ANTONIO SPATOLA APPEARS

Ashton-Kirk and Pendleton were admitted to the cell room at the City Hall without question; but a distinct surprise awaited them there. Through a private door leading from the detectives’ quarters they saw the bulky form of Osborne emerge; and at his heels were Bernstine and his sandy-haired clerk.

When Osborne caught sight of Ashton-Kirk he expanded into a wide smile of satisfaction.

“Hello!” greeted he. “Glad to see you. You’re just in time to see me turn a new trick. Here’s the people that Spatola bought the bayonet from. How does that strike you?”

But Bernstine leaned over and said something in a low tone; and the smile instantly departed.

“Oh,” said Osborne, ruefully, “this is the party who called to see you, is it?” Then turning to Ashton-Kirk he asked: “How did you get onto this bayonet business?”

“Just through thinking it over a little, that’s all,” answered the investigator.

Mr. Bernstine now approached the speaker, a hurt look upon his face.

“Mr. Ashton-Kirk,” said he, “why did you not tell us about this piece of business? Why did you not enlighten us? How could you go away and leave us in the dark? We are very much occupied, and have little time to look at the newspapers. It was only by accident that Sime happened to see one.” Lowering his voice, he added: “There’s a smart fellow for you; he saw the whole thing in an instant. And so we came right here to do what we can to help justice.” He squared his shoulders importantly.

“He’s seen the bayonet and is prepared to swear to it,” stated Osborne, elated.

“What of the picture of Spatola in the paper?” asked the investigator. “Does he recognize that?”

Osborne’s face fell once more.

“These half-tones done through coarse screens are never any good,” said he. “They’d make Gladstone look like Pontius Pilate. He’s going to have a look at the man himself, and that’ll settle it.”

With that a turnkey was dispatched; and in a few moments he returned, accompanied by a half dozen prisoners; one was a slim, dark young man with a nervous, expressive look, and a great tangle of curling black hair. The face was haggard and drawn; the eyes were frightened; the whole manner of the man had a piteous appeal.

Osborne turned to Sime.

“Look them over carefully,” directed he. “Take your time.”

“I don’t need to,” answered the freckled shipping clerk. He pointed to the dark young man. “That’s the man of the picture; but I never seen him before, anywhere.”

Osborne put his fingers under his collar and pulled as though to breathe more freely; then he motioned another attendant to take the remaining prisoners away.

“I see,” said he. “He was too foxy to buy the thing himself. He sent someone else.” Then he fixed his eye on the prisoner and continued: “We’ve got the bayonet on you; so you might as well tell us all about it.”

“I don’t understand,” said Spatola, anxiously.

“The easier you make it for us, the easier it will be for you,” Osborne told him. “If you make us sweat, fitting this thing to you, we’ll give you the limit. Don’t forget that.”

“I have done nothing,” said Spatola, earnestly. “I have done nothing. And yet you keep me here. Is there not a law?”

“There is,” said Osborne, grimly. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you about. Now, who bought the bayonet?”

“The bayonet?” Spatola stared.

“The bayonet that Hume was killed with.”

With a truly Latin gesture of despair, the Italian put his hands to his forehead.

“Always Hume,” he said. “Always Hume! I can not be free of him. He was evil!” in a sort of shrill whisper. “Even when he is dead, I am mocked by him. He was all evil! I believe he was a devil!”

“That was no reason why you should kill him,” said Osborne in the positive manner of the third degree.

“I did not kill him,” protested Spatola. “There were many times when it was in my heart to do so. But I did not do it!”

“I’ve heard you say all that before,” stated Osborne, wearily. Then to the turnkey: “Take him away, Curtis.”

“Just a moment,” interposed Ashton-Kirk. “I came here to have a few words with this prisoner, and by your leave, I’ll speak to him now.”

“All right,” replied Osborne. “Help yourself.”

He led Bernstine and Sime out of the cell room; the turnkey, with professional courtesy, moved away to a safe distance, and Ashton-Kirk turned to the Italian.

“You were once first violin with Karlson,” said he. “I remember you well. I always admired your art.”

