‘The next thing was I received an astonishing letter,’ and Felix went on to tell the lawyer about the typewritten letter signed ‘Le Gautier,’ his preparations to obtain the cask, his visit to St. Katherine’s Docks, his interviews with the clerk, Broughton, and the manager of the dock office, his ruse to get the I. and C.’s notepaper, the forging of the letter to Harkness, the removal of the cask to St. Malo, his dining at Dr. Martin’s, the midnight interview with Burnley, the disappearance of the cask, its final recovery, its unpacking, and the discovery of its terrible contents. ‘That, Mr. Clifford,’ he ended up, ‘is every single thing I know about the affair, good, bad, or indifferent.’ ‘I congratulate you on the clear way you have made your statement,’ returned the solicitor. ‘Now, excuse me while I think if there is anything further I want to ask you.’ He slowly turned over the rather voluminous notes he had taken. ‘The first point,’ he went on at length, ‘is the question of your intimacy with Madame Boirac. Can you tell me how many times you saw her since her marriage?’ Felix considered. ‘About half a dozen, I should say, or perhaps eight or even nine. Not more than nine certainly.’ ‘Excepting on the night of the dinner, was her husband present on all these occasions?’ ‘Not all. At least twice I called in the afternoon and saw her alone.’ ‘I think I need hardly ask you, but answer me fully all the same. Were there at any time any tender or confidential passages between you and Madame?’ ‘Absolutely none. I state most positively that nothing passed between us which Boirac might not have seen or heard.’ Again Clifford paused in thought. ‘I want you now to tell me, and with the utmost detail, exactly how you spent the time between your leaving Bonchose after dinner on the Sunday night of your return from Paris, and your meeting the cask at St. Katherine’s Docks on the following Monday week.’ ‘I can do so easily. After leaving Bonchose I drove out to St. Malo, as I told you, arriving about 9.30. My housekeeper was on holidays, so I went straight over to Brent village and arranged with a charwoman to come in the mornings and make my breakfast. This woman had acted in a similar capacity before. I myself was taking a week’s holidays, and each day I passed in the same manner. I got up about half-past seven, had breakfast, and went to my studio to paint. The charwoman went home after breakfast, and I got my own lunch. Then I painted again in the afternoon, and in the evening went into town for dinner and usually, but not always, a theatre. I generally got back between eleven and twelve. On Saturday, instead of painting all day, I went into town and arranged about meeting the cask.’ ‘Then at ten o’clock on Wednesday you were painting in your studio?’ ‘That is so, but why that day and hour?’ ‘I will tell you later. Now, can you prove that? Did any one call in the studio, or see you there?’ ‘No one, I’m afraid.’