"But," began the officer excitedly, "how can I——" Rufin turned on him gravely, a somber, august figure of reproof.
"Sir," he said, "you are in the presence of a tragedy. I beg you to be silent."
The officer made a hopeless gesture; the shadow of it fled grotesquely up the walls.
A few moments later the summons came that took them along the passage to an open door, giving on to a room brilliant with lights and containing a number of people. At the farther end of it a table against the wall had been converted into a sort of altar, with wan candles alight upon it, and there was a robed priest among the uniformed men. Those by the door parted to make way for them. Rufin saw them salute him, and removed his hat.
Somebody was speaking. "Regret we cannot leave you alone, but——"
"It does not matter," said Rufin. The room was raw and aching with light; the big electrics were pitiless. In the middle of it a man sat on a chair and raised expectant eyes at his arrival. It was Giaconi, the painter, the murderer. There was some disorder of his dress which Rufin noted automatically, but it was not for some minutes that he perceived its cause—the collar of his coat had been shorn away. The man sat under all those fascinated eyes impatiently; his tired and whimsical face was tense and drawn; he was plainly putting a strong constraint upon himself. The great shoulders, the huge arms, all the compressed strength of the body, made the effect of some strong animal fettered and compelled to tameness.
"Rufin?" he said hesitatingly.
The painter nodded. "Yes, it is Rufin."
The girl glided past him toward the seated man. "And I, Pietro," she said.
He made a gesture with his hand as though to move her aside, for she stood between him and Rufin.