When Clifford had finished dinner that evening, he went to his study, and drawing a large arm-chair up to the fire, for the evenings were still cold, he lit a cigar and composed himself to master the details of his new case. To say that he was disappointed with Felix’s statement would not be to give a true indication of his state of mind. He was woefully chagrined. He had hoped and expected that his client would tell him something that would instantly indicate the line the defence should take, and instead of that he was puzzled to know where any defence at all was to come from.

And the more he thought over it, the worse the outlook seemed. He went over the facts in order, marshalling them in his mind and weighing the bearing of each on the question of Felix’s innocence or guilt.

There was first of all the fundamental question of what had taken place in the house in the Avenue de l’Alma between 11.00 p.m. and 1.15 a.m. on the night of the dinner party. At 11.00 Annette Boirac was alive and well; at 1.15 she had disappeared. Felix was the last person, so far as was known, to see her alive, and it was not unreasonable to have expected him to have thrown some light on her fate. But he hadn’t.

It was true he had explained the motive for his interview with Madame. Confirmation of the truth of this, Clifford thought, should be obtainable from an investigation of the affairs of Bonchose. But even if it was established, he did not see how it would help his client. It would not prove him innocent. Indeed, it might be argued that this very discussion had been the indirect cause of the elopement, if such took place. It had given Felix an opportunity to see Madame alone which otherwise he might not have had. And who could tell what dormant passions that private interview might not have aroused? No. There was no help here.

And the remainder of Felix’s statement was equally unfruitful. He had said that after conversing with the lady till 11.45 p.m., he had walked about Paris till half-past one. But by a singular coincidence he had not been seen leaving the house, he had not met any one he knew, and he had not been anywhere he was known. Was this, Clifford wondered, so singular a coincidence? Might it not simply mean that Felix’s story was untrue?

Then he remembered the closing of the front door. FranÇois had heard it shut at 1.00 a.m. If Felix left at 11.45, who shut it? As far as he could see, either Felix must be lying when he said he left at 11.45, or else Madame must have gone out by herself at the later hour. But the lawyer did not know which of these had happened, and the worst of it was there seemed no way of finding out.

Equally useless for the defence was Felix’s identification of the fur-coated lady on the Folkestone boat. Even had this been Miss Devine, it did not prove Madame Boirac was not a traveller. Might not Felix, travelling with Madame, have seen the actress on board, her subsequent death suggesting his story? No, even if he could prove all that the artist had said about the crossing, it would not help matters.

But Felix’s failure to find an alibi for himself was much more serious. Clifford had confidently expected a defence along these lines, and he was more than disappointed. He ran over the facts. The location of the man or men who had arranged the journeys of the cask was known at two periods; on the Wednesday at 10.00 a.m. at Waterloo, and on the Thursday at 5.15 p.m. at the Gare du Nord. Clifford got out his Continental Bradshaw. To have been in Paris at the time named, a Londoner must have left by the 9.00 a.m. from Charing Cross on Thursday, and he could not have arrived back before 5.35 on Friday morning. Therefore Felix had only to prove an alibi at 10.00 on Wednesday morning, or between 9.00 on Thursday morning and 5.35 on Friday morning, and the greatest part of the case against him would be met. But this was just what he could not do.

Clifford turned to his notes of the artist’s statement. According to it, at 10.00 a.m. on Wednesday, Felix had been painting in his studio. But the chance of the housekeeper’s absence and the peculiar arrangement under which the charwoman got breakfast prevented this being proved. And like an idiot, Felix had heard people ringing at the door, and, because he did not wish to be disturbed, had not opened it. One of those callers might have saved him now.

And then, with regard to Thursday and Thursday night. To have caught the 9.00 a.m. from Charing Cross, Felix must have left St. Malo at not later than 8.50. According to his statement, his breakfast was left ready for him at 8.00, and there certainly would not have been time for him to eat it. But there was nothing to prevent him having in two or three minutes dirtied the plates and carried away some food, to give the impression he had had his meal. Here there was hope of help from the charwoman. Clifford could not decide the point till he had interviewed her.

