"I've heard you say all that before," stated Osborne, wearily. Then to the turnkey: "Take him away, Curtis."
"Just a moment," interposed Ashton-Kirk. "I came here to have a few words with this prisoner, and by your leave, I'll speak to him now."
"All right," replied Osborne. "Help yourself."
He led Bernstine and Sime out of the cell room; the turnkey, with professional courtesy, moved away to a safe distance, and Ashton-Kirk turned to the Italian.
"You were once first violin with Karlson," said he. "I remember you well. I always admired your art."
An eager look came into the prisoner's face.
"I thank you," he said. "It is not many who will remember in me a man who once did worthy things. I am young," with despair, "yet how I have sunken."
"It is something of a drop," admitted Ashton-Kirk. "From a position of first violin with Karlson to that of a street musician. How did it happen?"
Sadly the young Italian tapped his forehead with one long finger.
"The fault," he declared, "is here. I have not the—what do you call it—sense? What happened with Karlson happened a dozen times before—in Italy, in France, in Spain. I have not the good sense!"