“Trying to murder Gyde, perhaps, since it is known that Gyde was in the bedroom after the secretary heard that scream, which was evidently the scream of Leloir dying.”
“I have quite cast Gyde out of my mind,” said Freyberger. “I have quite come to the conclusion that Gyde has no more to do with this whole case than the child unborn. I am firmly convinced—mind, I say this to you privately—that the only criminal in this case is the man whom Gyde is supposed to have murdered, that is to say, the artist Klein, alias Kolbecker.
“I believe this face to be a portrait of Klein.
“I have no earthly idea yet of the full devilish ingenuity of the thing, but I feel assured that, whoever was murdered in the cottage on the fells of Cumberland, Klein is the murderer. Gyde may be alive, Gyde may be dead, but I feel assured of this, that Klein murdered a man, and has arranged matters so that the public believe that he is the victim and Gyde the assassin. Now I must go, for there is much work to be done. May I take this portrait with me; it is most important?”
“Certainly, if you will return it to me when you have done with it. I want it for my museum.”
“I will return it,” said Freyberger. He did it up in the brown paper, placed it in the pocket of his overcoat, and, bidding Doctor Murrell good night, departed.
In Piccadilly he hailed a cab and drove to Howland Street, to the house he had visited that afternoon.
On the way he reviewed many things in his mind.
He already had a theory. The theory that Gyde was innocent and Klein was the assassin; he had also a suspicion that Gyde was dead.
That this theory and suspicion cast the whole affair into deeper darkness was nothing if they were right.