“Oh, he is all right. But I do not think he is hopeful. Who can be?” muttered Léon, running his hands through his hair, and losing his momentary elation. “Now that you have made me give myself away, what is there to say?”
Her only answer was a mute caress, and a cautious cough from M. Rodoin was intended to point out that in prisons, at any rate, walls may have ears. The lawyer remarked, in an undertone:
“If any one can turn this Lemaire inside out and destroy his credit, it will be Albert Barraud.”
“Oh, the scoundrel will have got his story pat.”
“We shall demand to examine Monsieur de Cadanet’s banking accounts,” went on the other. “If there is an entry of two hundred thousand francs about the date of your repayment, it will be to a certain extent a corroboration. Had the count absolutely no confidential servant in the house?”
Léon shook his head. “To my knowledge, none.”
“Madame Lemaire was married at the time?”
Nathalie raised her head from her husband’s shoulder.
“Has he a wife?”
“Poor woman, yes. At any rate, monsieur le baron has drawn the teeth of their principal witness, the concierge who was carrying the letters. If it were only as a matter of expediency,” he went on, addressing Léon, “your admission has, beyond a doubt, weakened their case. Somehow or other they had proof up to a certain point; Maître Barraud was convinced of it. Beyond this they can have none, and the rope lies slack in their hands.”