The next day Mr. Clifford was occupied with various technical formalities, and in obtaining from the authorities such information as was then available about the case, and it was not till the following morning he set out to make the acquaintance of his client. He found him seated in his cell, his head on his hands, and an expression of deep gloom upon his face. The two men talked generalities for some time, and then the lawyer came to business.

‘Now, Mr. Felix,’ he said, ‘I want you please to tell me everything you know of this unhappy affair—everything, no matter how seemingly minute or unimportant. Remember—I cannot impress it on you too strongly—for a man in your position it is suicidal to withhold information. Keep nothing back. Your confidence will be as safe as the confessional. If you have made mistakes, done foolish things, or criminal things, or even—forgive me—if you have committed the crime you are charged with, tell me the whole truth. Else I shall be a blind man leading the blind, and we shall both have our fall.’

Felix rose to his feet.

‘I will do so, Mr. Clifford. I will keep nothing back. And first, before we go on to the details, one point must be settled.’ He raised his hand. ‘I swear to you, in the presence of Almighty God, in whom I believe, that I am innocent of this crime.’ He sat down and then continued: ‘I don’t ask you if you believe me; I am willing to leave that till afterwards, but I want now, at the commencement of our intercourse, to put that fact as it were on record. I absolutely and categorically deny all knowledge of this hateful and ghastly crime. Now let us get on.’

‘I am glad you have made this statement and in this way, Mr. Felix,’ said the lawyer, who was impressed by his client’s manner and earnestness. ‘Now, please, begin at the beginning and tell me with all the detail you can, what you know of the matter.’

Felix had the gift of narration, and, apart from the appeal to Clifford’s professional instincts, he held the lawyer enthralled as he related the strange story of his experiences.

‘I hardly know where to begin,’ he said. ‘The first thing directly bearing on the affair was a meeting between myself and some friends at the CafÉ Toisson d’Or in Paris, but before I come to that I think I ought to explain just who I am and how I, a Frenchman, come to be living in London. I think this is necessary, as the question of my previous knowledge of poor Annette Boirac is certain to come up. What do you say, Mr. Clifford?’

‘Necessary to tell this?’ thought the lawyer, to whom the fact that Felix had had knowledge of the dead woman came as an ugly discovery. ‘Why, my good fellow, no other point in the whole case is likely to be more important for you.’ But aloud he only said:—

‘Yes, I consider it most necessary.’

‘Very good, then. As I said, I am a Frenchman, and I was born in Avignon in 1884. I was always keen on drawing, and, as my teachers thought there was promise in my work, I early moved to Paris and entered the atelier of M. Dauphin. I studied there for several years, living in a small hotel off the Boule Miche. My parents were both dead, and I had inherited a little money—not much, but enough to live on.

‘Amongst those working at the art school was a young fellow called Pierre Bonchose. He was some four years my junior, and was an attractive and thoroughly decent chap. We became close friends, eventually sharing the same room. But he was not much good at his work. He lacked perseverance, and was too fond of supper parties and cards to settle down seriously to paint. I was not, therefore, surprised when one day he told me he was fed up with art, and was going into business. It seemed he had applied to an old friend of his father’s, the senior partner of Messrs. RÔget, the wine exporters of Narbonne, and had been offered a position in that firm, which he had decided to accept.

‘But a month or two before he left Paris he had introduced to the atelier a new pupil, his cousin, Mlle. Annette Humbert. They seemed more like brother and sister than cousins, and Bonchose told me that they had been brought up together, and had always been what you English call “pals.” This, Mr. Clifford, was none other than the unfortunate young lady who afterwards became Mme. Boirac.

‘She was one of the loveliest girls that ever breathed. From the first moment I saw her I admired her as I had never before admired any one. As Fate would have it we were both making certain pastel studies and, being thus thrown together, we became interested in each other’s work. The inevitable happened, and I fell deeply in love with her. She did not discourage me, but, as she was kind and gracious to every one, I hardly dared to hope she could care for me. At last, to make a long story short, I took my courage in both hands and proposed, and I could hardly believe my good fortune when she accepted me.