He turned back to his notes. After breakfast, Felix, according to his statement, had painted without ceasing, except for a cup of cocoa at lunch time, until half-past six. He had then changed and gone to town, dining alone at the Gresham. Though he had seen no one he knew at the famous restaurant, there was a chance that a waiter or commissionaire or other official might have recognised him. He had left about nine and, feeling tired, he had returned straight home. There, no one could know of his presence till 7.30 the next morning, when Mrs. Murphy would expect to hear him answer her knock.

But if he had been to Paris, meeting the cask at the Gare du Nord, he could have been home equally at 7.30 a.m. Therefore the evidence of his answering the knock would be immaterial. Certainly if Felix were telling the truth, the manner in which confirmation was eluding him was most unfortunate. But was Felix telling the truth? . . .

Then there were those three discoveries of Burnley at St. Malo, the ‘Emmie’ letter, the impression on the blotsheet, and the pin. Any one of these alone would have been highly damaging to Felix’s case; the three together seemed overwhelming. And yet Felix had not attempted a word of explanation. He had simply denied knowledge of all three. If the accused man could not explain these damaging facts, how was Clifford to set about it?

But nothing in the whole affair depressed the lawyer so much as the admissions Felix had made about his previous relations with Madame Boirac. It was, of course, true that Felix, a stranger introduced into the Boirac household, might have fallen in love with Madame and persuaded her to elope with him. But if Felix, instead of being a stranger, could be shown to have been not only desperately in love with, but actually formerly engaged to the mistress of the house, how tremendously the probabilities of such an elopement would be strengthened. What a picture a clever counsel could draw of this lady, tied to a man whom perhaps she detested, and with whom life in such case must have been an endless misery, brought unexpectedly in touch with the man of her real choice. . . . And her lover, his crushed-down feelings swelling up at the unlooked-for meeting, seeing her languishing in this bondage. . . . Why, the elopement would be amply accounted for. To Clifford it seemed that if the Crown got hold of the facts he had learnt, Felix was a doomed man. Indeed, the more he himself thought of the affair, the more doubtful of the artist’s innocence he became. As far as he could see, Felix had only one uncontrovertible point in his favour—his surprise on seeing the cask opened. And this would prove a matter of medical testimony, and no doubt there would be contradictory evidence. . . . The lawyer could see very little light even here.

And then he reminded himself it was not his business to try Felix. Innocent or guilty, he, Clifford, was there to do the best he could for him. But what form was that best to take?

Till the morrow had dawned he sat smoking in his chair, turning the case over in his mind, looking at the problem from every point of view, still without much result. But though he could not yet see the line his defence should follow, he was clear enough about his immediate next step. Obviously he must first see Bonchose, Mrs. Murphy, and the other persons of whom Felix had spoken, not only to test the latter’s story, but also in the hope of learning some new facts.

Accordingly, next morning saw the lawyer ascending the steps of the house in Kensington in which the apartments of Mr. Pierre Bonchose was situated. But here he met with a disappointment. Mr. Bonchose had gone to the south of France on business and would not be home for three or four days.

‘That explains why he has made no attempt to see Felix since his arrest,’ said the lawyer to himself, as he turned away and hailed a taxi with the idea of a call on the charwoman.

An hour later he reached the small village of Brent, on the Great North Road, and was directed to Mrs. Murphy’s cottage. The door was opened by a woman who had been tall, but was now shrunken, her sharp, careworn features and gray hair indicating that her life had been a struggle against odds.

‘Good morning,’ began the lawyer, courteously raising his hat. ‘You are Mrs. Murphy?’

‘I am sir,’ returned the woman, ‘and would you come in?’

‘Thank you.’ He followed her into the small, poorly-furnished living room, and sat cautiously down on the somewhat dilapidated chair she pulled forward.

‘You know, I suppose,’ he went on, ‘that your neighbour, Mr. Felix of St. Malo, has been arrested on a very serious charge?’

‘’Deed then, I do, sir. And sorry I was to hear of it. A fine, decent man he was, too.’

