To the Pinkerton operative Donnelly said, gratefully: "That was good work, Corte. Wire me from New York. We'll have to go now, for the ship is clearing."
"Wait!" said Blake; then pushing himself forward, he addressed the captive in Italian, "Where is Belisario Cardi?"
The question came like a gunshot, silencing the outlaw as if with a gag. His bloodshot eyes searched his questioner's face; his lips, wet with slaver, were snarling like those of a dog, but he said nothing.
"Where is Belisario Cardi?" came the question for a second time.
"I do not know him," said the Sicilian, sullenly. "I am Vito Sabella, an honest man—"
"You are Gian Narcone, the butcher, of San Sebastiano," said Blake.
"You are going back to Sicily to be hanged for the murder of Martel
Savigno, Count of Martinello, and his man Ricardo."
"Bah!" cried the prisoner, loudly. "I am not this Narcone of which you speak. I do not know him. I am Vito Sabella, a poor man, I swear it by the body of Christ. I have never seen this Cardi. God will punish those who persecute me."
Blake leaned forward until his face was close to Narcone's.
"Look closely," he said. "Have you ever seen me before?"
They stared at each other, eye to eye, and the Sicilian nodded.