This was Saturday, August 18th, and less than thirty-six hours
after the murder. Strollo, reading "Alto Amore," and drinking in the
saloon, suspected nothing. New York was seventy miles away--too far for
any harm to come. But Monday morning, walking lazily down the street
near the railroad station, Strollo found himself suddenly confronted by
a heavily-built man with a round, moon-shaped face thickly covered with
pockmarks. Strollo did not like the way the latter's gimlet-like eyes
looked him over. There was no time to turn and fly, and, besides,
Strollo had no fear. They might come and ask him questions, and he might
even admit almost all--_almost_ all, and they could do nothing, for no
one had seen what he had done to Toni in the wood. So Strollo returned
Petrosini's gaze unflinchingly.
"Are you Antonio Strollo?" asked the detective, coming close to the
murderer.
"Yes, certainly, I am Antonio Strollo," replied the latter.
"Do you know Antonio Torsielli?" continued Petrosini.
"To be sure," answered Strollo. "I knew him well," he added almost
insolently.
"Why did you accompany him to New York?" inquired Petrosini sharply.
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