"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."