When she returned to the Vicolo dei Vecchierelli, she noticed, indeed, two unfamiliar figures on the threshold, but without realising that the house was being watched. She was anxious to rejoin Protos; she did not for a moment doubt that it was he who had committed the murder, and she hated him....
A few minutes later the police rushed into the house on hearing her screams—too late, alas! Protos, exasperated at learning that she had betrayed him, had already strangled Carola.
This happened about midday. The news came out in the evening papers, and as the piece of leather cut out of the hat-lining was found in his possession, his two-fold guilt did not admit of a doubt in anyone’s mind.
Lafcadio, in the meantime, had spent the hours till evening in a state of expectancy—of vague fear. It was not the police with whom Protos had threatened him that he feared, so much as Protos himself, or some nameless thing or other, against which he no longer attempted to defend himself. An incomprehensible torpor lay heavy on him—mere fatigue perhaps; at any rate, he gave up.
The day before, he had seen Julius for barely a moment, when the latter had come to meet the train from Naples and take over the consignment of the corpse; then he had tramped the town for hours, trying to walk down the exasperation that had been left in him by his conversation with Protos and by the feeling of his dependence.
And yet the news of Protos’s arrest did not bring Lafcadio the relief that might have been expected. It was almost as though he were disappointed. Queer creature! As he had deliberately rejected all the material profits of the crime, so he was unwilling to part with any of the risks. He could not consent to the game’s coming to an end so soon. He would gladly—as in the old days when he used to play chess—have given his adversary a rook; and as though this latest development had made his victory too easy and taken away all his interest in the match, he felt that he should never rest content till he had set Fate at defiance more rashly still.
He dined in a neighbouring trattoria so as not to be obliged to dress. Directly he had finished his dinner, he returned to the hotel, and as he was passing the restaurant glass doors he caught sight of Count Julius, who was sitting at table with his wife and daughter. He had not seen Genevieve since his first visit and was struck with her beauty. As he was lingering in the smoking-room, waiting for dinner to be finished, a servant came in to tell him that the Count had gone upstairs to his room and was expecting him.
He went in. Julius de Baraglioul was alone. He had changed into a morning coat.
“So they’ve caught the murderer,” he said at once, putting out his hand.
But Lafcadio did not take it. He remained standing in the embrasure of the door.