“Of course, of course.  Why naturally, you know—­But—­in what direction—­eh?—­do the suspicions—­that is, the opinions—­you, yourself, Signor Giovacchino—­who do you think now could have done the deed?” said the Marchese, finishing his sentence with an apparent effort.

“My notion is,” said the lawyer, speaking strongly and distinctly, “that the murder was committed by the Venetian girl, Paolina Foscarelli.  You are aware of the circumstances that first directed suspicion towards her.  Alone they are very strong; but some other little matters have come out.  She has now been examined several times; and the account she gives of the hours that passed between the time she left the church of St. Apollinare, and the time when she was first seen afterwards is a very lame and unsatisfactory one.  Then, my friend, Signor Logarini, of the police, who has been most praiseworthily active in the matter, has discovered that the old friar, who has the charge of the Basilica, and who is a Venetian, was connected with the parents of this girl, which renders it extremely probable that he may wish to screen her; and that fact, taken in conjunction with the very strong reasons we have to think that the friar has some knowledge of the deed, and his very manifest reluctance to tell what he knows, seems to point in the same direction.”

“The friar at St. Apollinare,” said the Marchese, with blue trembling lips, as he looked keenly into the lawyer’s face; “why it is impossible that he could know anything about it.  The friar—­”

“Impossible? why impossible, Signor Marchese?  We know that he was in the Pineta much about the time the deed must have been done.”

The Marchese threw himself back in his deep easy chair, and covered his face with his hand.  The lawyer paused, and shook his head as he looked at him.

“The friar in the Pineta!” he exclaimed, getting up from his chair after a minute or two, and taking a few disorderly steps across the room.

“You see; Signor Giovacchino,” he continued, returning to his seat, “I have been so shaken by all the misery I have gone through, and all the sleepless nights I have passed, that—­that—­that I am hardly in a fit state to appreciate the value of the—­the facts you lay before me.  I have been trying to think—­I am afraid—­very much afraid for my own part that no weight is to be attributed to any testimony which may be got from the friar of St. Apollinare.”

“Why so, Signor Marchese?” asked the lawyer, shortly.

“I know the old man very well.  I have often talked with him.  He is not in his right mind:  certainly not in such a state of mind as would justify the magistrates in paying any attention to his statements,” said the Marchese, in a more decided manner than he had before spoken.

“I spoke with the old man at some length the other day, and I cannot say that that was my impression at all.  In my opinion he was quite enough in his senses to know how to withhold the information which, I suspect, he could give us if he would.  May I ask, Signor Marchese, how long it is since you have spoken with him?”