Edward Clare saw all this, not without a sharp pang of envy. He recognised, in the capacity to endure such an existence, the power to climb the rugged hill of fame.
“This is the kind of fellow to succeed in life,” he thought. “But one can’t expect this dodged endurance in a man of poetic temperament.”
“Do you wish to consult me professionally?” asked Gerard.
“No. What I have to say relates to a very serious matter, but it is neither a professional question for you, nor a personal affair of mine. You knew the Chicots.”
It was Gerard’s turn to be interested. He looked at the speaker with sudden intensity, which brightened every feature in his face.
“Yes. What of them? Did you know them? I never saw you here when she was ill. You knew them in Paris, perhaps?”
“No; I never saw Madame Chicot off the stage. But I am deeply interested in the discovery of her murderer: not for my own sake, but for the protection of someone I esteem. Have you seen John Chicot since the murder?”
“No. If I had—”
George Gerard stopped suddenly, and left his sentence unfinished.
“If you had you would have given him up to the police, as his wife’s murderer. Is that what you were going to say?”
“Something very near it. I have strong reason to believe that he killed her; and yet there is ground for doubt. If he were the murderer why should he alarm the house? He might have gone quietly away, and the crime would not have been discovered for hours afterwards.”
“An excess of caution, no doubt. Murderers often overact their parts. Yet, if you look at the thing you will see he was obliged to give the alarm. Had he not done so, had he gone away and left his wife lying dead, it would have been obvious that he, and he alone, was her assassin. By rousing the household he put on at least the semblance of innocence, however his flight might belie it afterwards.”
“It is a profound mystery,” said Gerard.
“A mystery only to those who refuse to accept the natural solution of the enigma. Here was a man with a drunken wife. It is an acknowledged fact, I believe, that Madame Chicot was a drunkard?”
“Yes, poor soul. He might have let her kill herself with the brandy bottle. He would not have had long to wait.”
“A man so fettered may get desperate. Suppose that I could prove to you that this Chicot had the strongest possible temptation to rid himself of his wife by any means, fair or foul. Suppose I could tell you that his inheritance of a large estate was contingent upon his marriage with another woman, that he had already, in order to secure that estate, contracted a bigamous marriage with that other woman—she innocent as an angel, poor girl, throughout the plot. Suppose I could prove all this, what would you say of Jack Chicot then?”
“Most assuredly I would say that he did the deed. Only show me that he had a motive strong enough to urge him to crime—I know of my own experience that he was tired of his wife—and I will accept the evidence that points to him as the murderer.”
“Do you think that evidence strong enough to convict him?”
“On that point I am doubtful. His flight is damning evidence against him; and then there is the fact that at the bottom of his colour-box there lay a dagger which corresponded in form to the gash upon that poor creature’s throat. I found that dagger, and it is now in the possession of the police. It bears the dark tarnished stain that blood leaves upon steel, and I have no doubt in my own mind that it was with that dagger La Chicot was killed. But these two points comprise the whole evidence against the husband. They are strong enough to afford a presumption against his innocence; but I doubt if they are strong enough to hang him.”
“Let it be so. I don’t want to hang him. But I do want to rescue the woman I once fondly loved—for whom I still care more than for any other woman on earth—from a marriage that may end in her misery and untimely death. What must be the fate of such a man as this Chicot, if he is, as you believe, and as I believe, guilty? Either remorse will drive him mad, or he will go on from crime to crime, sinking lower in the scale of humanity. Let me but strip the mask from his face, separate him forever from his innocent wife, and I am content. To do this I want your aid. Jack Chicot has disappeared from the ken of all who knew him. The man who bore that name is now a gentleman of landed estate, respected and respectable. Will you be disinterested enough to waste a couple of days, and travel over three hundred miles, in order to help me to identify the late adventurer in the present lord of the manor. Your journey shall not cost you sixpence.”
“If I go at all, I shall go at my own expense,” answered Gerard curtly; “but you must first show me an adequate reason for doing what you ask.”
“To do that I must tell you a long story,” answered
