“But that is not all,” said the Commissary, laying his finger impressively on the lawyer’s sleeve; “my belief is that that old friar, padre Fabiano, is aware of the fact that the murder was committed by Paolina Foscarelli.  I am not disposed to think that he had any hand in the doing of the deed; but I think the he has a knowledge of her guilt.  He is ill now, doubtless; but I do not believe that he is suffering from fever and ague.  He is suffering from the emotions of horror and terror.  We know that he was in the Pineta much about the time at which the murder must have been committed, and very near the spot where it must have been committed.  And he comes back in a state of terrible emotion and consternation.  His manner in speaking to us to-day you must have observed.  I have no belief in an old friar being so terribly impressed by the mere sight of a dead body.”

“That is all true,” said the lawyer, nodding his head up and down several times; “and the circumstances do seem to point to the probability of your conclusion; but—­”

“But why, you will say, should the old man, if he has a merely innocent knowledge of that which I suspect him to know, refuse to tell the whole truth simply as he knows it?  I will tell you why not.  In the first place, if you had had as much experience of monks, and friars, and nuns, as I have, you would know that it is next to impossible to induce them ever to give information to justice of any facts which it is possible for them to conceal.  It seems to them, I fancy, like recognizing a lay authority in a manner they don’t like.  They will communicate nothing to you if they can help it.”

“Yes, that’s true.  I know that is the nature of them,” assented the lawyer.

“Then, observe, this Father Fabiano is a Venetian, a fellow-citizen of the girl.  You know how the Venetians hold together.  You may feel quite sure that if he did know her to be guilty of a crime, he would screen her to the utmost of his power.  Of course I have not done with him yet.  Tutt’ altro.  We must have an account of that morning stroll in the Pineta from the old gentleman’s own lips.  Meantime, I do not think that we need consider our trip to-day to have been altogether thrown away.”

“Very far from it.  Very far from it, indeed.  Honestly, I think that you have hit the nail on the head, Signor Pietro.  There is nothing like the practical experience of you gentlemen of the police, who pass your lives in playing at who-is-the-sharpest with the most astute of human beings.”

“And beating them at their own game,” said the Commissary, self-complacently.  “If that murder was not committed by Paolina Foscarelli, I will give you or anybody else leave to call me a blockhead.”

And therewith Signor Fortini and his companion drove under the old archway of the Porta Nuova and entered the city.

BOOK VI

Poena Pede Claudo