“You have told me a very strange story,” he said.

“Less strange than the one your Eminence has believed since last night,” returned Giovanni calmly.

“I do not know.  It is more easy for me to believe that the girl was momentarily out of her mind than that you, whom I have known all my life, should have done such a thing.  Besides, in telling me your story, you have never once positively asserted that you did it.  You have only explained that it would have been possible for a man so disposed to accomplish the murder unsuspected.”

“Is a man obliged to incriminate himself directly?  It seems to me that in giving myself up I have done all that a man’s conscience can possibly require—­outside of the confessional.  I shall be tried, and my lawyer will do what he can to obtain my acquittal.”

“That is poor logic.  Whether you confess or not, you have accused yourself in a way that must tell against you very strongly.  You really leave me no choice.”

“Your Eminence has only to do what I request, to liberate Donna Faustina and to send me to prison.”

“You are a very strange man,” said the cardinal in a musing tone, as he leaned back in his chair and scrutinised Giovanni’s pale, impenetrable face.

“I am a desperate man, that is all.”

“Will you give me your word of honour that Faustina Montevarchi is innocent?”

“Yes,” answered Giovanni without the slightest hesitation, and meeting the gaze of the cardinal’s bright eyes unflinchingly.

The latter paused a moment, and then turned in his chair, and taking a piece of paper wrote a few words upon it.  Then he rang a little hand-bell that stood beside him.  His servant entered, as he was folding and sealing the note.

“To the Termini prison,” he said.

“The messenger had better take my carriage,” observed Giovanni.  “I shall not need it again.”

“Take Prince Sant’ Ilario’s carriage,” added the cardinal, and the man left the room.  “And now,” he continued, “will you be good enough to tell me what I am to do with you?”

“Send me to the Carceri Nuove, or to any convenient place.”

“I will do nothing that can be an injury to you hereafter,” answered the statesman.  “Something tells me that you have had nothing to do with this dreadful murder.  But you must know that though you may deceive me—­I am not omniscient—­I will not tolerate any contempt of the ways of justice.  You have surrendered yourself as the criminal, and I intend to take you at your word.”

“I ask for nothing else.  Put me where you please, do what you please with me.  It matters very little.”

“You act like a man who has had an unfortunate love affair,” remarked the cardinal.  “It is true that you have just lost your fortune, and that may account for it.  But I repeat that, whatever your motives may be, you shall not trifle with the law.  You wish to be a prisoner.  The law will oblige you so far as to comply with your request.  I warn you that, after this, you can only obtain your freedom through a proper trial.”