“I hope so, I am sure.  What was I saying?  Oh—­I was asking whether my poor father came often to the library.  Was he fond of the books?”

“His Excellency—­Heaven give him glory!—­he was a learned man.  Yes, he came now and then.”  Meschini took possession of the manuscript and carried it off rather suddenly to its place in the drawer.  He was a long time in locking it up.  Faustina watched him with some curiosity.

“You were here that day, were you not?” she asked, as he turned towards her once more.  The question was a natural one, considering the circumstances.

“I think your Excellency was present when I was examined by the prefect,” answered Meschini in a curiously disagreeable tone.

“True,” said Faustina.  “You said you had been here all day as usual.  I had forgotten.  How horrible it was.  And you saw nobody, you heard nothing?  But I suppose it is too far from the study.”

The librarian did not answer, but it was evident from his manner that he was very much disturbed.  Indeed, he fancied that his worst fears were realised, and that Faustina was really trying to extract information from him for his own conviction.  Her thoughts were actually very far from any such idea.  She would have considered it quite as absurd to accuse the poor wretch before her as she had thought it outrageous that she herself should be suspected.  Her father had always seemed to her a very imposing personage, and she could not conceive that he should have met his death at the hands of such a miserable creature as Arnoldo Meschini, who certainly had not the outward signs of physical strength or boldness.  He, however, understood her words very differently and stood still, half way between her and the bookcases, asking himself whether it would not be better to take immediate steps for his safety.  His hand was behind him, feeling for the revolver in the pocket of his long coat.  Faustina was singularly fearless, by nature, but if she had guessed the danger of her position she would probably have effected her escape very quickly, instead of continuing the conversation.

“It is a very dreadful mystery,” she said, rising from her chair and walking slowly across the polished marble floor until she stood before a row of great volumes of which the colour had attracted her eye.  “It is the duty of us all to try and explain it.  Of course we shall know all about it some day, but it is very hard to be patient.  Do you know?” she turned suddenly and faced Meschini, speaking with a vehemence not usual for her.  “They suspected me, as if I could have done it, I, a weak girl!  And yet—­if I had the man before me—­the man who murdered him—­I believe I would kill him with my hands!”