“On the authority, sir,” I said, “of a man who was in hiding near by at the time the crime was committed, and who sought afterwards, on the strength of his secret, to bleed the murderer’s pocket, as the murderer has since, on another count, sought to bleed your wife’s. But he proved himself no match against a desperate villain’s resourcefulness; and was caught in the net of his own spreading, and put away for years on a trumped-up charge. You will find his name there--Geoletti.” Lord Skene looked up at me, and laughed--a painful, twisted, unnatural cachinnation. “I had observed it already, Richard. I sentenced the man myself--good God!” He buried his face in his hands, as if overwhelmed. And, indeed, the coincidence was staggering. “Is that so, sir?” I said in a strained dry voice. “Well, it only remains to say that he has served his sentence to the hilt, and has emerged from it with one only purpose remaining to his ruined life--revenge on the author of his sufferings.” I felt the question coming from him, and forestalled it. “How I know this? The man had tracked his quarry home, and I came upon him, quite by chance, foundered by the way. But when he told me his name--great God, sir, I remembered the letter--your son’s letter--and then only a little questioning was needed to extract the whole accursed truth.” “Where is he?” “He is waiting outside at this moment.” “Fetch him in.” I was moving to obey, when he stopped me. “Put down that light first. I must hear and see and not be seen. There, would he know me?” “I believe it is quite out of the question.” “Go, then.” I stepped softly into the hall, and beckoning to the Italian, motioned him into the room and shut the door. “Geoletti,” I said, “I want you now, clearly and briefly, to relate the whole history of your connection with Mr Dalston, from the first committal of the crime with which you charge him, to the moment when, through his wicked agency, you were sentenced, on a false charge, to a long term of penal servitude. You can trust me that the statement will help us all, if you omit nothing and extenuate nothing.” He bowed his head gravely thereupon, and crushing his hat nervously in his hands before him, and moistening his dry lips, entered upon his narrative as follows:-- ANTONIO GEOLETTI’S STORY[2]