The Cask, Freeman Wills Crofts [snow like ashes series .txt] 📗

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 anyone 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 armchair 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! Anyone 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