He had a peculiar reluctance in speaking of Desrolles.
‘He could not be anything worse,’ said Mr. Leopold sententiously. ‘This Desrolles was in the house at the time of the murder. Strange that he should have heard nothing of the struggle.’
‘Mrs. Rawber heard nothing, yet she was on the floor below, and was more likely to hear any movement in my wife’s room.’
‘I should like to know all you can tell me about Desrolles,’ said Mr. Leopold, frowning over his pocket-book.
Honest Tom Sampson sat and listened, open-eyed and silent. To him the famous criminal lawyer was as a god, a being made up of wisdom and knowledge.
‘I can tell you very little,’ answered John Treverton. ‘I know nothing to his discredit, except that he was poor, and too fond of brandy for his own welfare.’
‘I see,’ answered Leopold quickly. ‘The kind of man who would do anything for money.’
Treverton started. He could not deny that this was in some wise true of Mr. Desrolles, alias Mansfield, alias Malcolm. It horrified him to remember that this man was Laura’s father, and that at any moment the disgrace of that relationship might be made known, should Desrolles’ presence at the police court be insisted upon. Happily Desrolles was on the other side of the Channel, where only the solicitor who received his income knew where to find him.
Mr. Leopold asked a good many more questions, some of which seemed frivolous and irrelevant, but all of which John Treverton answered as well as he was able.
‘I hope you believe in me, Mr. Leopold,’ he said, when his solicitor held out his hand at parting.