“No.”
“Smalpage is, or should we say was, Sir Anthony Gyde’s tailor. He identifies the measurements as being those of Sir Anthony Gyde, and his chief cutter identifies the garments as his work, though, of course, he cannot say for certain for whom he cut them.”
“That is evidence enough,” replied Freyberger; “the clothes are Gyde’s.”
“Yes, I think so. Then, again, Smith and Wilkinson, the jewellers, identify the jewel cases as having been supplied to Sir Anthony; the bank identify them as similar to those withdrawn by Sir Anthony.”
“That is evidence enough,” again replied Freyberger. “The things are Gyde’s; the evidence is, unhappily, of little use at present. It will help to hang our man when we catch him. There is nothing for us now to do but wait.”
CHAPTER XXXV
TIME passed, and April came to London, lighting the crocuses like little lamps along the borders of the parks. Nothing could have been kindlier than her coming or more cruel than her going, for it froze hard during the last few days of her month; buds were brought to untimely ruin and the ice on the ponds was sufficiently thick almost for skating.
But the first of May broke cloudless and warm, the herald of three weeks of perfect weather.
Mademoiselle Lefarge had gone back to France, and Hellier ought to have been on circuit.