A SPEAKING LIKENESS.
It was some little time before Lord Ravenspur replied. For a moment or
two he seemed to be bereft of the gift of speech.
"It sounds almost incredible," he managed to stammer at length. "You
are absolutely certain you are not mistaken?"
"No, I am not mistaken. Mrs. Delahay's face is far too striking a one
to be taken for that of anybody else. Of course, I am not asking you
to give me any information. I am not seeking to pry into your secrets;
but this mystery maddens me. The most extraordinary part of the whole
affair is this--for three years on and off I have known Mrs. Delahay
intimately. I saw a great deal of her in Florence, also in Paris last
year. And she has always given me the impression of being absolutely
straightforward and single minded. And now, for some reason or
another, she has taken it into her head to tell deliberate lies which
appear to have no point or meaning. If she had only said that she went
to call upon a friend after her husband had gone out, no further
question would have been asked. Of course, I had not forgotten the
evidence of the man Stevens. I must confess I should like to see him
and ask him a few pointed questions. But apart from all that, you must
see the necessity of getting Mrs. Delahay to tell the truth. It is
just possible that she is shielding somebody. It is just possible that
the whole thing is capable of explanation. But of that you are the
best judge."
"It is a miserable business altogether," Ravenspur groaned. "I am
obliged to you for the straightforward way in which you have told me
everything, and I will do my best with Maria Delahay. She refused to
see me this morning, but I will go round after dinner and make another
attempt to get an interview."
It was somewhat later in the evening that Walter looked up his friend
Venables again. As he expected, he found the journalist to be greatly
interested in the Delahay case. Walter had debated the matter over in
his mind. He could see no harm in telling Venables what he had
discovered.
"It is certainly a curious case," the latter remarked. "And
professional interests apart, I should like to get to the bottom of
this mystery. But I see you have some suggestion to make in connection
with it. What is your idea?"
"Well, I have been thinking it out as I came along," Walter explained;
"and it seems to me that we might get a good deal out of the witness
John Stevens. He is the sort of man who would do anything for money,
and a sovereign or two ought to loosen his tongue. I don't want to say
anything unkind about Louis Delahay, because he was a great friend of
ours; and, so far as I know, his past is a clean and honourable one.
But then you never can tell. What is a man like that doing to make an
enemy, who is prepared to run the risk of being hanged for killing
him? And why does he want to go round to his studio at such an hour in
the morning?"
"I thought of all that," Venables said grimly. "Depend upon it, your
unfortunate friend had some secret chapters in his life of which the
world will probably never know anything. But what has all this got to
do with that fellow Stevens?"
"I was just coming to that point. If I had been the coroner I should
have asked Stevens a great many more questions this morning. As it
was, the authorities seemed content to let him go after he had given
evidence to the effect that he had seen Mrs. Delahay with her husband.
He told the court that he had been prowling and spying about Fitzjohn
Square for some months, and he gave a pretty plain hint to the effect
that he could tell a story or two about some of the inhabitants there.
Now, for six months or more before Delahay went to Florence to be
married, he lived a bachelor life at this house; and all this time
Stevens was prowling about the neighbourhood after dark. It is not a
very pleasant thing to have to do, but I should like to talk the
matter over with Stevens and see if he can give us any information as
regards Delahay. If you will telephone to Scotland Yard and get them
to give you Stevens' address, we will go round to his rooms and
interview him at once."
It was no difficult matter to get the address in question, and
presently the two friends reached the shabby house in the dingy street
where Stevens lived. An exceedingly dirty child informed the visitors
that Mr. Stevens was out at present, but that he always left his
whereabouts behind him in case he might be required professionally. At
the present moment, the precocious child informed the strangers, Mr.
Stevens could be found at the Imperial Palace Theatre in Vauxhall
Bridge Road.
"That is a bit of a coincidence," Venables remarked. "However, we
can't do better than go down to the theatre."
