“Are you quite certain of that, Antonio?” I asked slowly, in disbelief, as I looked straight into his face.
“Quite. I know that he came abroad, but have no idea of his present whereabouts.”
“Now tell me, Antonio,” I urged, “who and what is Mr Kirk?”
The Italian shrugged his shoulders, answering:
“Ah, signore, you had better not ask. He is a mystery to me—as to you, and as he was to my poor master.”
“He killed your master—eh?” I suggested. “Now tell me the truth—once and for all.”
“I do not know,” was his quick reply, with a strange flash in his dark eyes. “If he did, then I have no knowledge of it. I slept on the top floor, and heard nothing.”
“Who was the man who went to Edinburgh on the night of the tragedy?”
“Ah! Dio mio! Do not reopen all that puzzle!” he protested. “I am just as mystified as you yourself, signore.”
I looked straight in the man’s face, wondering if he were speaking the truth. His hard, deep-lined countenance was difficult to read. The Italian is such a born diplomatist that his face seldom betrays his thoughts. He can smile upon you sweetly, even though behind his back he grips a dagger ready to strike you to the heart. And so old Antonio’s face was sphinx-like, as all his race.