“This, sir.  The gentleman was still unconscious this morning, but turns out to be a certain Signor Pompeo Sassi.  His cards were in his pocket-book.  The man who took him to the hospital was arrested because he entirely declined to give his name, or to explain what had happened, or where he had found the wounded gentleman.  Of course all the police stations were informed during the night, as the affair seemed mysterious, and when this cabman came this morning and lodged a complaint of not having been paid for a fare from this palace to the hospital, it looked as if whatever had happened, must have happened here, or near here, and I was sent to make enquiries.”

“That is perfectly clear,” the Baron said, taking out his pocket-book.  “You have no complaint to make, except that you were not paid,” he continued, speaking to the cabman.  “There are ten francs, which is much more than is owing to you.  Give me your number.”

The man knew that it was useless to ask for more, and as he produced his printed number and gave it, he implored the most complicated benedictions, even to miracles, including a thousand years of life and everlasting salvation afterwards, all for the Baron, his family, and his descendants.

“I suppose he may go now,” Volterra said to the police officer.

The cabman would have liked to stay, but one of the soldiers opened the postern and stood waiting by it till he had gone out, and closed it upon his parting volley of blessings.  The Senator reflected that they might mean a vote, some day, and did not regret his ten francs.

“I know Signor Sassi,” he said to the detective.  “He was the agent of Prince Conti’s estate, and of this palace.  But I did not know that he had been here yesterday afternoon.  I live in the Via Ludovisi and had just come here on business, when you knocked.”

He was very affable now, and explained the porter’s absence, and the fact that a gentleman who had lived in the house, but had left it, had accidentally taken his key with him, so that it was necessary to get a workman to open the door.

“And it is as well that you should be here,” he added, “for the big man of whom the cabman spoke may be the servant of that gentleman.  I remember seeing him once, and I noticed that he was unusually big.  He may have been here yesterday after his master left, and we may find some clue in the apartment.”

“Excellent!” said the detective, rubbing his hands.

He was particularly fond of cases in which doors had to be opened by force, and understood that part of his business thoroughly.

The key turned in the lock of the postern, and the porter entered, bringing Gigi with him.  They both started and turned pale when they saw the policeman and the detective.

“At what time did Signor Malipieri send you out on that errand yesterday afternoon?” asked Volterra, looking hard at the porter.

The old man drew himself up, wiped his forehead with a blue cotton handkerchief, and looked from the Baron to the detective, trying to make out whether his employer wished him to speak the truth.  A moment’s reflection told him that he had better do so, as the visit of the police must be connected with the stain of blood he had washed from the pavement, and he could prove that he had nothing to do with it.