There was some little trouble in finding Stevens, and the performance
was nearly at an end before he was pointed out to Walter by one of the
attendants. He appeared to be none too sober, judging by his flushed
face and somewhat unsteady gait; though, since the morning, his
wardrobe had undergone a decided change for the better. The greasy,
seedy frock-coat had vanished. Also the dilapidated silk hat. In fact
the man looked quite prosperous.
"I would suggest that we don't speak to him in here," Venables said.
"Let us follow him out into the road."
Walter fell in at once with the idea. In the road Stevens paused as if
waiting for somebody, and presently from the stage door there appeared
the slim, graceful figure of Valdo. For some moments the two men stood
in earnest conversation together, and from their attitude it was
plainly evident that they were in hot dispute upon some point. The
discussion lasted some little time. Then with a shrug of his
shoulders, Valdo put his hand in his pocket and passed a coin or two
over to his companion. Stevens was understood to say something to the
effect that that would suffice for the present. Then he lounged off
down the road and paused presently before a public-house which
glittered invitingly opposite.
"Catch him before he goes in there," Venables whispered hurriedly. "If
the fellow has any more to drink he will be perfectly useless to us
for the rest of the evening."
Stevens turned suspiciously as Walter spoke to him.
"I think your name is Stevens," the latter said. "My friend here is a
journalist and is greatly interested in the Fitzjohn Square mystery.
We have been reading your evidence of this morning, and have come to
the conclusion that you may be able to afford us some useful
information. If you will answer a few questions we will make it worth
your while."
"To the extent of a couple of sovereigns," Venables put in.
"Then I am your man," Stevens exclaimed with alacrity. "Perhaps you
wouldn't mind coming round as far as my rooms. I have got a pretty
poor memory for things, so I always jot everything down in my diary. I
put everything down pretty well, because you never know what
information is likely to be useful. I once made fifty pounds out of
the simple fact that I saw a footman reading some postcards he was
posting. Since then I have neglected no trifles."
"What we want," Walter explained, "is all you can tell us about Mr.
Louis Delahay. You know him very well by sight, and you must be
acquainted with some of his habits."
Stevens laughed knowingly, and nodded his head.
"I could open your eyes about a few of them in that neighbourhood," he
said. "I haven't been loafing about Fitzjohn Square all these months
for nothing. If I were a blackmailer, which I am not, I could live on
the fat of the land. That is too dangerous a game to play, and I
prefer to get along as I am."
The man was evidently in a condition when he was past concealing
anything. He chattered away glibly until his rooms were reached. Then
with a flourish he opened the door and invited his visitors to enter.
He apologised for the fact that he had nothing whereon to entertain
the strangers, which apology was duly accepted. It was, perhaps, on
the whole, a fortunate thing that Stevens' cellar was empty. He
ushered his companions into a grimy room, stuffy from want of air, and
reeking with the odour of stale tobacco smoke.
"You will excuse me for a moment," he said politely. "I will go into
my bedroom and get my diary. I suppose pretty well all you want to
know has happened quite lately."
"It is the last six months with which we are chiefly concerned,"
Walter explained. "Before that does not matter."
Stevens turned away and closed the door behind him. He was gone some
little time, so that his visitors had ample opportunity to take stock
of their surroundings. There was nothing in the place of any value
except a small circular picture in a handsome frame, depicting a
beautiful face, which was evidently the work of some artist of repute.
The painting was so glaringly out of place that it immediately
attracted Venables' attention.
"How did that get here?" he asked.
"My word, you may well ask that," Walter cried in surprise. "Here is
another amazing discovery! You remember my uncle being robbed of some
pictures a few years ago, one of which he declared was the best thing
he had ever done?"
"You don't mean to say," Venables exclaimed, "that, that----"
"Indeed, I do," Walter said under his breath. "I declare to you that
the painting hanging up there is the one which my uncle always
considered his masterpiece."