‘Well, Mrs. Murphy, my name is Clifford, and I am the lawyer who is going to defend Mr. Felix. I wondered if you would be good enough to answer some questions, to help me in his defence?’

‘I would, sir, be glad to do it.’

‘You managed the house for him recently, while his housekeeper was away?’

‘I did, sir.’

‘And when did Mr. Felix ask you to do that?’

‘On Sunday evening, sir. I was just thinking of going to bed when he came to the door.’

‘Now tell me, please, exactly what you did each day at St. Malo.’

‘I went in the mornings, sir, and lit the fire and got his breakfast. Then I did out his room and washed up and left his lunch ready. He got his own lunch himself in the middle of the day, and went into London for dinner at night.’

‘I see. At what hour did you reach the house in the mornings?’

‘About seven o’clock. I called him at half-past seven and he had breakfast at eight.’

‘And about what hour did you leave?’

‘I could hardly be sure, sir. About half-past ten or eleven, or maybe later.’

‘Can you remember the Wednesday of that week? I suppose you were at St. Malo at ten o’clock?’

‘I was, sir. I was never left by ten any morning.’

‘Quite so. Now what I want to know is this: on that Wednesday morning was Mr. Felix in the house at ten o’clock?’

‘So far as I know, he was, sir.’

‘Ah, but I want to be sure. Can you say positively he was there?’

‘Well, not to be certain, sir, I couldn’t.’

‘Now Thursday, Mrs. Murphy. Did you see Mr. Felix on Thursday?’

The woman hesitated.

‘I saw him two or three mornings,’ she said at last, ‘but I couldn’t be sure whether it was on Thursday. It might have been, though.’

‘You couldn’t tell me at what hour he took his breakfast that morning?’

‘Well, I could not, sir.’

It was evident to Clifford that Mrs. Murphy, though an intelligent woman, would be no use to him as a witness. He remained at her house for a considerable time, and was very probing and painstaking in his questions. But all to no purpose. While she corroborated what Felix had stated about his household arrangements, she dashed any hope the lawyer might have had of establishing an alibi.

By the time he again reached the city it was one o’clock. He decided he would lunch at the Gresham, and pursue his investigations among the staff.

The head waiter, with whom he began, could not himself give any information, but he took Felix’s photo round among his men, and at last found one who had seen the artist. Felix, it appeared from this man’s statement, had dined there one evening some five or six weeks previously. The man, an Italian, remembered him because he had first supposed him to be a compatriot. But, unfortunately, he could not fix the date, and no one else, so far as Clifford could learn, had seen the artist at all. Clifford had regretfully to admit that this evidence, like Mrs. Murphy’s, was useless. In the lawyer’s private judgment it undoubtedly tended to confirm Felix’s statement, and he found himself more and more inclined to believe the Frenchman. But a personal impression was one thing, and evidence in a court of law another.

On reaching his office, he wrote to Bonchose, asking him to call on urgent business immediately on his return to London.

The next day saw him again at Brent village. Felix had stated he had gone by train to town each evening of the fateful week, and it had occurred to the lawyer that possibly some of the railway officials might have noticed him travelling. He made exhaustive inquiries and at last found a ticket-collector who volunteered some information. Felix, said this man, was a regular traveller. He went to town each morning by the 8.57 and returned at 6.50 each evening. But the collector had noticed that for some days he had not travelled by these trains, but had instead gone up by the evening trains leaving Brent at either 6.20 or 6.47. The collector went off duty at seven o’clock, so he could not tell anything about Felix’s return. Nor could any one else, so far as Clifford could ascertain. But unfortunately the collector could not state how long it was since the artist had changed his habits, still less could he say if he travelled up to town on the Thursday evening in question.

Clifford then strolled to St. Malo in the hope of finding it was overlooked by some other house, the occupants of which might have seen the artist on the fateful Thursday. But here again he was disappointed. There was no house in the immediate vicinity.

Puzzled as to his next step, the lawyer returned to his office. He found pressing business of another kind awaiting him, and for the remainder of that day, as well as the next two, he was too fully occupied to turn his attention seriously to the murder case.

