Part 30 (1/2)

Michael groaned.

”It's no kind of use. I _can't_ believe it.”

He tried to think of Fay. He should see _her_ soon, touch her hand, hear her voice. Poor little darling! She had not the courage of a mouse.

Perhaps she was a little glad at his release. Yes. No doubt she had been pleased to hear it. He hoped she would not feel shy of him at seeing him again. He hoped she would not thank him.

The door, no longer locked, was suddenly opened, and the head warder deferentially ushered in a visitor.

A tall, dark man in a tri-coloured sash came in, and the warder withdrew.

The man bowed and looked with fixity at Michael, who stared back at him, dazed and confused. Where had he seen that face before?

Ah! _He remembered!_

”I perceive that you have not forgotten me,” said the Delegato. ”It was I who arrested you. It was to me that you confessed to the murder of the Marchese di Maltagliala.”

”I remember.”

”I never was able to reach any certainty that you were really guilty,”

continued the Delegato. ”I was not even convinced that you had had a quarrel with the Marchese.”

”I had no quarrel with him.”

”I knew that. That you might be s.h.i.+elding someone occurred forcibly to my mind. _But who?_”

Michael looked steadily at the official.

”And there was blood upon your hand and sleeve when you confessed.”

”There was.”

”It was not the Marchese's blood,” said the Delegato, drawing a sallow finger across a blue chin. ”It remained a mystery. I will own that it had not crossed my mind that that fragile and timid lady had killed her husband, and that as she at last confesses you were s.h.i.+elding her.” The Delegato looked piercingly at Michael.

Michael was silent.

”You have always been silent. Is not the moment come to speak?”

Michael shook his head.

The Delegato bowed.

”I came to ask you to discuss the affair openly,” he said, ”to relieve my perplexity as a matter of courtesy. But you will not speak. Then I will speak instead. When first I read the Marchesa's confession it came into my mind that the Marchesa, who I believe was your friend, might for some reason, possibly the sentimental devotion of an older woman for a young man--such things have been--that she _might_ have confessed on her deathbed to a crime which she had not committed in order to save you from--_this_”--he touched the wall of the cell. ”I doubted that she really murdered her husband. _But she did._ I sought out the maid who had been with her when the Marchese died, and she, before the confession was published, informed me that she had not undressed the Marchesa on her return from the Colle Alto party. And that next morning part of the cloak which was not hers, and part of her gown were found to be burnt as stated in her confession. It was indeed necessary to burn them. The Marchesa murdered the Marchese.”

There was a long silence.

”I cannot tell whether you witnessed the crime or not. At first I thought the blood on your hands and clothes might have come from helping her to drag the body into the garden. But it was not so. At the time I attached a great importance to the garden door being unlocked. Too great. It led me astray. The gardener, in spite of his oath that he had locked it, had probably left it unlocked. We now know from the Marchesa that the murder took place within the garden, and the locking and unlocking of the door was an accident which looked like a clue.... But, if you witnessed the murder, and wished to retire without raising an alarm, or denouncing that unhappy lady, I ask myself why did you not open the garden door from within--the key was in the lock, I saw it--and pa.s.s out on to the high road. Why did you, instead, try so hard to escape over the wall behind the ilexes that you tore your hands on the cut gla.s.s on the top? I found the place next day. There was blood on it.

When you were struggling to escape over that wall you were not anxious to take the Marchesa's guilt upon yourself. When you were hiding behind the screen in the d.u.c.h.ess' apartment you were not--_at that moment_--very determined to s.h.i.+eld the Marchesa from the consequences of her deed. All Italy is ringing with your quixotic, your chivalrous, your superb action. _Nevertheless_, if I had quitted the d.u.c.h.ess' apartment, if my natural and trained acuteness had not made one last effort respecting the screen, _I do not think you would have followed me into the garden to denounce yourself_.”

The Delegato paused.