The detective went in, looked about and suddenly pounced upon a towel on which there were stains of blood.

“What is this?” he asked sharply.  “What is the meaning of this?”

Malipieri showed his scarred hands.

“After I got out of the vault, I washed here,” he said.  “I had cut my hands a good deal, as you see.  Of course the blood came off on the towels.”

The detective assumed his smile of professional cunning.

“I understand,” he said.  “But do you generally wash in your servant’s room?”

“No.  It happened to be convenient when I got in.  There was water here, and there were towels.”

“It is strange,” said the detective.

Even Volterra looked curiously at Malipieri, for he was much puzzled.  But he was impatient, too, and came to the rescue.

“Do you not see,” he asked of the detective, “that Signor Malipieri was covered with dust and that his clothes were very wet?  There they are, lying on the floor.  He did not wish to go to his bedroom as he was, taking all that dirt and dampness with him, so he came here.”

“That is a sufficient explanation, I am sure,” said Malipieri.

“Perfectly, perfectly,” answered the detective, smiling.  “Wrap up those towels in a newspaper,” he said to the two soldiers.  “We will take them with us.  You see,” he continued in an apologetic tone, “we are obliged to be very careful in the execution of our duties.  If Signor Sassi should unfortunately die in the hospital, and especially if he should die unconscious, the matter would become very serious, and I should be blamed if I had not made a thorough examination.”

“I hope he is not so seriously injured,” said Malipieri.

“The report we received was that his skull was fractured,” answered the detective calmly.  “The hospitals report all suspicious cases to the police stations by telephone during the night, and of course, as your man refused to speak, special enquiries were made about the wounded gentleman.”

“I understand,” said Malipieri.  “And now, I suppose, you have made a sufficient search.”

“We have not seen your own room.  If you will show me that, as a mere formality, I think I need not trouble you any further.”

It had come at last.  Malipieri felt himself growing cold, and said nothing for a moment.  Volterra again began to watch him curiously.

“I fancy,” the detective said, “that your room opens from the study in which we have already been.  I only wish to look in.”

“There is a small room before it, where I keep my clothes.”

“I suppose we can go through the small room?”

“You may see that,” said Malipieri, “but I shall not allow you to go into my bedroom.”

“How very strange!” cried Volterra, staring at him.

Then the fat Baron broke into a laugh, that, made his watch-chain dance on his smooth and rotund speckled waistcoat.