‘It then became necessary for me to approach her father. M. Humbert came of an old and distinguished family, endowed with much pride of birth. He was well off, though not rich, and lived almost in state in his old chÂteau at Laroche, occupying a leading position in the local society. To broach such a subject to him would have been an ordeal for any one, but for me, who lacked so many of the social advantages he possessed, it was a veritable nightmare. And my forebodings were not disappointed. He received me courteously, but scouted my proposal. Mlle. Humbert was too young, she did not yet know the world nor her own mind, he had other plans for her future, and so on. Also, he delicately indicated that my social standing and means hardly fitted me to enter a family of such age and traditions as his own.

‘I need not try to describe the effect this decision had upon both of us, suffice it to say that Annette, after a stormy scene, submitted to her father’s authority, leaving the art school and going for an indefinite visit to an aunt in the southern provinces. I, finding life without her insupportable in my old haunts, also left Paris, and, coming to London, obtained a position as artist with Messrs. Greer and Hood, the advertisement poster printers of Fleet Street. What with their salary and my spare time drawings for Punch and other papers, I soon found myself in receipt of over a thousand a year, and then realised one of my ambitions and moved to a small villa in the suburbs, buying at the same time a two-seater to take me to and from my work. This villa, St. Malo, was situated near Brent, on the Great North Road. Here I settled down, alone except for an elderly housekeeper. I fitted up a large attic as a studio where I began studies for a picture I had in mind.

‘But before I had been a month in my new home, I developed a nasty attack of pneumonia. Martin, who was the nearest doctor, was called in, and so began the friendship from which your presence here to-day has resulted.

‘I lived a somewhat humdrum existence for some two years, and then one morning I had a pleasant surprise in the shape of a visit from my old friend, Pierre Bonchose. He explained that, having done pretty well in business, he had been sent to represent permanently his firm in London. He also told me that after a year of what he called “sulking,” his cousin Annette had, at her father’s desire, married a M. Boirac, a wealthy manufacturer, that he had seen her coming through Paris, and that she appeared to be quite happy.

‘Bonchose and I resumed our former intimacy, and, during the next summer, that is, two years ago, we had a walking tour through Cornwall. I mention this because of an incident which occurred near Penzance, and which profoundly modified our relations. While bathing in a deserted cove of that rocky coast, I was caught in an off-shore current and, in spite of all my efforts, found myself being carried out to sea. Bonchose, hearing my shouts, swam out after me and at the imminent risk of his own life assisted me back into still water. Though he made light of the matter, I could not forget the danger he had faced to save me, and I felt I had incurred a debt which I should be glad of an opportunity to pay.

‘But though, as I have said, I had settled down in London, I did not by any means entirely desert Paris. First at long intervals, but afterwards more frequently, I ran over to see my friends and to keep myself in touch with artistic circles in France. About eight months ago, on one of these visits, it happened that I dropped into an exhibition of the work of a famous sculptor, and there I incidentally came across a man whose conversation interested me extremely. His hobby was statuary, and he was clearly an expert in his subject. He told me he had amassed one of the largest private collections in the world, and as we became more intimate he invited me to dine that evening and see it. I went, and on arrival he introduced me to his wife. You can imagine my feelings, Mr. Clifford, when I found she was none other than Annette. Acting on the impulse of the moment, we met as strangers, though I am sure that, had M. Boirac not been so full of his collection, he must have noticed our embarrassment. But as we sat at dinner I found that, after the first shock of recognition, her presence left me cold. Though I still profoundly admired her, my infatuation had passed away, and I realised that whatever love I might have had for her was dead. And from her manner I felt sure her feelings towards myself had undergone a similar change.

‘M. Boirac and I became good friends over his collection, and, on his invitation, I several times repeated my call during subsequent visits to Paris.