An eager look came into the prisoner’s face.

“I thank you,” he said. “It is not many who will remember in me a man who once did worthy things. I am young,” with despair, “yet how I have sunken.”

“It is something of a drop,” admitted Ashton-Kirk. “From a position of first violin with Karlson to that of a street musician. How did it happen?”

Sadly the young Italian tapped his forehead with one long finger.

“The fault,” he declared, “is here. I have not the what do you call it sense? What happened with Karlson happened a dozen times before in Italy, in France, in Spain. I have not the good sense!”

But justification came into his eyes, and his hands began to gesticulate eloquently.

“Karlson is a Swede,” with contempt. “The Swedes know the science of music; but they are hard; they are seldom artists; they cannot express. And when one of this nation a man with the ice of his country in his soul tried to instruct me how to play the warm music of my own Italy, I called him a fool!”

“I see,” said the investigator.

“I am to blame,” said Spatola, contritely. “But I could not help it. He was a fool, and fools seldom like to hear the truth.”

“The Germans, now,” said Ashton-Kirk, insinuatingly, “are somewhat different from the Swedes. Were you ever employed under a German conductor?”

“Twice,” replied the violinist, with a shrug. “Nobody can deny the art of the Germans. But they have their faults. They say they know the violin. And they do; but the Italian has taught them. The violin belongs to Italy. It was the glory of Cremona, was it not? The tender hands of the Amatis, of Josef Guarnerius, of old Antonio Stradivari, placed a soul within the wooden box; and that soul is the soul of Italy!”

“Haupt, a German, wrote a treatise on the violin,” said Ashton-Kirk. “If you would read that ”

“I have read it,” cried Spatola. “I have read it! It is like that,” and he snapped his fingers impatiently.

“But you’ve probably read a translation in the English or Italian,” insisted the investigator, smoothly. “And all translations lose something of their vitality, you know.”

“I have read it in the German,” declared the Italian; “in his own language, just as he wrote it. It is nothing.”

Pendleton looked at Ashton-Kirk admiringly; the manner in which his friend had established the fact that Spatola knew the German language seemed to him very clever. But Ashton-Kirk made no sign other than that of interest in the subject upon which they talked.

“A race that has given the world such musicians as Wagner, Beethoven and Mozart,” said he, “must possess in a tremendous degree the musical sense. The German knowledge of tone and its combinations is extraordinary; and their music in turn is as complex as their psychology and as simple as the improvisation of a child.”

Spatola seemed surprised at this apparent warmth; he looked at Ashton-Kirk questioningly.

“And, with all their scholarship, the Germans are so practical,” went on the latter. “Only the other day I came upon a booklet published in Leipzig that dealt with the difficulty a composer sometimes encounters in getting the notes on paper when a melody sweeps through his brain. The writer claimed that the world had lost thousands of inspirations because of this, and to prevent further loss, he proffered an invention a system of so to speak musical shorthand.”

A sullen look of suspicion came into Spatola’s face; he regarded the speaker from under lowered brows.

“Perhaps you don’t quite understand the value of such an invention,” proceeded Ashton-Kirk. “But if you had a knowledge of stenography, and the short cuts it ”

But the Italian interrupted him brusquely.

“I know nothing of such things,” said he, “and what is more I don’t want to know anything of them.” Then in a sharp, angry tone, he added: “What do you want of me? I am not acquainted with you. Why am I annoyed like this? Is it always to be so first one and then another?”

At this sudden display of resentment, the turnkey approached.

“I will go back to my cell,” Spatola told him, “and please do not bring me out again. My nerves are bad. I have been worried much of late and I can’t stand it.”

The turnkey looked at Ashton-Kirk, who nodded his head. And, as Spatola was led gesticulating away, Pendleton said in a low tone of conviction:

“I tell you, Kirk, there’s your man. Besides the other things against him, he knows German.”

“But what of the phonographic signs?”

“He knows them also. His manner proved it. As soon as you mentioned shorthand he became suspicious and showed uneasiness and anger. I tell you again,” with an air, of finality, “he’s your man.”