"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.