‘Either you’re mad or I’m mad,’ he said slowly. ‘I have had no letter from any girl asking me not to desert her, and I have had no letter on any subject from any one signing herself Emmie. Really, I think you might explain yourself.’
‘Now tell me something else, Mr. Felix. You possess, I understand, two navy-blue suits?’
The astonishment on the artist’s face did not lessen as he assented.
‘I want to know now when you last wore each of those suits.’
‘As it happens, I can tell you. One of them I wore on my Paris trip and again on the following Saturday when I went to town to arrange about the cask, as well as on the Monday and following days till I went to hospital. I am wearing it to-day. The other blue suit is an old one, and I have not had it on for months.’
‘I’ll tell you now why I ask. In the coat pocket of one of your blue suits, evidently, from what you tell me, the old one, was found a letter beginning, “My dearest Léon,” and ending, “Your heartbroken Emmie,” and in it the writer said—but here I have a copy of it, and you may read it.’
The artist looked over the paper as if in a dream. Then he turned to the other.
‘I can assure you, Mr. Clifford,’ he said earnestly, ‘that I am as much in the dark as you about this. It is not my letter. I never saw it before. I never heard of Emmie. The whole thing is an invention. How it got into my pocket I cannot explain, but I tell you positively I am absolutely ignorant of the whole thing.’
Clifford nodded.
‘Very good. Now there is only one other thing I want to ask you. Do you know the round-backed, leather-covered arm-chair which stood before the plush curtain in your study?’