Sick to death, disappointed, worn out by a continual vigilance and with a deep anxiety gnawing ever at my heart-strings, I had turned from the scene, and was gazing across into the rose-tinted mists, when of a sudden I heard a voice at my elbow, exclaiming in broken English: "Why, surely it's the Signor Holford!" I turned quickly, and to my amazement found myself confronted by the thin, sinister face of the dead Professor's servant, Antonio Merli. CHAPTER SIXTEEN. ANTONIO SPEAKS PLAINLY. "You, Antonio!" I gasped, staring at the fellow who, dressed in a dark grey suit and soft black felt hat, presented an appearance of ultra-respectability. "Yes, signore, I am very surprised to find you here--in Rome," he replied. "Come," I said abruptly, "tell me what has occurred. Why did you leave London so hurriedly?" "I had some family affairs to attend to," he answered. "I had to go to my home at Lucca to arrange for the future of my two nephews whose father is just dead. Pietro joined me there." "And you were joined also by Mr. Kirk?" I said. "Ah, no, signore!" protested the thin-faced Italian with an emphatic gesture. "I have not seen him since I left London." "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. "You saw Leonard Langton at Calais," I remarked. "He told you that!" gasped the dead man's servant, with a start. "What did he say of me?" "Nothing, except what was good. He told me that you were a trusted servant of the Professor." "Ah, my poor, dear master!" echoed the man, his face turned thoughtfully away towards the afterglow. "If I knew--ah, _Madonna mia_, if I only knew the truth!" "You suspect Kirk?" I suggested. "Why not tell me more?"