Haslam, with his glass in his hand, rose and changed his place. He seated himself next Fraser. “Seen anything more of the young Russian fellow you brought over that momentous night?” he asked a little abruptly.
“Haven’t set eyes on him,” Fraser acknowledged. “He was really Philipson’s pal. At least, it was he who asked him to Mess that night. Can’t say I took to him much myself.”
“Neither did I,” Haslam agreed. “Still, one has to remember these fellows have been through it. Living in London for the present, isn’t he?”
“I can’t even tell you that. I’ll ask Philipson if you like. He may know.”
Haslam hesitated.
“No, don’t bother,” he begged. “I just wondered whether he had been down in these parts lately.”
Andrew presently rose and they all trooped out, some of them passing at once into the rarely opened suite of drawing-rooms, others lingering about the hall. Sir Richard, one of the few to invade the women’s domain, found himself at first a little at a loss. There was a table of very intense bridge players, and three women seated on a divan engaged in vivacious conversation who never even raised their heads at his entrance. Then Félice glided out from a distant corner, passed her arm through his and led him to a small, octagonal chamber which completed the suite—Queen Anne’s Drawing-room, it was called, in memory of a reputed visit. She drew him to a distant corner, made him comfortable, and seated herself in a small chair by his side.
“Sir Richard,” she said, “I did want very much to see you. Mrs. Drayton has been here to-day from Winchester.”
“Mrs. Drayton,” he repeated, a little vaguely. “Your burglar’s wife.”
“Been here to see you!”
“We have exchanged visits three times,” Félice told him. “Once I to see her, twice her to see me. I have helped her a little with money. I wish to help her in every possible way that I can. Her husband sent her to find out about the revolver that was discovered yesterday.”
“Good God!” Sir Richard exclaimed.
“I suppose I ought not to have done it,” Félice went on—“it was perhaps very wrong of me—but I had the case unpacked and I showed it to her.”
“Well?”
“She said that it belonged to her brother, that she saw it in her brother’s house three or four days after the murder had been committed, and that there were no initials upon it.”
“Her evidence, unfortunately, will never be admitted,” Sir Richard said gravely. “At the same time, if she saw it, perhaps some one else did. Where is this brother of hers?”
“In jail.”
“If anything hangs Max Drayton,” Sir Richard groaned, “it will be bad luck.”
“Nothing shall hang him,” Félice declared.
Sir Richard shook his head.
“My dear,” he said, and there was a queer Jesuitical note in his voice, “men have been hung on much weaker circumstantial evidence than this. In the first place, so far as we have been able to discover at present, there was no one else within shooting distance of De Besset. Secondly, the burglar had every reason to shoot him, for he was on the point of giving the alarm. Thirdly, the revolver, which can be proved to belong to his brother-in-law, and has his own initials scratched upon it, has been found within twenty-five yards of where he left his car. How am I to deal with all these damning facts? I’m beginning to doubt whether the jury will keep awake to listen to me.”
“But you don’t believe he did it yourself,” Félice urged, a note of distress in her tone.
“I do not,” Sir Richard admitted, “but I should imagine I am the only man breathing who wouldn’t, on the face of the evidence.”
“If you don’t believe it,” she cried, “there must be a way of finding out the truth.”
“There is one way,” he urged.
“Well?” she demanded eagerly.
“That every person who was in the house that night should tell all he or she knows, that no one should be shielded, that the absolute and entire truth should be told. Then perhaps Drayton may have a chance.”
“When is the trial?” Félice asked, a little abruptly. “The Assizes commence the sixth of December at Winchester.”
“Before then,” she murmured, “something will happen—I am sure that something will happen.”
Sir Richard shook his head gravely.
“I wouldn’t be too sanguine,” he advised. “Pretty well the worst that can happen for my man has already happened—unless they find the necklace and trace it to him. As the case stands at present, Drayton is in for it, and he knows it, poor devil! He knows it more than ever now.”
“Is he terrified?” she asked, a little hush in her voice.
“He’s more terrified than any man I’ve ever seen or heard of,” Sir Richard confessed. “He made no sort of fuss when he was arrested for the burglary. He never has done. He’s just faced it and taken his punishment, but the idea of the gallows seems to be driving him almost mad. He’s always trying to crane his head out of the cell window to see where they’re built. He can’t take his exercise without screaming out when he comes to the corner. The doctor told me he frightened himself into this last illness, sweating all night with fear. I’m afraid he’ll be an abject sight when the trial comes on.”
A passing reflection of horror was in Félice’s face.
“Tell him from me, Sir Richard,” she begged, “he shall not hang. I would rather perjure myself.”
“Why?” Sir Richard asked swiftly.
They glanced around, aware of the presence of a newcomer. Haslam was standing underneath the arched opening.
“Your husband is looking for you, Lady Glenlitten,” he announced tonelessly. “There is some question of dancing. The matter, I think, is to be referred to you.”
Félice sprang lightly up and held out her hand to her companion.
“We will dance,” she insisted. “Every one must dance for half an hour at least. Afterwards you eager sportsmen can go to bed and Sir Richard and I will finish our conversation.”
“Mayn’t I be included?” Haslam asked.
“On one condition,” Félice assented suddenly: “that you prove the truth of what you said last night at dinner time.”
“I talked too much last night,” he confessed gloomily. “What is it that I am to prove?”
“You say that you know. Save that poor fellow’s life and tell us who killed Raoul de Besset.”
Haslam’s expression was inscrutable.
“One may have knowledge of a thing,” he reminded them, “without the power or the will to publish it to the world. I will compromise with you, Lady Glenlitten. I will promise you this—no innocent man shall ever hang for the murder of Raoul de Besset.”
He swung around on his heel and departed abruptly. Félice and Sir Richard watched his disappearing form.
“You think that he means it?” Félice demanded breathlessly.
Sir Richard was deep in thought. His eyes were watching the tall, gaunt figure, passing now out of sight. Félice was obliged to repeat her question.
“Yes,” he acknowledged. “I think that he means it. All the same?”
The strains of music floated down from the gallery close at hand. Andrew suddenly presented himself.
“You