The more I reflected upon the strange tragedy, the more puzzling was the mystery.
Where was Santina? If she were innocent, why should she hide herself?
For two hours I tramped on over the dusty road to the city of Dante and Michael Angelo, at last entering the Porte Romano; and then wandering down the long street and around the Palazzo Pitti, I crossed the Vecchio Bridge, and passed on towards the great Duomo, with Brunelleschi’s wondrous dome.
I had taken a drink of water at the old Renaissance fountain in the Piazza del Mercato, and was strolling quietly on, gazing in wonderment at the grand old Gothic cathedral, when suddenly a heavy hand was laid upon my shoulder, and a stern voice said—
“Gasparo Corazzini, I arrest you.”
Almost before I was aware of it, two gendarmes, who had accompanied a little, shabbily-dressed police agent, seized me.
“For what crime do you lay your hands upon me?” I cried indignantly.
“You are accused of the murder of Colonel Rossano in Genoa,” the detective replied.
My heart sank within me. I was spellbound by the appalling charge.