'I did not kill him,' said Ippolito, simply. 'When I saw that he was lying before the altar, I examined him, to see if he were dead. That is how I soiled my hands.'
The two men came back from the altar. They had ascertained that Francesco had been killed by a knife-thrust, but had not found the knife.
'I regret that I must search you,' said the corporal, in his quiet, determined voice.
'You will find a knife in my pocket,' answered Ippolito, very pale, for he saw how all evidence must go against him.
The corporal looked up sharply, for he himself was surprised. Ippolito emptied his pockets, not wishing to submit to the indignity of being searched. He at once produced the sheathed bowie knife and the handkerchief, which was deeply dyed with blood and not yet dry. Some of it had stained the yellow leathern sheath in several places. The corporal drew out the weapon, which was bright and spotless, returned it to its sheath, and then held up the handkerchief by two corners. It is very easy to wipe blood from burnished steel, provided it is done instantly, and the corporal had a wide experience of such matters. He concluded that Ippolito might have cleaned the knife with the pocket handkerchief. He handed both objects to one of his men.
Tebaldo's lids had quivered and his lips had moved a little as he looked on. It seemed as though some supernatural power were conspiring in his favour against his enemy. But he said nothing. The young officer opened his blue eyes very wide, and thoughtfully twisted his small, red moustache.
Ippolito emptied the other pocket of his cassock, and produced a small volume of the Breviary, containing the offices for the spring, a little flexible morocco pocket-book, containing a few bank-notes, and an ivory-handled penknife.
'It is enough,' said the corporal. 'These things do not interest us. Your name,' he added, taking out his note-book and pencil.
'Ippolito Saracinesca.'
'Son of whom?'