himself. He sent
someone else." Then he fixed his eye on the prisoner and continued:
"We've got the bayonet on you; so you might as well tell us all about
it."

"I don't understand," said Spatola, anxiously.

"The easier you make it for us, the easier it will be for you,"
Osborne told him. "If you make us sweat, fitting this thing to you,
we'll give you the limit. Don't forget that."

"I have done nothing," said Spatola, earnestly. "I have done nothing.
And yet you keep me here. Is there not a law?"

"There is," said Osborne, grimly. "That's what I'm trying to tell you
about. Now, who bought the bayonet?"

"The bayonet?" Spatola stared.

"The bayonet that Hume was killed with."

With a truly Latin gesture of despair, the Italian put his hands to
his forehead.

"Always Hume," he said. "Always Hume! I can not be free of him. He was
evil!" in a sort of shrill whisper. "Even when he is dead, I am mocked
by him. He was all evil! I believe he was a devil!"

"That was no reason why you should kill him," said Osborne in the
positive manner of the third degree.

"I did not kill him," protested Spatola. "There were many times when
it was in my heart to do so. But I did not do it!"

"I've heard you say all that before," stated Osborne, wearily. Then to
the turnkey: "Take him away, Curtis."

"Just a moment," interposed Ashton-Kirk. "I came here to have a few
words with this prisoner, and by your leave, I'll speak to him now."

"All right," replied Osborne. "Help yourself."

He led Bernstine and Sime out of the cell room; the turnkey, with
professional courtesy, moved away to a safe distance, and Ashton-Kirk
turned to the Italian.

"You were once first violin with Karlson," said he. "I remember you
well. I always admired your art."

An eager look came into the prisoner's face.

"I thank you," he said. "It is not many who will remember in me a man
who once did worthy things. I am young," with despair, "yet how I have
sunken."

"It is something of a drop," admitted Ashton-Kirk. "From a position of
first violin with Karlson to that of a street musician. How did it
happen?"

Sadly the young Italian tapped his forehead with one long finger.

"The fault," he declared, "is here. I have not the--what do you call
it--sense? What happened with Karlson happened a dozen times
before--in Italy, in France, in Spain. I have not the good sense!"

But justification came into his eyes, and his hands began to
gesticulate e