Of the millions who unfolded their papers a few mornings after the events described in the last chapter, there were few but felt a thrill of excitement as their eyes fell on the headlines, ‘The Cask Mystery. Arrest of LÉon Felix.’ Though by no means all the facts discovered by the police had become public, enough had leaked out to arouse a keen and general interest. The tragic circumstances of the case, no less than the baffling mystery in which it was shrouded, intrigued the popular imagination and, though the police were early credited with having the usual clue and the customary arrest was stated to be imminent, none outside the official ranks had any real idea in what direction suspicion was tending.

But to none of those millions did the news come with such a sense of personal shock and affront as to our old acquaintance, Dr. William Martin, of The Elms, near Brent village, on the Great North Road. Dr. Martin, it will be remembered, was the man who, on the night on which Constable Walker watched from behind his tree, called at St. Malo and insisted on Felix accompanying him home to play bridge. The two men were close friends. Many an afternoon they had spent together on the banks of a neighbouring trout stream, many an evening had slipped rapidly away round the doctor’s billiard table. And with Martin’s family also Felix was a favourite. No member of it but was pleased to welcome the Frenchman to the house, or but had some special confidence to share with him.

At first Dr. Martin could hardly believe his eyes as they rested on the fatal headlines. That Felix, his friend, his trusted companion, should be arrested! And for murder! The thought was so incredible, so utterly horrible, he could not take it in. But, unlike the nightmare to which he compared it, the idea had permanence. Though his thoughts might wander, it was always there, grim and terribly definite, for them to return to.

He began to think over his friend’s circumstances. Felix had always been reticent about his life, but to the doctor he had seemed a lonely man. He lived alone, and Martin had never known him to have visitors staying in the house. Nor could the doctor recall the Frenchman’s ever having spoken of relatives. ‘Who,’ he wondered, ‘will help him now?’

But with so kindly and warm-hearted a man as Dr. Martin, such a question could not long remain unanswered. ‘I must go and see him,’ he thought. ‘I must find out who is going to act for him. If he has no one, then I must do the best I can myself.’

But a practical difficulty arose. How were orders to visit prisoners obtained? The doctor did not know. For a man of his age and standing he was singularly ignorant of legal matters. But when such came his way he invariably adopted the same simple expedient. He ‘saw Clifford.’ This difficulty he would meet in the same way. He would ‘see Clifford.’

‘Clifford’—otherwise John Wakefield Clifford, senior partner of Messrs. Clifford and Lewisham, Solicitors, Grey’s Inn—was Martin’s man of business, friend, and crony. The chance that they took the same weekly half-holiday had thrown them together on the links, and they had followed up the acquaintanceship by occasional visits at each other’s houses. Mr. Clifford was an almost startling contrast to the breezy doctor. Small, elderly, and rather wizened, with white hair and moustache, and dressed always with meticulous care, he seemed the embodiment of conventional propriety. His manner was precise and dry, but the fortunate gift of a sense of humour saved him from becoming dull.

He was a fine lawyer. His admirers, who were many, held that an opinion from him was as good as Counsel’s any day, and knew that, beneath the keenness which made him so formidable an opponent, there lay a deep vein of very real human kindness.

A press of unavoidable business kept Martin at work till the afternoon, but three o’clock saw him ascending the stairs of Messrs Clifford and Lewisham’s office.

‘How are you, Martin?’ the senior partner greeted him. ‘I am glad to see you. This is an unexpected pleasure.’

‘Thanks, old chap,’ returned the doctor, accepting the cigarette the other offered, and sinking back into a deep, leather-lined arm-chair. ‘But I’m afraid there won’t be much pleasure about my visit. It’s business, and nasty business at that. Have you a few minutes to spare?’

The little man bowed gravely.

‘Certainly,’ he said, ‘I am at your service.’

‘It’s about that neighbour of mine, LÉon Felix,’ went on the doctor, plunging without further preamble into his subject. ‘You saw he was arrested last night on a charge of murdering the woman whose body was found in the cask? You know about it?’

‘I read the account in this morning’s paper. And so Felix was a neighbour of yours?’

‘Yes, and a close friend. He was in and out of the house like one of the family.’

‘Indeed? I am sorry to hear that.’

‘Yes. I thought a good deal of him and I’m naturally upset. We all are, as a matter of fact. I wanted your advice as to what could be done for him.’

‘You mean with regard to his defence?’

‘Yes.’

‘Have you seen him since his arrest?’

‘No. That’s one of the things I wanted to ask you about. I am not quite sure how you get an order.’

‘That can be obtained where a sufficient reason for its application can be shown. I understand, then, that you are unaware of his own plans for his defence?’