‘That, Mr. Clifford, is all of what I may call my preliminary history. I am afraid it is rather involved, but I have tried to make it as clear as I could.’

The lawyer bowed gravely.

‘Your statement is perfectly clear. Pray proceed.’

‘I come now,’ went on Felix, ‘to the events connected with the cask and therefore apparently with the tragedy. I think it will be better to tell you these in their chronological order, even though this makes my story seem a little disconnected?’

Again Mr. Clifford inclined his head and the other resumed:—

‘On Saturday, 13th March, I crossed to Paris for the week-end, returning the following Monday morning. On the Sunday afternoon I happened to drop into the CafÉ Toisson d’Or in the rue Royale and there found a group of men, with most of whom I was acquainted. They were talking about the French Government lotteries, and in the course of conversation one of them, a M. Alphonse Le Gautier, said to me, “Why not have a little flutter with me?” I ridiculed the idea at first, but afterwards agreed to enter a thousand francs jointly with him. He undertook to arrange the matter, the profits, if any, being halved between us. I paid him over my five hundred francs and, believing it was the last I should hear of the affair, dismissed it from my mind.

‘A week after my return to England I had a visit from Bonchose. I saw at once he was in trouble and after a while it all came out. It seemed he had been losing heavily at cards, and to meet his liabilities he had gone to moneylenders, who were now pressing him for repayment. In answer to my questions, he explained that he had paid off all his loans with the exception of one for £600. That sum he was utterly unable to raise, and if he failed to procure it before the 31st, that was, in about a week, he was a ruined man. I was much annoyed, for I had helped him out of similar scrapes twice before, on each of which occasions he had given me his word not to play again. I felt I could not go on throwing good money after bad, and yet because of our friendship and the debt I owed him for saving my life, I could not see him go to the wall. Divining what was in my mind, he assured me he had not come to beg, saying that he realised I had already done more for him than he deserved. Then he said he had written to Annette telling her the circumstances, and asking, not for a gift, but for a loan on which he would pay four per cent interest. I talked to him seriously, offering no help, but asking him to keep me advised of how things went on. But though I did not tell him, I decided I would pay the £600 rather than see him stuck.

‘“I am going to Paris on Friday,” I ended up, “and hope to dine at the Boirac’s on Saturday. If Annette speaks to me on the subject, I shall tell her you are making an unholy mess of things.”

‘“Don’t put her against helping me,” he pleaded. I said I would not influence her at all, and then he asked me when I was returning, so that he could meet me and hear what had been said. I told him I would cross by Boulogne on Sunday.

‘That week-end, a fortnight after the meeting in the CafÉ Toisson d’Or, I was again in the French capital. On the Saturday morning as I sat in the Hotel Continental meditating a visit to M. Dauphin’s atelier, a note was handed to me. It was from Annette, and in it she said she wanted to speak to me in private, asking if I could come at 7.30 that night, instead of the dinner hour of 7.45, and requiring a verbal reply. I gave the necessary assurance to the messenger, who proved to be Annette’s maid, Suzanne.

‘I reached the Boirac’s house at the appointed hour, but I did not see Annette. As I entered, M. Boirac was passing through the hall, and, seeing me, he invited me into his study to look at an engraving which had been sent him on approval. Naturally, I could not refuse. We went to the study and examined the picture. But there was another object in the study which I also saw and commented on. Standing on the carpet was a large cask, and, Mr. Clifford, you will hardly believe me when I tell you it was either the identical cask which was sent me containing poor Annette’s body, or else one so similar as to be indistinguishable!’

Felix paused to let this significant statement, as he evidently considered it, sink into the lawyer’s mind. But the latter only bowed and said:—

‘Pray proceed, Mr. Felix, with your statement.’

‘I was interested in the cask, as it seemed an unusual object to find in a study. I asked Boirac about it, and he explained that he had just purchased a piece of statuary, and that the cask was simply the special kind of packing case in which it had been sent home.’

