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Updated: September 1, 2025
"He's seen the bayonet and is prepared to swear to it," stated Osborne, elated. "What of the picture of Spatola in the paper?" asked the investigator. "Does he recognize that?" Osborne's face fell once more. "These half-tones done through coarse screens are never any good," said he. "They'd make Gladstone look like Pontius Pilate.
The others," bulking them as being of no consequence, "are all gentlemen who are employed on the directory under Mr. Hertz." "Have you any Italian lodgers other than Mr. Spatola?" The woman shook her head. "No," she said, "and I don't want none, if this is the way they carry on." "Are there any other rooming houses in the street?" "No, sir. It's only a block long, and I know every house in it.
At this sudden display of resentment, the turnkey approached. "I will go back to my cell," Spatola told him, "and please do not bring me out again. My nerves are bad. I have been worried much of late and I can't stand it." The turnkey looked at Ashton-Kirk, who nodded his head.
But when their eyes centered upon the manacled stranger who was then dazedly struggling to a sitting position, Paulson asked: "Who is this?" "This," answered Ashton-Kirk, "is M. Sagon, a fellow lodger of Antonio Spatola, formerly a very close friend of the late Mr. Hume, and once a resident of Bayonne, in France."
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