"I was not even convinced that you had had a quarrel with the Marchese." "I had no quarrel with him." "I knew that.

That you might be shielding someone occurred forcibly to my mind.

_But who ?_" Michael looked steadily at the official.
"And there was blood upon your hand and sleeve when you confessed." "There was." "It was not the Marchese's blood," said the Delegato, drawing a sallow finger across a blue chin.

"It remained a mystery.

I will own that it had not crossed my mind that that fragile and timid lady had killed her husband, and that as she at last confesses you were shielding her." The Delegato looked piercingly at Michael.
Michael was silent.
"You have always been silent.