“What motive?  The most powerful of all the passions that ever drove a woman to become guilty of crime—­jealousy; jealousy, Signor Marchese, has been the motive of this murder.  Look at the facts as they stand:  we know that this Paolina Foscarelli was in the immediate neighbourhood of the spot where the deed was done, and as nearly as possible at the time when it was done; we know—­excuse me, Signor Marchese, for speaking very plainly; it is absolutely necessary to be plain—­we know that this girl had great reason to feel jealous of La Bianca.  Remember that she saw you and the singer driving tete-a-tete together in that solitary place at that unusual hour.  I leave it to your own feeling to estimate the degree of jealousy which such a sight, together with other previous circumstances, was calculated to produce in this girl’s mind; but, if that be not enough, we know, as a matter of fact, that she had, even previously to seeing what was, so calculated to drive her jealousy to a pitch of fury, expressed jealousy, animosity and hatred against the woman whom she considered as her rival.  We have this in evidence—­the perfectly unimpeachable evidence of the Signora Orsola Steno.  Add to that, again, that the method of the murder was just such as a woman was likely to adopt, and that a man was very little likely to think of, or to have the means of, in his possession.  Put all these certain facts together, Signor Marchese; and I think it will be impossible for even your mind to resist the conviction that must force itself upon every one who considers the circumstances.”

The Marchese stopped in his agitated walk to and fro across the floor of the chamber, and gazed into the lawyer’s face with an expression of bewilderment ands pain, which the old man met with a keen and steady glance, and a grave shake of the head.  The Marchese, after encountering his eye for a few moments, struck his open hand on his forehead, and threw himself on the chair he had left without uttering a word.

“And to you, Signor Marchese, it assuredly cannot appear strange that the circumstances I have enumerated should carry with them the conviction to other minds that Paolina Foscarelli is guilty of the murder of the singer,” continued the lawyer, speaking very slowly and fixing the keen glance of his dark bright eyes on the working face of his companion; “to you, above all others, this cannot appear strange, since—­to your own mind this suspicion first occurred.”

“What do you mean?  I!  Signor Fortini.  What strange notion is misleading you?  I don’t know what you mean!” cried the Marchese, while a look of horror gradually crept over his face.