‘Yes. My idea was to see him and talk the thing over, and, unless he has made some other arrangement, to ask you to undertake it.’

The lawyer nodded slowly. Martin’s suggestion was eminently satisfactory to him. Apart from the mere money involved, this case, from its unusual and dramatic nature, promised to be at least one of the most famous of the year. He decided that if it came his way he would attend to it personally, and see that no stone was left unturned to secure an acquittal.

‘If you put the case in our hands,’ he replied at length, ‘quite apart from our personal friendship, you may depend on our doing our utmost for your friend. But I am afraid it will be an expensive business. We shall have to retain counsel, perhaps two or even three men, and their fees are not negligible. Then, as you can imagine’—Mr. Clifford gave a wintry little smile—‘we also have to live, or at all events we think so. There will unquestionably be expense in hunting up witnesses, a private detective may have to be employed, in short, the defence of a big case means heavy outlay. Now, can your friend meet this? What are his circumstances financially?’

‘I think he is all right,’ answered Martin, ‘but, in any case, the money will be my affair. Felix may pay what he can. I shall be responsible for the rest.’

Clifford looked at the speaker keenly.

‘Very handsome of you, Martin, I’m sure.’ He hesitated a moment as if about to continue the subject, then, with a change of manner, he went on:—

‘I think, in that case, you should see Felix and ascertain his plans. If you can spare the time now, I shall go with you to Bow Street and try and procure for you an immediate visiting order. If, after your conversation, you find you require our assistance, we shall be very pleased to take up the case; if not, you are perfectly free to go elsewhere. Is that agreed?’

‘Thank you, Clifford. That’s all right. Nothing could be better.’

After introducing his prospective client to the authorities at the famous police station, the lawyer excused himself on the ground of another engagement, while Martin sat down to await the order. The formalities took some time, and it was not till nearly five that the door of Felix’s cell opened to admit his friend.

‘Martin!’ cried the unhappy inmate, springing up and seizing his visitor’s hand in both his own. ‘But this is good of you! I hardly dared to expect you.’

‘Couldn’t see a pal in a hole without butting in,’ answered the doctor gruffly, somewhat affected by the warmth of the other’s welcome. ‘You’re a nice one, getting yourself into such a mess, eh? What have you been up to that’s raised this dust?’

Felix passed his hand wearily over his forehead.

‘My God, Martin,’ he groaned, ‘I don’t know. I’m absolutely at sea. I know no more about the wretched business than you do. The proceedings to-day were purely formal, so that the evidence against me—whatever it can be—did not come out. I can’t conceive what they have got hold of, that has made them suspect me.’

‘I’ve heard nothing about the case at all. I just came along to see you when I saw what had happened.’

‘Martin, I can never thank you! I can never repay you! I thought of writing to you to-day to ask your help, and I should probably have done it to-morrow. But you can’t think what it means to me, your coming without being asked. It means, for one thing, that you don’t believe this abominable charge? Doesn’t it?’

‘Well, naturally. You keep your heart up and don’t get flustered. You’ve got some friends left still. All the family are upset about the thing. The mater’s shocked, and so are the boys. They all say for you to cheer up, and that the mistake is sure to be put right soon.’

‘God bless them for that,’ cried Felix, rising and pacing the cell in evident emotion. ‘Tell them—how much I appreciate—what all their thought means to me.’

‘Rot!’ said the doctor shortly. ‘What would you expect? But now, I have only a minute or two here, and what I want to ask you is this, what plans have you made for your defence?’

‘Defence? None, I fear. I just haven’t been able to think about it. I haven’t an idea who to turn to, or what to do. What would you advise?’

‘Clifford.’

‘Eh? What? I don’t follow.’

‘Employ Clifford, of Clifford and Lewisham. He’s a dry stick, but as clever as they’re made, and a good sort. He’s your man.’

‘I don’t know him. Do you think he would take up the case?’

‘Sure. Fact is, I went around to ask him how I could get an order to see you—I know him pretty well—and I pumped him. The firm would take it on if they were asked, but that means himself, and you couldn’t have a better man.’

‘Martin, you put new life into me! God bless you for all you’re doing! Will you arrange it with him? But, wait a minute, can I afford it? Are his fees very high?’

‘What can you afford?’

‘Oh, I don’t know. Say a thousand pounds.’

‘More than enough. I shall arrange it with him at once.’

The friends conversed for some minutes, and then a warder opened the door of the cell. Martin’s time was up. He left Felix cheered by the promise of a further visit, and with tears of thankfulness glistening in his eyes.

Determined to lose no time in completing his work, Martin returned direct to the offices of Messrs Clifford and Lewisham. But there the day’s work was over, and all but one or two junior clerks had already left. The doctor therefore made an appointment for the next day and, with a glow of righteous self-satisfaction, went home to tell his family what he had done.

