"What does that mean?" asked Peter, angrily. "Yes or no? You're a liar anyway, Angelo. You said you thought they were still here. Now which is it? Yes or no?" "Non, no! Mees Mary' sist', she tella me--Mees Anne!" "And what did she tell you? Think carefully, Angelo. Your life depends on what you say now. You've got to convince me that you didn't murder one or both of them. I can send you to the chair if you don't, see! Take your time, but tell me exactly what Miss Anne said." The little Italian, thus tenderly admonished, was a pitiful sight to see. His brown face was a sickly colour, like that of cocoa with too much milk in it. His forehead was covered with beads of perspiration to which his dark hair clung when he removed the shaking hand which had been pressed against it. His heart may have been in his throat, for he gulped once or twice, spasmodically, before he spoke: "Tella you da trut' now, Boss, by da great San Michaelo an alla da Ange'." He crossed himself fervently, and raised his tense hand high in the air. "Tella da trut', now, sure! Tella da lie once, me--but no any more. Dis da trut'. _Si. Si._" He dropped his hand. Peter leaned forward, fixing him with unwinking eyes. "All right," said Peter. "But you've got to make good this time, understand. Come across with it. What did Miss Anne say, and when was it?" "On Sunday morn', early, ver' early. Mees Anne she come down w'en me wash vestabula. She say, 'Angelo, my sist' she go 'way las' night. Me go to-day. May stay longa time. Da rent he is pay t'ree mont'. Me fixa ev't'ing. No needa you go inna da flat. Ev't'ing alla righta.'" He threw his hands out, palms upward. "An' dat alla she say. But she no leava da house till five in da eve'. See her in tax' wit' bigga da tronk. She go herself, an' sist' she go night before. Me no killa eith' one, me! No! No! Believa me--no! Madre de Dio, Boss, me tella da trut'!" "That sounds all right, Angelo. You say it easy," said Peter, still glowering. "But I've only your word for it. And how about all that blood we found, spilled around the apartment, and that big spot on Miss Mary's scarf? How can you account for----" "Signore! Boss! Listen!" broke in the excited Italian. Jumping up from his chair, he supported his trembling body with one hand, pressed flat down, upon the table, while with the other he gesticulated wildly. "Me tella you 'bout alla blood, how he come. He was alla from dis, from dis!" He raised his right hand, and with the left struck the wounded wrist rapidly, many times. "He cutta himself on wind' in kitch'." "On the window in the kitchen. That's a likely story," said Peter, in apparent disgust. "Why, that was a month ago, Angelo. It would have healed twice over in that time, if----" "Non. No!" Angelo interrupted, passionately. "He not come well. He stay sick--all swella up. He hurta lika hell. I t'ink he punishmen'--_Si, si!_"