous attack—­eh?”

Benton nodded.

“But they are seeking to arrest the signorino!” remarked the Italian.

“Yes.  That is why I am here—­to establish his innocence.”

“And if I were to tell you that he was innocent I should condemn myself!” laughed the crafty old man.

“Look here, Giulio,” said Benton.  “I confess that I have long ago regretted the shabby manner in which I treated you when we were all in Brussels, and I hope you will allow me to make some little amend.”  Then, taking from his pocket-book several hundred-franc notes, he doubled them up and placed them on the table.

“Ah!” said the old man.  “I see!  You want to buy my secret!  No, take your money!” he cried, pushing it back towards him contemptuously.  “I want none of it.”

“Because you are now earning an honest living,” Benton sneered.

“Yes—­and Il Passero knows it!” was Cataldi’s bold reply.

“Then you refuse to tell me anything you know concerning the events of that night at the Villa Amette?”

“Yes,” he snapped.  “Take your money, and leave me in peace!”

“And I have come all the way from England to see you,” remarked the disappointed man.