The boy shook his head.
"Oh, yes, you are, and you must come with me, Gino."
The little fellow recoiled. "You have come to kill me," he quavered.
"No, no, my little man. Why should I wish to do that?"
"I am a Sicilian; you hate me."
"That is not true. We hate only bad Sicilians, and you are a good boy."
"I did not kill the Chief."
"True. You did not even know that those other men intended to kill him.
You were merely told to wait at the corner until you saw him come home.
Am I right?"
"I do not know anything about the Chief," Gino mumbled.
But it was plain that some of his fear was vanishing under this unexpected kindness. Blake had a voice which won dumb animals, and a smile which made friends of children. At last the young Sicilian came forward and put his hand into the stranger's.