‘Did he describe the statue?’ asked the lawyer, interrupting for the first time.

‘No, except to say it was a fine group. He promised to show it to me on my next visit.’

‘Did he tell you from whom he had purchased it, or what price he had paid?’

‘Neither; the matter was only referred to incidentally as we were leaving the room.’

‘Thank you. Pray continue.’

‘We then went to the salon, but, as several visitors had already arrived, I could not, at that time, get a private word with Annette.

‘The dinner was an important social affair, the Spanish Ambassador being the principal guest. Before it was over M. Boirac was called from the house, owing to an accident having taken place at his works. He apologised for leaving, promising to return speedily, but after a time a telephone message came to say the accident had been more serious than he had supposed, and he would be detained till very late or even all night. The guests began to leave about eleven, but, in obedience to a sign from Annette, I remained till all had gone. Then she told me she had received a letter from Bonchose which had much upset her. She did not mind his having got into difficulties—indeed, she thought a fright would do him good; but she was really troubled lest he might become a confirmed gambler. She wished for my candid opinion of him.

‘I told her exactly what I thought; that there wasn’t a bit of real harm in him, but that he had got into a bad set and that his only chance was to break with it. She agreed with me, saying he should not be helped until this breach had actually been made. We then discussed where the money was to come from. She, it appeared, could lay her hands on only £300, and, as she felt M. Boirac would disapprove, she did not wish to ask him for the remainder. She therefore proposed to sell a couple of her jewels—her own private property—and she asked me to undertake the matter for her. But I could not bring myself to agree to this, and I said that if she would advance the £300 she had, I would find the balance. At first she would not hear of it, and we had quite a heated argument. Finally I carried my point, and she went upstairs and brought down the money. I took my leave immediately afterwards, promising to let her know how the matter ended. She was much affected, for she was sincerely attached to him. The next day, Sunday, I returned to London.’

‘I think you said, Mr. Felix,’ interrupted Clifford, ‘that the last of the guests left at eleven?’

‘Yes, about then.’

‘And at what time did you yourself leave?’

‘About quarter to twelve.’

‘Then your conversation lasted about three-quarters of an hour. Now, did any one see you leave?’

‘No one except Annette. She came to the door with me.’

‘You returned to your hotel, I suppose?’

‘Yes.’

‘At what hour did you reach it?’

‘About half-past one, I should say.’

‘From Madame’s house to the Hotel Continental is about fifteen minutes’ walk. What, then, did you do in the interval?’

‘I felt wakeful, and thought a stroll would be pleasant. I walked across Paris; to the Place de la Bastille by the rue de Rivoli, and back to the hotel by the Grands Boulevards.’

‘Did you meet any one you knew?’

‘No, not that I can recall.’

‘I am afraid this is important, Mr. Felix. Think again. Is there no one that could testify to meeting you on this walk? No waiter or other official, for example?’

‘No,’ said Felix, after a pause, ‘I don’t think I spoke to a soul, and I certainly did not enter a cafÉ.’

‘You say you returned to London next day. Did you meet any one on the journey you knew?’

‘Yes, but it will be no help to me. I met Miss Gladys Devine on the Folkestone boat. But she cannot confirm this. As you must know, she died suddenly a week later.’

‘Miss Gladys Devine? Not the celebrated Miss Devine, the actress?’

‘The same. I have met her at supper parties in Paris.’

‘But you must be able to get confirmation of that? So well known a lady would be recognised wherever she went. But perhaps you visited her private cabin?’

‘No, I saw her on the boat deck. She was sitting in the shelter of one of the funnels. I joined her for about half an hour.’

‘But somebody must have seen you?’

‘Possibly, but possibly not. You see, it was horribly rough. Almost every one was sick. People, anyway, weren’t walking about.’

‘What about her maids?’

‘I did not see them.’

‘Now, Mr. Felix, what you must think over when I leave you is, first, what evidence can we get confirming your statement of how you spent your time between 11.00 and 1.30 on the Saturday night? and second, who saw you with Miss Devine on the Folkestone boat? In the meantime, please continue your statement.’

