“Proof?” he gasped. “What—what do you mean?”
With his eyes fixed upon me, his thin lips quivered as the startling truth dawned suddenly upon him.
“If you desire me to explain, I will,” I said. “Violet Hanbury’s lover, a compatriot of yours, is believed to have committed the crime.”
“It was proved,” he declared quickly. “The knife with which the victim was struck was his, and upon the floor was found a gold pencil-case, with his name engraved upon it; besides, he was seen there by the valet. The police have searched for him everywhere, but he has disappeared.”
“I now appear in his stead to disprove the terrible charge against him—to bring the assassin to justice.”
“If you can,” he said, assuming an air of haughty insolence. “Believe me, m’sieur, I shall have but little difficulty.”
“And the proof! Of what, pray, does it consist?”
“It is something, the existence of which you little dream.”
“Oh!” he cried. “This is infamous!”
“You seek an explanation, therefore I will conceal nothing. When you are before a criminal court, which will be at a date not far distant, M’sieur de Largentière, you will have to explain why the murdered man called on you at Long’s Hotel in Bond Street, in the afternoon of the day of the murder.”