The marshal of the Carabineers, who had been speaking, looked attentively at her for a moment, and then he called on his men to search the rooms.
"What's this?" said the marshal, taking up a sealed letter from the bureau and reading the superscription: "L'on, Davide Rossi, Carceri Giudiziarie, di Milano."
"That's a letter I wrote to my husband and haven't yet posted," said Roma.
"But what's this?" cried a voice from the dining-room. "Presented to the Honourable David Rossi by the Italian colony in Zürich."
Roma sank into a seat. It was the revolver. She had forgotten it.
"That's all right," said the marshal, with the same chuckle as before.
Dizzy and almost blind in her terror, Roma struggled to her feet. "The revolver belongs to me," she said. "Mr. Rossi left it in my keeping when he went away two months ago, and since that time he has never touched it."
"Then who fired the shot that killed his Excellency, Signora?"
"I did," said Roma.
Instinctively the man removed his hat.