On the following afternoon he again found himself in the solicitor’s office.

‘Now,’ said Mr. Clifford, when it had been definitely agreed that his firm was to take up the case, ‘I have to warn you that proceedings will be slow. First, the prosecution will make up their case—get depositions of the evidence, you know, and so on—and that will take time. We, of course, shall also immediately start work, but it is improbable we shall make much headway till we learn the full evidence against us. Additional time will therefore be required for the preparation of the defence. If Felix is returned for trial—and I fear from what I have heard, he will be—weeks and months will probably elapse before both sides are ready. You and I shall therefore require to exercise patience.’

‘I can believe it,’ muttered the doctor. ‘You lawyers take the devil of a time over everything.’

‘We can’t cover our mistakes like you, so we have to be careful,’ retorted the lawyer with his dry, wintry smile.

Martin smote his thigh.

‘Ha! ha!’ he laughed. ‘That’s good. You had me there. But I musn’t be wasting your time. There were some things you wanted to speak to me about?’

‘Yes,’ admitted Clifford, ‘a couple of points. Firstly, I propose to retain Heppenstall—you know, Lucius Heppenstall, the K.C. He may want one or two juniors. I suppose that is all right?’

‘Of course. You know what is best to be done.’

‘The other point is that I want you to tell me everything you possibly can about Felix.’

‘As a matter of fact,’ returned Martin, ‘I can’t tell you very much. I was just thinking over what I knew of him, and I was amazed it was so little. We became acquainted about four years ago. Felix had just taken St. Malo, an empty house a couple of hundred yards from my own, and the first thing he did was to go and get pneumonia. I was called in, but the attack was bad, and for a time it was touch and go with him. However, he pulled through, and, during his convalescence, we became very good friends. When he came out of the hospital I invited him to my house for a week or two—he had only a not very satisfactory housekeeper at St. Malo—and the family took to him, till he became quite like one of ourselves. Since then he has been in and out like a pet dog. He dines quite often, and, in return, insists on taking the boys to the theatre, and the mater when she’ll go.’

‘He lives quite alone, you say?’

‘Quite, except for the housekeeper.’

‘And you haven’t met any of his people?’

‘None. I’ve never even heard of his people. I don’t think he has any. If he has, he never speaks of them.’ Martin hesitated for a moment, then went on: ‘It may be my fancy, but it has struck me that he seems to avoid women, and the only cynical remarks I have heard him make have been at their expense. I have often wondered if he has had some love disappointment. But he has never hinted at such a thing.’

‘How does he live?’

‘He is an artist. He designs for some poster firm in the City, and he draws for the better-class magazines. I do not know if he has private means, but he seems to do well enough.’

‘Do you know anything about this extraordinary business of the cask?’

‘No, except this. On—let me see, what night was it? Monday, I think—yes, Monday, the 5th of April, a couple of friends turned in, and we wanted a rubber of bridge. I went round to St. Malo to see if Felix would make a fourth. That was about 8.30 o’clock. At first he hesitated, but afterwards he agreed to come. I went in and waited while he changed. The study fire had just been freshly lighted and the room, and indeed the whole house, was cold and cheerless. We played bridge till nearly one. The next thing we heard was that he was in St. Thomas’s Hospital, prostrated from a mental shock. Not professionally, but as a friend, I went to see him, and then he told me about the cask.’

‘And what did he tell you?’

‘He said he had had a letter saying a cask of money was being sent him—he will tell you the details himself—and that he had just got this cask from the steamer and brought it to St. Malo when I called on that Monday evening. The reason he hesitated about leaving home was that he was on tenterhooks to unpack the cask.’

‘Why did he not tell you about it?’

‘I asked him that, and he said he had had trouble with the steamer people about getting it away, and he did not want any one to know where the cask was, lest it should get round to these steamer folk. But I would rather he would tell you about that himself.’

‘I shall ask him, but I want to hear from you anything you know personally about it.’

‘Well, there is nothing more than that.’

‘Can you tell me anything of his friends?’

‘Nothing. I think only twice in all the years I have known him have I met acquaintances of his, in each case artists who were looking at the paintings in his studio, and who I know did not stay the night. Whom he met during the day I can’t tell.’

The lawyer sat silent for some minutes.

‘Well,’ he said at length, ‘I think that is all we can do to-day. I’ll let you know how things go on, but, as I warned you before, the business will be slow.’

With a hearty handshake and a word of thanks the doctor took his leave, while Clifford sat down to write to Heppenstall, K.C., to know if he would take up the case.

CHAPTER XXII