One
wait was not much to boast of, but still, every little helped.
I was somewhat staggered at his answer. I had expected a groan of
remorse. The ghost appeared, on the contrary, to be rather
conceited over the business. I thought that, as he had taken my
reference to the wait so quietly, perhaps he would not be offended
if I questioned him about the organ-grinder. I felt curious about
that poor boy.
"Is it true," I asked, "that you had a hand in the death of that
Italian peasant lad who came to the town once with a barrel-organ
that played nothing but Scotch airs?"
He quite fired up. "Had a hand in it!" he exclaimed indignantly.
"Who has dared to pretend that he assisted me? I murdered the
youth myself. Nobody helped me. Alone I did it. Show me the man
who says I didn't."
I calmed him. I assured him that I had never, in my own mind,
doubted that he was the real and only assassin, and I went on and
asked him what he had done with the body of the cornet-player he
had killed.
He said, "To which one may you be alluding?"
"Oh, were there any more then?" I inquired.
He smiled, and gave a little cough. He said he did not like to
appear to be boasting, but that, counting trombones, there were
seven.
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