On the morning of the fourth day there was a letter from Mr. Lucius Heppenstall, K. C. It was written from Copenhagen, and the barrister explained that he was in Denmark on business and hoped to be back in about a week, when he and Clifford could meet and go into the case together.

Hardly had Clifford finished reading the letter when a young man was announced. He was tall and slight, with dark hair and eyes, a small black moustache and a short, hooked nose, which gave him something of the appearance of a hawk.

‘Bonchose,’ said Clifford to himself, and he was not mistaken.

‘You have not heard of Mr. Felix’s arrest?’ he asked, as he waved his visitor to an arm-chair and held out his cigarette case.

‘Not a word,’ replied Bonchose, speaking good English, but with a foreign accent. He had a quick, vivacious manner, and moved sharply, as if on wires. ‘I cannot tell you how utterly surprised and shocked I was to get your note. But the thing is perfectly absurd—outrageous! Any one that knew Felix would know he could not commit such a crime. It is surely a misunderstanding that a very short time will clear up?’

‘I fear not, Mr. Bonchose; I very much fear not. Unfortunately, the case against your friend is strong. The evidence is admittedly circumstantial, but it is strong for all that. Indeed, to be perfectly candid with you, I do not for the moment see any good line of defence.’

The young man made a gesture of amazement.

‘You horrify me, sir,’ he cried; ‘absolutely horrify me. You surely do not mean to suggest there is any chance of a conviction?’

‘I am sorry to say that I do. There is a very great chance—unless a good deal more comes to light than we know at present.’

‘But this is awful!’ He wrung his hands. ‘Awful! First it was poor Annette and now Felix! But you don’t mean that nothing can be done?’ There was real concern and anxiety in the young man’s tone.

Mr. Clifford was satisfied. This man’s affection for and belief in his friend were genuine. Felix could not be altogether a villain to inspire such friendship. The lawyer changed his tone.

‘No, Mr. Bonchose,’ he answered. ‘I do not mean that. All I mean is that the fight will not be easy. Mr. Felix’s friends will have to put their backs into it. And it is to begin that fight I asked you to call here as soon as you returned.’

‘I got back early this morning, and I was here before your office opened. Take that as the measure of my willingness to help.’

‘I do not doubt it, Mr. Bonchose. And now I want you please to tell me everything you can about Mr. Felix, and your own life, where it has touched his. Also about your unhappy cousin, the late Madame Boirac.’

‘I shall do so, and if at any point I am not clear, please ask me questions.’

Beginning by explaining who he and Annette really were—children of a younger daughter and the eldest son respectively of the late M. AndrÉ Humbert of Laroche—he gave an account of their childhood, their early love of art, their moving to M. Dauphin’s school in Paris, the meeting with Felix, and the latter’s love for Annette. Then he told of his move to the wine merchant’s firm at Narbonne, his being sent to London, his joy at again meeting Felix, his weakness for cards, the help Felix had given him, and the recent serious money difficulties into which he had fallen. He recounted his having written on the matter to Annette, the hope expressed to Felix that he would see her on the subject, his meeting the artist at Charing Cross on the Sunday evening of his return to London, their dinner together, the receipt of the £600, and finally Felix’s departure in a taxi for St. Malo.

His whole statement, thought Clifford, was singularly like those of Mrs. Murphy, the Gresham waiter, and the ticket-collector at Brent Station, in that, while it confirmed what Felix had said and strengthened the lawyer’s growing belief in the artist’s innocence, it was of very little use for the trial. It was true that he, Clifford, was now in a position to prove most of Felix’s statement, but the worst of it was that most of Felix’s statement might be proved without proving Felix’s innocence. So much so, indeed, that Clifford could not yet quite banish the suspicion that the whole thing was pre-arranged.

He questioned Mr. Bonchose exhaustively, but without learning anything fresh. His visitor had not seen the artist on the Wednesday or Thursday, and could not help towards the alibi. Finding that nothing was to be gained by further conversation, Clifford bowed the young man out, having promised to let him know how things progressed.

CHAPTER XXIV