“He had to ring the Angelus himself, seeing that I was down with the fever.  And be came back to the convent in a hurry, fearing that he was too late.  There’s very little doubt that it was heating himself that way that made the fever take hold of him.”

“Where was he hurrying back from, then?  Where had he been?” asked the Commissary, endeavouring to hide his eagerness for the reply to this question under a semblance of carelessness.

“He told me, when he carne to my cell, that he had been into the forest; and it was plain to see that the walk had been too much for him; he’s too old for moving much now, is Father Fabiano.”

“He had been into the forest; and when he came back at the hour of the Angelus, he seemed quite overcome by his walk?” said the Commissary, recapitulating, and taking out his note-book as he spoke.

“Yes, he did; so much so, that as I lay on my bed and listened to the Angelus bell a-going, I thought to myself that the old man had hardly the strength to pull the rope,” said the lay-brother.

“Hardly strength to pull the rope,” repeated the Commissary, as he completed the note he was scribbling in his note-book.  “Well, I hope he will soon get over his attack of fever.  I think we need not trouble you any further at present, frate—­what is your name, my friend?”

“Simone, by the mercy of God, lay-brother of the terz’ ordine—­”

“That will do, frate Simone,” interrupted the Commissary, adding a word to the entry in his note-book.  “Now, Signor Giovacchino, if you are ready, I think we may get your carriage out of the barn and go back to Ravenna.”

“We have not got much for our pains, I am afraid,” said the lawyer to the Commissary of police as they began to leave the Basilica behind them on their way back to the city.

“Humph!” said the Commissary, who was apparently too much absorbed in his own meditations to be in a mood for conversation.

“Signor Giovacchino,” he said, suddenly, after they had traversed nearly half their short journey in silence, “my belief is that your young friend the Marchese has no hand in this matter.”

“I am convinced he had not,” said the lawyer, who was, however, very far from having reached any conviction of the kind; “but what we want is some such probable theory on the subject as shall compete successfully with the theory of his guilt in the matter.”

“That theory—­shall I give it you?  It is not only a theory; it is my firm belief as to the facts of the case.”

“You suspect—­”

“I more than suspect—­I am very strongly persuaded that this murder has been committed by the girl Paolina Foscarelli.”

“My own notion—­”