“Signor Marchese, in this matter the truth of the facts is what is wanted.  It is that, and that alone that the magistrates will endeavour to discover.  A great many facts, as I have pointed out to you, will be before them.  Mere statements, one way or the other, will have little avail.  Quietly and seriously now, supposing we reject the theory of Paolina’s guilt, are you able yourself to conceive any other possible explanations of the facts?  Can you yourself suggest any other theory whatsoever?” said the lawyer, throwing his head on one side, and interlacing the fingers of his clasped hands in front of his person, in calm expectation of the Marchese’s answer.

“There was another theory.  I heard that the Conte Leandro had been arrested on suspicion of being the assassin.  It would be very dreadful.  God forbid that I should say that I suspected the Conte Lombardoni of having done this foul deed.  But I cannot avoid seeing that it is a great deal more likely that he should have done it than Paolina,” returned the Marchese.

“The accusation against the Conte Lombardoni has been abandoned, and he has been set at liberty,” replied the lawyer; “there was, in fact, nothing against him, except the singular circumstance of his having gone out of the city towards the Pineta, at a very unusual hour on the morning of that same unlucky Ash Wednesday; and that he has at last thought fit to explain.”

“At last?” said Ludovico.

“Yes; for a long time he utterly refused to give any explanation of the fact whatsoever; and his manner was altogether such as to strengthen the notion that it was possible that he might have been the criminal.  He has told the truth at last.  And it is no wonder that he was loth to tell it, for it is not much calculated to increase his popularity in the city.”

“Why, what is it?  I never used to think anything worse of him than that he was a fool,” rejoined the Marchese.

“A fool, and a very mischievous and malicious one, as fools mostly are.  What do you think took him out of the city that morning of the first day in Lent?  Simply the desire to play the spy on you and the poor woman who has been killed.”

“No, you don’t mean it? the noxious animal!” exclaimed Ludovico, with intense disgust.

“It seems that he overheard you and the singer make your appointment for the excursion, and that, moved by curiosity and the hope of making mischief, he determined to be beforehand with you on the road, and picking up, if he could, the means of paying off both the lady and yourself for some of the mortification your ridicule had caused him,” said the lawyer.

“I could not have believed it possible; the mean-spirited spiteful wretch!  I did not think he had it in him!” said Ludovico.

“A man is apt to be spiteful towards those who cause him to suffer greatly.  And there is no suffering greater to a man as vain as the Conte Leandro than the mortification of his vanity.  But his spitefulness has been punished:  first, by a couple of days’ imprisonment, and a fright which half killed him; and secondly, by the sort of reception which you may suppose awaited him when he was released as the result of his explanation.  I think he has had his due,” added the lawyer, grimly.