“This is Jacob Burrell, Mr. Henderson,” said the lawyer, when the door had closed on them. “I have told him that you wish him to take up your case, and he is prepared to do so without delay.”
“I am exceedingly obliged to you, Mr. Burrell,” said Godfrey. “Mr. Codey has told me of your cleverness. If you can discover who it was who actually murdered the poor girl, you will not only relieve me from a position of considerable danger, but you will lay me under an everlasting obligation to yourself.”
“I’ll do the best I can, sir,” said the man, jovially, rubbing his hands together, as if he regarded the whole affair as a huge joke. “As Mr. Codey may have told you, I have unravelled pretty tangled skeins in my day, and it won’t be my fault if I don’t do the same here. Now, sir, Mr. Codey, who knows my ways of work, has given me an outline of the case, but if you don’t mind, I should like to put a few questions to you on my own account.”
“Ask me whatever you please,” said Godfrey, “and I will answer to the best of my ability.”
Burrell seated himself opposite Godfrey, placed one enormous hand on either knee, and looked the other full in the face.
“Now, sir, in the first place, when you had your old studio in London, before you inherited your present estate, and when you first engaged the girl, can you remember who were your intimate friends? I mean, the friends who were in the habit of dropping into your studio pretty frequently, to smoke their pipes, and perhaps to take a friendly glass?”
Godfrey considered for a moment.
“I had not very many friends in those days,” he answered at last. “I was a hard worker, and for that reason didn’t encourage men to waste my time. Besides, I was only a struggling artist, and couldn’t afford to entertain very much.”
“But there must have been some men who came in. Think, sir, and try to recollect. It’s an important point.”
“Well, of course, there was my friend, Mr. Fensden, who practically lived with me. He used my studio whenever he had anything to do.”