‘Bonchose met me at Charing Cross. He was keen to know how I had fared. We drove to his rooms, where I told him the whole thing. I said I would hand him the £600 on condition he broke finally with his gambling friends. He assured me the breach had already been effected, and I therefore gave him the money. We then drove to the Savoy and, after a rather early dinner, I left him and went home.’

‘At what hour?’

‘About 8.30.’

‘How did you go?’

‘I took a taxi.’

‘From where?’

‘The Savoy commissionaire called it.’

‘Yes?’

‘The next thing was I received an astonishing letter,’ and Felix went on to tell the lawyer about the typewritten letter signed ‘Le Gautier,’ his preparations to obtain the cask, his visit to St. Katherine’s Docks, his interviews with the clerk, Broughton, and the manager of the dock office, his ruse to get the I. and C.’s notepaper, the forging of the letter to Harkness, the removal of the cask to St. Malo, his dining at Dr. Martin’s, the midnight interview with Burnley, the disappearance of the cask, its final recovery, its unpacking, and the discovery of its terrible contents. ‘That, Mr. Clifford,’ he ended up, ‘is every single thing I know about the affair, good, bad, or indifferent.’

‘I congratulate you on the clear way you have made your statement,’ returned the solicitor. ‘Now, excuse me while I think if there is anything further I want to ask you.’

He slowly turned over the rather voluminous notes he had taken.

‘The first point,’ he went on at length, ‘is the question of your intimacy with Madame Boirac. Can you tell me how many times you saw her since her marriage?’

Felix considered.

‘About half a dozen, I should say, or perhaps eight or even nine. Not more than nine certainly.’

‘Excepting on the night of the dinner, was her husband present on all these occasions?’

‘Not all. At least twice I called in the afternoon and saw her alone.’

‘I think I need hardly ask you, but answer me fully all the same. Were there at any time any tender or confidential passages between you and Madame?’

‘Absolutely none. I state most positively that nothing passed between us which Boirac might not have seen or heard.’

Again Clifford paused in thought.

‘I want you now to tell me, and with the utmost detail, exactly how you spent the time between your leaving Bonchose after dinner on the Sunday night of your return from Paris, and your meeting the cask at St. Katherine’s Docks on the following Monday week.’

‘I can do so easily. After leaving Bonchose I drove out to St. Malo, as I told you, arriving about 9.30. My housekeeper was on holidays, so I went straight over to Brent village and arranged with a charwoman to come in the mornings and make my breakfast. This woman had acted in a similar capacity before. I myself was taking a week’s holidays, and each day I passed in the same manner. I got up about half-past seven, had breakfast, and went to my studio to paint. The charwoman went home after breakfast, and I got my own lunch. Then I painted again in the afternoon, and in the evening went into town for dinner and usually, but not always, a theatre. I generally got back between eleven and twelve. On Saturday, instead of painting all day, I went into town and arranged about meeting the cask.’

‘Then at ten o’clock on Wednesday you were painting in your studio?’

‘That is so, but why that day and hour?’

‘I will tell you later. Now, can you prove that? Did any one call in the studio, or see you there?’

‘No one, I’m afraid.’

‘What about the charwoman? What is her name, by the way?’

‘Mrs. Bridget Murphy. No, I don’t think she could tell where I was. You see, I practically did not see her at all. My breakfast was ready when I came down, and when I had finished I went direct to the studio. I don’t know when she went home, but I should think it was fairly early.’

‘What time did you breakfast?’

‘Eight nominally, but I wasn’t always very punctual.’

‘Do you remember, and have you any way of proving, what time you had breakfast on this particular Wednesday?’

Felix thought over the question.

‘No,’ he answered, ‘I don’t think so. There was nothing to distinguish that morning from the others.’

‘The point is important. Perhaps Mrs. Murphy would remember?’

