“At least he might have been. No, Mr. Whymper, you haven’t convinced me so far. Does anything further occur to you?”
“Yes,” said Whymper: “the story he told me. No one could have known it but Mr. Averill.”
French leaned forward and his face took on an expression of keener interest.
“Ah, now we’re coming to it,” he exclaimed. “I suggest that that whole story was a pure invention of Roper’s and that it had no foundation in fact. Now tell me this.” He raised his hand as Whymper would have spoken. “If the story were true would you not have expected to hear something of M. Prosper Giraud and Mme. Madeleine Blancquart at Talloires?”
Whymper seemed absolutely dumbfounded at the extent of the other’s knowledge.
“Why,” he stammered with all the appearance of acute dismay, “how do you know about that? I never mentioned it.”
“You did,” French declared. “To the police at Talloires. I traced you there and found out about your inquiries. It was perfectly simple. If the story had been true would you not have had an answer to your inquiries?”
A sudden eagerness appeared in the young man’s face. He leaned forward and cried excitedly:—
“My Heavens, I never thought of that! I supposed Roper had made a mistake about the address. Oh, if it could only be so!” He paused for a moment, then burst out again: “You may be right! You may be right! Tell me why you thought it might be Roper’s invention. I must know!”
“In the strictest confidence I’ll tell you everything,” French answered and he began to recount, not indeed everything, but a good many of the reasons which had led him to believe in Roper’s guilt. Whymper listened with painful intensity, and when the other had finished he seemed almost unable to contain his excitement.