“No; but it was a matter of course that you would do so—­specially the girl,” said the lawyer.

“We could not avoid arresting the Conte also; it is so unaccountable that he should have been going out of the city, and so near the place of the crime.”

“What account does he give of the matter himself?” asked the lawyer.

“No very clear one; and he seems to be frightened out of his senses; but that proves nothing.  One man takes a thing coolly, another is so flushed that you would think he was guilty only to look at him; but there is little to be judged from such appearances.  I don’t much think the Conte had anything to do with it, for my part.”

“What were you asking about at the gate?”

“Well, I thought I would just ascertain if any other parties had passed the gate that same morning,” said the Commissary.

“Others!  Have we not enough to make a sufficient puzzle already?” said Fortini.

“Yes, indeed; but information is always useful.  The men say that they are quite sure that no other person of any kind whatever passed the gate either outwards or inwards, during the night till the Conte Leandro passed in the morning; and then the girl not long afterwards; and then the Marchesino with the prima donna.”

The lawyer remained plunged in thought for some minutes, as the carriage rolled over the flat dismal-looking road towards the old church; and then he said, shaking his head, and pouting out his lips,—­

“I think we shall find, Signor Pietro, that that girl has done it.  There’s nothing a jealous woman will not do.  We shall find, I think, that to have been the case; that is, if we succeed in finding out anything at all.  Perhaps the most likely thing is that we may never know what hand did the deed.”

“Oh, come, I hope better things than that.  That would not suit our book at all.  We must find it out if we can; and it is early days yet to talk of being beat.  We are not half at the end of our means of investigation yet, Signor Giovacchino,” said the Commissary.

“It may be that something may be to be picked up at the church here.”

“And then I must go on to the farm-house, where the Marchesino and the prima donna left their carriage.”

“We’ll have a talk with the friars first.”

As Fortini spoke the carriage drew up at the west front of the desolate old basilica.  It was a fine spring morning, and by the time the lawyer and the Commissary reached the church, the sun had dissipated the mist, and it was warm and pleasant.

The great doors of the church stood yawningly open as usual, and the gate of iron rail was ajar.  And at the south-western corner of the building, just where the sun-ray from the south-west made a sharp line against the black shadow cast by the western front of the building, an old Franciscan was sitting; not Father Fabiano, but his sole companion, Friar Simone, the lay-brother.