‘Possibly, but I hardly think so.’

‘No one else could prove it? Were there no callers? No tradesmen’s messengers?’

‘None. One or two people rang, but I didn’t bother. I was expecting no one, and I just let them ring.’

‘An unfortunate omission. Now, tell me, where did you dine in town and spend the evenings?’

‘I’m afraid a different restaurant each night, and naturally a different theatre.’

By dint of further questions Clifford obtained a list of all the places his client had visited during the week, his intention being to go round them in turn in search of material to build up an alibi. He was very disappointed with all he had heard, and the difficulties of his task seemed to be growing. He continued this examination.

‘Now, this typewritten letter, signed Le Gautier. Did you believe it was genuine?’

‘I did. I thought the whole thing absurd and annoying, but I did not doubt it. You see, I had actually entered for the lottery with Le Gautier, and fifty thousand francs was the sum we would have made, had we been lucky. I did think at first it was a practical joke on Le Gautier’s part, but he is not that kind of man, and I at last concluded it was genuine.’

‘Did you write or wire to Le Gautier?’

‘No. I got the letter late one evening on my return home. It was too late to do anything then, but I intended to wire next morning that I would go over, and not to send the cask. But next morning’s post brought a card, also typewritten, and signed “Le Gautier,” saying the cask had actually been despatched. I forgot to mention that in my statement.’

Clifford nodded and again referred to his notes.

‘Did you write a letter to Messrs. Dupierre of Paris, ordering a statue to be sent to you, to the West Jubb Street address?’

‘No.’

‘Do you recollect the blotter on your study desk at St. Malo?’

‘Why, yes,’ returned Felix, with a look of surprise.

‘Did you ever let that blotter out of your possession?’

‘Not to my knowledge.’

‘Did you ever take it to France?’

‘Never.’

‘Then how, Mr. Felix,’ asked the lawyer slowly, ‘how do you account for the fact that the blotted impression of such a letter, in your handwriting, was found on the blotter?’

Felix sprang to his feet.

‘What?’ he cried. ‘What’s that you say? A letter in my handwriting? I don’t believe it! It’s impossible!’

‘I have seen it.’

‘You have seen it?’ The speaker moved excitedly about the cell, gesticulating freely. ‘Really, Mr. Clifford, this is too much. I tell you I wrote no such letter. You are making a mistake.’

‘I assure you, Mr. Felix, I am making no mistake. I saw not only the impression on your pad, but also the original letter itself, which had been received by Messrs. Dupierre.’

Felix sat down and passed his hand across his brow, as if dazed.

‘I cannot understand it. You can’t have seen a letter from me, because no such exists. What you saw must have been a forgery.’

‘But the impression on the blotter?’

‘Good Heavens, how do I know? I tell you I know nothing about it. See here,’ he added, with a change of tone, ‘there’s some trick in it. When you say you’ve seen these things I’m bound to believe you. But there’s a trick. There must be.’

‘Then,’ said Clifford, ‘if so, and I’m inclined to agree with you, who carried out the trick? Some one must have had access to your study, either to write the letter there, or to abstract your blotter or a page of it which could afterwards be replaced. Who could that have been?’

‘I don’t know. Nobody—or anybody. I can think of no one who would do such a thing. When was the letter written?’

‘It was received by Dupierre on Tuesday morning, 30th March. It bore a London postmark, therefore it must have been posted on Sunday night or Monday. That would be either the day or the day after you returned to London, after the dinner.’

‘Any one could have got into the house while I was away. If what you say is true, some one must have, but I saw no traces.’

‘Now, Mr. Felix, who is Emmie?’

Felix stared.

‘Emmie?’ he said. ‘I don’t understand. Emmie what?’

Clifford watched the other keenly as he replied,—

‘Your heartbroken Emmie.’

‘My dear Mr. Clifford, I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about. ‘Your heartbroken Emmie?’ What under the sun do you mean?’

