A FAINT CLUE.
It was a day or two later before Lawrence saw Prout again. In the
meantime he had not been idle. In some vague way or another he felt
sure he was on the track of the Corner House mystery. A dozen theories
were formed and abandoned. If Prout had only possessed Lawrence's
imagination!
"But is there anything in the letters?" the latter asked after Prout
had given him a precis of their contents. "Something we can go by?"
"I'm afraid not, sir," Prout admitted. "The only thing I have
established so far is that my prisoner is the brother of the murdered
man. Oddly enough, he has no idea that the writer of those letters is
dead. And as he declines to disclose his own name, we cannot discover
the identity of his murdered brother."
Lawrence read over the letters carefully, there was less here than he
expected. They were all full of vague schemes of making money by
various shady ways, and all bewailed the fact that the writer could
not obtain the necessary capital to start. Really the letters were
hardly worth reading.
But patience is generally rewarded. Here was a hiatus after a series
of regular dates. The writer had been drinking heavily, somebody had
got hold of him, and was detaining him somewhere against his will. He
was not allowed to say where he was. His last letter of the series
hinted at a possibility of large sums of money.
"I'm afraid it's no good, sir," said Prout when Lawrence had finished.
"I don't quite agree with you," Lawrence said. "The man was detained
again his will. Where was he detained? In the Corner House? Because
his gaoler was afraid of his discretion. Now go a step further and ask
who detained him yonder. You can answer that question for yourself."
"Countess Lalage," Prout muttered. "But why?"
"Ah, that is the point. Get to that, and the problem is solved. Now
listen to me, Prout. The rascal who wrote those letters and the rascal
who received them were brothers. They were fond of each other, which
you will admit is possible. I see that for some reason of your own you
have concealed the fact from the prisoner that his brother is no more.
If you tell him the truth he will probably make some startling
admission."
Prout nodded admiringly. Lawrence took a photograph from his pocket.
"Tell him the news abruptly," he said. "And when the man has digested
that, show him the photograph. It is a recent one of Countess Lalage.
I want to know if he recognises her."
Prout departed on his errand. It was easy enough for him to obtain a
private interview with the prisoner, who received him with polite
mockery. His instinct told him that Prout wished to learn something.
"You are welcome;" he said; "it is so dull here that even the
conversation of a mere detective is pleasing."
"The detective was sharp enough to get you here," Prout said.
"Ah, well, even the great Napoleon made a mistake or two."
"Which you are likely to do yourself," said Prout, "if you try to be
too smart. I want you to answer me a few questions, which don't affect
your case at all. Give me the desired information, and I'll make
matters as easy as I can for you on your trial. I can't get you off,
but I can lighten the case."
The other man nodded. Prout was talking sense now.
"Go on, mon brave," he said. "I will do what I can for you--and
myself."
"It's about those letters I found in your possession," Prout said,
"the letters to you from your brother. I know they are from your
brother, because I have seen him, and also his handwriting. You need
not be afraid of him, because he is far beyond being injured by any
one in the world."
"Say," the other whispered fiercely. "Poor Leon--is he dead?"
Prout nodded. It was some little time before the other spoke. His next
question startled the detective.
"Was he murdered?" came the hoarse whisper.
"He was. You didn't know he was dead, yet you guessed how he died. He
was the victim of what you call the Corner House----"
"Ah, I remember now. I was too busy to read, but I heard people
speaking about it. My poor brother, my poor Leon."
"Leon--?"
"Leon Lalage."
"Your brother's name was Leon Lalage?" Prout asked.
"That is so, and my name is René. To think we were once happy boys
together on my mother's flower farm in Corsica!"
René Lalage bowed his head and wept after the manner of his nation. He
had offered Prout a far more valuable clue than he had expected. All
sorts of possibilities were opening out before the eyes of the
detective.
"I am interested in getting at the truth about your brother's death,"
he said. "That is why I am here today. Before you knew how he came by
his death you asked me if your brother had been murdered. Why?"
"Because there was one who hated him. I cannot and will not say any
more than that. He stood in the way of somebody. So long as he kept
away it was all right. But Leon was not one of that sort. He was as
brave as a lion. Had he not been so fond of the drink he might have
done anything. But there was something in the blood of both of us that
took us into evil ways. Thank God our mother is dead, the flower farm
gone, and the secret of the wonderful perfume that made the name of
Lalage famous for two centuries is buried in my mother's grave."
"One more question and I have done," said Prout. "Your brother had
some one to fear. Now was that some one a man or a woman?"
"A woman. I can't say more than that."
Prout was fairly satisfied. He produced a photo that Lawrence had
given him.
"Is that the woman by any chance?" he asked.
René Lalage thought not. All the same, he seemed puzzled. But he could
not be definite, and Prout was fain to be content.
"This seems to be a great lady," the prisoner said. "She conveys
nothing to me except as to her eyes. No, it is not possible. And she
would not be in English costume. Some years ago she was in England
playing at one of the theatres or music halls. There was a fine
picture of her in one of the papers--Lalage, the dancer."
Prout felt that he was getting on.
"Can you tell me the name of the paper?" he asked.
René Lalage confessed himself puzzled. Compatriots had shown him the
paper, but he had forgotten. There was a headpiece to the paper with a
woman on it blowing a trumpet. It seemed to be all actors and the
like.
"It has gone from my mind," he said. "It is so long ago. Even then my
brother and this woman had drifted apart. I am not happy in my mind
today, for your news has disturbed me more than I can tell. Even a
rascal like myself can be possessed of a heart, eh?"
"If I come again can you refresh your memory?"
"It is possible. It is not for me to say. Only poor Leon must be
avenged!"
The speaker clutched Prout passionately by the arm. His whole frame
was quivering with passion.
"The vengeance comes closer," said Prout; "it is closer than you
imagine. And I fancy that your evidence will hang the murderer."