“He is waiting outside at this moment.”
“Fetch him in.”
I was moving to obey, when he stopped me.
“Put down that light first. I must hear and see and not be seen. There, would he know me?”
“I believe it is quite out of the question.”
“Go, then.”
I stepped softly into the hall, and beckoning to the Italian, motioned him into the room and shut the door.
“Geoletti,” I said, “I want you now, clearly and briefly, to relate the whole history of your connection with Mr Dalston, from the first committal of the crime with which you charge him, to the moment when, through his wicked agency, you were sentenced, on a false charge, to a long term of penal servitude. You can trust me that the statement will help us all, if you omit nothing and extenuate nothing.”
He bowed his head gravely thereupon, and crushing his hat nervously in his hands before him, and moistening his dry lips, entered upon his narrative as follows:—
ANTONIO GEOLETTI’S STORY[2]