‘It should be clear enough, Mr. Felix. Who was the girl that wrote to you recently imploring you not to desert her, and who signed herself, “Your heartbroken Emmie”?’

Felix gazed at his visitor in amazement.

‘Either you’re mad or I’m mad,’ he said slowly. ‘I have had no letter from any girl asking me not to desert her, and I have had no letter on any subject from any one signing herself Emmie. Really, I think you might explain yourself.’

‘Now tell me something else, Mr. Felix. You possess, I understand, two navy-blue suits?’

The astonishment on the artist’s face did not lessen as he assented.

‘I want to know now when you last wore each of those suits.’

‘As it happens, I can tell you. One of them I wore on my Paris trip and again on the following Saturday when I went to town to arrange about the cask, as well as on the Monday and following days till I went to hospital. I am wearing it to-day. The other blue suit is an old one, and I have not had it on for months.’

‘I’ll tell you now why I ask. In the coat pocket of one of your blue suits, evidently, from what you tell me, the old one, was found a letter beginning, “My dearest LÉon,” and ending, “Your heartbroken Emmie,” and in it the writer said—but here I have a copy of it, and you may read it.’

The artist looked over the paper as if in a dream. Then he turned to the other.

‘I can assure you, Mr. Clifford,’ he said earnestly, ‘that I am as much in the dark as you about this. It is not my letter. I never saw it before. I never heard of Emmie. The whole thing is an invention. How it got into my pocket I cannot explain, but I tell you positively I am absolutely ignorant of the whole thing.’

Clifford nodded.

‘Very good. Now there is only one other thing I want to ask you. Do you know the round-backed, leather-covered arm-chair which stood before the plush curtain in your study?’

‘Yes.’

‘Think carefully, and tell me who was the last lady to occupy it.’

‘That doesn’t require much thought. No lady has ever sat in it since I bought it. Very few ladies have been in St. Malo since I took it, and these without exception were interested in art and were in the studio only.’

‘Now, don’t be annoyed, Mr. Felix, when I ask you once more, did Madame Boirac ever sit in that chair?’

‘I give you my solemn word of honour she never did. She was never in the house, and I believe I am right in saying she was never in London.’

The lawyer nodded.

‘Now I have another unpleasant thing to tell you. Caught in the hem of that curtain and hidden by the chair, a pin was found—a diamond safety pin. That pin, Mr. Felix, was attached to the shoulder of Madame Boirac’s dress on the night of the dinner party.’

Felix, unable to speak, sat staring helplessly at the lawyer. His face had gone white, and an expression of horror dawned in his eyes. There was silence in the dull, cheerless cell, whose walls had heard so many tales of misery and suffering. Clifford, watching his client keenly, felt the doubts which had been partly lulled to rest, again rising. Was the man acting? If so, he was doing it extraordinarily well, but. . . . At last Felix moved.

‘My God!’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘It’s a nightmare! I feel helpless. I am in a net, and it is drawing close round me. What does it mean, Mr. Clifford? Who has done this thing? I didn’t know any one hated me, but some one must.’ He made a gesture of despair. ‘I’m done for. What can help me after that? Can you see any hope, Mr. Clifford? Tell me.’

But whatever doubts the lawyer felt he kept to himself.

‘It is too soon to come to any conclusion,’ he answered in a matter-of-fact tone. ‘In cases of difficulty such as this, I have frequently known some small fact to come out, perhaps accidentally, which has cleared up the whole affair. You must not despair. We are only at the beginning. Wait for a week or two, and then I’ll tell you what I think.’

‘Bless you, Mr. Clifford. You put heart into me. But this matter of the pin. What can it mean? There is some terrible conspiracy against me. Can it ever be unravelled?’

The lawyer arose.

‘That’s what we have to try and do, Mr. Felix. I’m afraid I must be off now. Do as I say, keep up your heart, and if you can think of any evidence supporting your statements, let me know.’

Having shaken hands, Mr. Clifford withdrew.

CHAPTER XXIII