“I am sorry to disturb you,” he said, “but I have something serious to say to you. I have been reading today’s evidence in the Delahay case, and I was so interested in the matter that I went to Scotland Yard and had a chat with Inspector Dallas. It seems to me that Mrs. Delahay has placed herself in a very compromising position.”
“What do you mean by that?” Ravenspur demanded.
“Surely, my dear uncle, the thing is plain enough. Whatever your opinion of Mrs. Delahay may be you cannot get away from the fact that she was deliberately lying when she gave her evidence this morning. She swore that on the night of the murder she wasn’t out of her bedroom after twelve o’clock, and we know now that she was away from the hotel for over two hours. You know it, too, because Dallas told you. You will forgive my plain speaking, sir, but I think you could throw some light on this painful tragedy. Believe me, I should not dare to say so much if—”
“You are presumptuous,” Ravenspur said angrily. “Do you dare to insinuate that a man in my position—”
“I am not insinuating anything,” Walter urged. “But I have a feeling we are in some way connected with this tragedy. I have a strange instinct that there is some close connection between the death of Mr. Delahay and that mysterious murderous attack upon you in your studio. Oh, I know that common sense is all against my theory, but I am going to tell you something which will astonish you. After I saw you to bed the other night I searched the studio for some way whereby an assailant could have entered the room—I mean some secret door known only to yourself—”
“You can disabuse your mind of that idea,” Ravenspur said, with the ghost of a smile. “I give you my word that there is nothing of the sort. But go on with your story.”
“Well, I couldn’t find any means of entrance and exit except by the door, and then it occurred to me that I might possibly light upon a clue. Finally I found this lying on the floor, and I should like you to read it. You may find it interesting.”
With these words Walter took from his pocket the dingy yellow handbill, and laid it open on the table so that Ravenspur might read. The latter glanced at the printed words, and then turned to Walter with a questioning eye.
“What does it all mean?” he asked. “It conveys nothing whatever to me, and, even if it did, I am the last man in the world to patronise entertainments of that kind.”
“You never heard of Valdo before, then?” Walter asked.
“Not I, my dear boy. Who is the fellow?”
“He is a kind of flying man. He is an individual with extraordinarily developed arms and muscles. He can move those arms almost as quickly as a fly does in its flight; with the aid of specially prepared wings he can flutter about a stage like a bird. I daresay there is some secret behind it all, but still the performance is very graceful and attractive, though, as yet, the man tells me his flight is limited to some thirty feet.”
“He tells you!” Ravenspur exclaimed. “Do you mean to say that you have actually paid a visit to this theatre?”
“Certainly I have, sir. You see, I regarded this bill as a kind of clue. I knew that you could not possibly have brought it into the house, nor were any of your friends likely to do so. Therefore I came to the not illogical conclusion the other night that your assailant must have dropped it. The man who got into the studio must have been an extraordinary climber or something exceedingly clever in the way of an acrobat. In fact, just the sort of fellow who would be connected with music halls and circuses and places of that kind. That is why I went down to the Imperial Palace Theatre together with a journalist friend of mine who takes an interest in such matters. The only item of the entertainment worth watching was this man Valdo, and, of course, up to a certain point I did not identify him with the outrage upon yourself.”
“Why should you do so now?” Ravenspur asked. “I told you that I have never seen or heard of the man, nor does he answer to any acquaintance of mine. Why, then, should you go out of your way to suggest that he had even been here?”
“I am coming to that,” Walter said quietly. “I was so interested in the performance that I went round to Valdo’s dressing-room afterwards, and had a long chat with him. Just before I came away a woman looked into the room, and asked the performer if he was ready, or something of that kind. She did not notice me; indeed, she did not even look in my direction. It was only just for a moment that I caught a glimpse of her face. It was only by a great effort that I concealed my feelings. And when I tell you that the woman I am speaking about was Mrs. Delahay—”
“Impossible!” Ravenspur cried in great agitation. “The thing is absolutely incredible. I cannot believe it.”
“Nevertheless, I am stating nothing but the truth,” Walter said. “As sure as I am standing here I
