“If your whiskey’s good, don’t trouble to mix it,” said Desrolles; “I’d rather taste it neat.”
He settled himself comfortably in the chair beside the hearth, the poet’s own particular rocking chair, in which he was wont to cradle his fine fancies, and sometimes hush his genius to placid slumber.
“A tidy little crib,” said Desrolles, looking curiously round the room, with all its masculine luxuries, and feminine frivolities. “I wonder you should speak so disparagingly of a village in which you’ve such snug quarters.”
“The grub is snug in his cocoon,” retorted Edward, “but that isn’t life.”
“No. Life is to be a butterfly, at the mercy of every wind that blows. I think on the whole the grub has the best of it.’
“Help yourself,” said Edward, pushing the whisky bottle across the table to his visitor.
Desrolles filled a glass and emptied it at a draught. “New and raw,” he said, disapprovingly. “Well, Mr. ⸻. By the way you did not favour me with your card when last we met.”
“My name is Clare.”
“Well, Mr. Clare; here I am. I have gone out, of my own way to put myself at your disposal. What is this wondrous communication you have to make to me?”
“First, let us discuss your own position.”
“I beg your pardon,” exclaimed Desrolles, rising and taking up his hat. “I did not come here to talk about that. If you’ve set a trap for me you’ll find you’ve got the wrong customer. I belong to the ferret tribe.”
“My dear fellow, don’t be in such a hurry,” said Edward, putting up his white womanish hand in languid entreaty; “as a prelude to what I have got to say I am obliged to speak of your own position with reference to Laura Treverton, and her husband, John Treverton, otherwise Jack Chicot.”
“What do you mean?”
“Simply what I say. John Treverton, squire of Hazlehurst, and Jack Chicot—Bohemian, adventurer, artist in black and white, unsuccessful painter in oils, what you will—are one and the same. It may suit Mr. Treverton to forget that he was ever Jack Chicot; but the story of his past life is not blotted out because he is ashamed of it. You know, and I know, that the present lord of Hazlehurst manor is Mrs. Evitt’s old lodger.”
“You must be crazy to suggest such a thing,” said Desrolles, looking at the other with an air of half stupefied inquiry, as a man in whom he did verily perceive indications of insanity. “The two men have not one attribute in common.”
“If the man I saw talking to you in Long Acre was Chicot, the caricaturist, then Chicot and Treverton are one.”
“My dear fellow, your eyes played you false. Possibly there may be a kind of likeness, as far as height, figure, complexion, go.”
“I saw the man’s face at the magazine office, and I’ll swear it was Treverton’s face.”
Desrolles shrugged his shoulders, as much as to say, “Here is a poor half-cracked fellow labouring under a harmless delusion. I must indulge him.”
“Well, my dear sir,” he said presently, stretching his well-worn boots before the hearth, and luxuriating in the warmth of the blazing wood, “if this is all you have to say, you might as well have let me get away by the mail.”
“You deny the identity of John Treverton and Chicot, the caricaturist.”
“Most emphatically. I have the honour to know both men, and am in a position to state that they are totally distinct individuals—bearing a kind of resemblance to each other in certain broad characteristics—height, figure, complexion—a resemblance that might mislead a man seeing one of the two for a few moments, as you saw Chicot—”
“How do you know how often I saw Chicot?”
“I draw my inference from your own conduct. If you had seen him often—if you had seen him more than once—you could not possibly mistake him for Mr. Treverton, or Mr. Treverton for him.”
Edward Clare shrugged his shoulders, and sat looking frowningly at the fire for some moments. Whatever this man Desrolles knew, or whatever he thought, it was evident that there was very little to be got out of him.
“You are very positive,” Edward said presently, “so I suppose you are right. After all I can have no desire to identify the husband of a woman I highly esteem with such a fellow as this Chicot. I want only to protect her interests. Married to a scoundrel, what might not be her fate? Perhaps as terrible as that of the dancer.”
Desrolles answered nothing. He was lying back in the rocking chair, resting, his eyes half closed.
“Have you seen Chicot since his wife was murdered?” asked Edward, after a pause.
“No one has seen him. It is my belief that he made straight for one of the bridges, and drowned himself.”
“In that case his body would have been found, and his death made known to the police.”
“You would not say that if you were a Londoner. How many nameless corpses do you think are fished out of the Thames every week—how many unrecognised corpses lie in the east-end deadhouses waiting for someone to claim them, and are never claimed or identified, and go to the paupers’ burial-ground without a name. The police did not know Chicot. They had only his description to guide them in their search for him. I am very clear in my mind that the poor devil put himself out of their way in the most effectual manner.”
“You think he murdered his wife.”
Desrolles shrugged his shoulders dubiously.
“I think nothing,” he answered. “Why should I think the very worst of a man who was my friend? But I know he bolted. The inference is against his innocence.”
“If he is alive it shall be my business to find him,” said Edward savagely, “The crime was brutal—unprovoked—inexcusable—and if it is in my power to
