With these thoughts in his mind, Signor Fortini determined to go and see his crony, Signor Pietro Logarini, at the Palazzo del Governo.  He found that active and able official just returned from another visit to St. Apollinare in Classe, which appeared not to have been very fruitful of result.

“I can make nothing out of that old friar,” said the Police Commissary to his friend, as they sat in the private cabinet of the former; “and I am very much afraid that we shall make nothing out of him.  For quiet, aggravating obstinacy and passive resistance, recommend me to a monk.”

“What induced you to go out there to-day?” asked the lawyer.

“Why, I am very strongly persuaded—­I feel sure almost—­that that old fellow could tell something to the purpose if he would speak.  And I am more convinced of it from his manner to-day than ever.  The other animal—­the lay-brother—­I am pretty sure knows nothing about it.”

“Is the friar about again, or still in bed?” Fortini.

“Oh, he’s in bed safe enough; at least I found him there, shivering and shaking, and counting his beads, and answering a plain question with `Ave Maria’ and ‘Ora pro nobis,’ and the rest of it.  I don’t believe he has the fever a bit.  I believe that he has been scared out of his wits by something he has seen.  But the devil wouldn’t get out of him what it was if he don’t choose to tell you.  Oh, I know them!” said the Commissary, provoked by his fruitless excursion.

“I suppose,” said the lawyer, looking doubtfully into the Commissary’s face, “I suppose it is not on the cards that the old fellow was the murderer himself?”

“Ha!” said the Commissary, with a start, “that is a new idea.  But no,” he added, after a little consideration,—­“no, that’s not it; it would be very difficult even to imagine any motive.  An old man, eighty years old.  No, it’s not that.  But, if I am not very much mistaken, he knows something.”

“In that case, I should have thought that means might have been found to make him speak,” said the lawyer, drily.

“What means?  I profess I don’t know any.  The devil of it is, you see, Signor Giovacchino, that it will not do to treat those fellows roughly.  There would be the deuce and all to pay.  There he lies, shivering, and trembling, and muttering, and going on as if he was imbecile; and swearing he is too ill to leave his bed.  I don’t see how we are to get him here into court.”

“Well, I’ve had better luck this morning; and had not to go out to seek it.  My witness came to me; and I think I have got some important evidence,” said the lawyer, with much of the exultation of a successful sportsman over a less fortunate rival.

“The deuce you have.  There is a luck in those things.  But if your evidence came to you—­Who the devil would ever think of coming to a Commissary of Police as long as they could stay away, if they pleased.”

“Well, my witness was not altogether a willing one; or at least she came to me for the purpose of saying something very different from what she did say.”