As Hellier walked across the courtyard of Clifford’s Inn with this missive in his pocket, the sky above was sapphire blue, the sun was shining brightly, also trees were blooming around him and nightingales singing in their branches. At least, so it seemed to him till a collision with Mr Crump, K.C., a portly gentleman, who was not in love, brought him to his senses.
He did not ask himself what could possibly have happened to bring Cécile to London. He only knew that she was coming, that she had telegraphed to him and that he would meet her at six. As if nature had suddenly grown kind as well as fate, towards noon the fog cleared away, the sun shone out and the light of a perfect spring day was cast upon the world.
At six o’clock to the minute he presented himself at the Langham, ascertained that Mademoiselle Lefarge and her aunt had arrived and were expecting him and was shown to their private sitting-room.
CHAPTER XXIV
FREYBERGER, also, had received a telegram that morning, or, at least, the Chief of the Criminal Investigation Department had received it and communicated its contents to him.
“You can take the case entirely into your own hands, Freyberger,” he said. “You have certainly done well in it heretofore, the connexion between the two crimes seems to me almost made out, should the Paris people identify the portrait we have sent them as that of the supposedly murdered man, Müller, the connexion will be made certain. Your insight has been very praiseworthy, and if the portrait is identified we can at once place our finger upon the person who, if he is not the author of the crime, we are investigating, is, at least, so bound up in it that his capture must place the whole matter in a clear light.
“But will we be any nearer to his arrest? You object to his portrait being published in the papers, yet you know very well the value of that step.
“Take a big morning and evening paper; a portrait published in these papers is a portrait, so to speak, placarded on the sky. A million pair of eyes are at once placed at our service.”
“Quite so, sir,” replied Freyberger, “I am the last man to undervalue the power of the Press. I quite know that if we were to publish the portrait we should have half a million amateur detectives at our service in half a dozen hours. Unfortunately, it is my firm conviction that in an hour after publication, our man, who is now, I fancy, walking about the world catchable, in the pride of his infernal genius, in an hour, I repeat, he would be uncatchable. He would turn himself into air, into water, into smoke. He would become some one else. He is illusion materialized.