“Well, that’ll be damning proof against the blackguards, anyway. I am on the eve of a second marriage, miss—ma’am,” continued the man with seeming irrelevance. “The lady is a widow. Mrs. Tadworth is her name—but her father was an Italian named Badeni, a connection of my first wife’s, and that’s how I came to know him and his daughter. You know Leather Lane, don’t you? It might be in Italy, for Italian’s the only language one hears about there. Badeni owned a house in Bread Street, Leather Lane, and let lodgings to his fellow-countrymen there; this business my future wife still carries on. About a week ago two men arrived at the house, father and son, so they said, who wanted a cheap bedroom; all their meals, including breakfast, they would take outside, and would be out, moreover, most of the day.
“It seems that they had often lodged at Badeni’s before—the old reprobate no doubt was one of their gang—and when they understood that Mrs. Tadworth was their former friend’s daughter they were quite satisfied.
“They gave their name as Piatti, and told Mrs. Tadworth that they came from Turin. But I happened to hear them talking on the stairs, and I knew that they were Sicilians, both of them.
“You may well imagine that just now everything hailing from Sicily is of vital importance to me, and somehow I suspected those two men from the very first. Mrs. Tadworth is quite at one with me in wanting to move heaven and earth to prove the innocence of my boy. She watched those people for me as a cat would watch a mouse. The older man professed to be very fond of gardening, and presently he obtained Mrs. Tadworth’s permission to busy himself in the little strip of barren ground at the back of the house. This she told me last night whilst we were having supper together in her little parlour. Somehow I seemed to get an inspiration like. The Piattis had gone out together as usual for their evening meal. I got a spade and went out into the strip of garden. I worked for about an hour, and then my heart gave one big leap—my spade had met a certain curious, soft resistance—the next moment I was working away with hands and nails, and soon unearthed a coat—the coat, miss,” he continued, unable now to control his excitement, “with the bit torn out of the back, and in the pocket the watch and chain belonging to the murdered man, for they bear the initials ‘A. C.’ The fiendish brutes! I knew it—I knew it, and now I can prove the innocence of my boy!”
Again there was a pause. I was too much absorbed in the palpitating narrative to attempt to breathe a word, and I knew that Lady Molly was placidly waiting until the man had somewhat recovered from his vehement outburst.
“Of course, you can prove your boy’s innocence now,” she said, smiling encouragingly into his flushed face. “But what have you done with the coat?”
“Left it buried where I found it,” he replied more calmly. “They must not suspect that I am on their track.”
She nodded approvingly.
“No doubt, then, my chief has told you that the best course to pursue now will be to place the whole matter in the hands of the English police. Our people at Scotland Yard will then immediately communicate with the Sicilian authorities, and in the meanwhile we can keep the two men in Leather Lane well under surveillance.”
“Yes, he told me all that,” said Mr. Shuttleworth, quietly.