‘As it happens, I can tell you. One of them I wore on my Paris trip and again on the following Saturday when I went to town to arrange about the cask, as well as on the Monday and following days till I went to hospital. I am wearing it to-day. The other blue suit is an old one, and I have not had it on for months.’ ‘I’ll tell you now why I ask. In the coat pocket of one of your blue suits, evidently, from what you tell me, the old one, was found a letter beginning, “My dearest Léon,” and ending, “Your heartbroken Emmie,” and in it the writer said--but here I have a copy of it, and you may read it.’ The artist looked over the paper as if in a dream. Then he turned to the other. ‘I can assure you, Mr. Clifford,’ he said earnestly, ‘that I am as much in the dark as you about this. It is not my letter. I never saw it before. I never heard of Emmie. The whole thing is an invention. How it got into my pocket I cannot explain, but I tell you positively I am absolutely ignorant of the whole thing.’ Clifford nodded. ‘Very good. Now there is only one other thing I want to ask you. Do you know the round-backed, leather-covered arm-chair which stood before the plush curtain in your study?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Think carefully, and tell me who was the last lady to occupy it.’ ‘That doesn’t require much thought. No lady has ever sat in it since I bought it. Very few ladies have been in St. Malo since I took it, and these without exception were interested in art and were in the studio only.’ ‘Now, don’t be annoyed, Mr. Felix, when I ask you once more, did Madame Boirac ever sit in that chair?’ ‘I give you my solemn word of honour she never did. She was never in the house, and I believe I am right in saying she was never in London.’ The lawyer nodded. ‘Now I have another unpleasant thing to tell you. Caught in the hem of that curtain and hidden by the chair, a pin was found--a diamond safety pin. That pin, Mr. Felix, was attached to the shoulder of Madame Boirac’s dress on the night of the dinner party.’ Felix, unable to speak, sat staring helplessly at the lawyer. His face had gone white, and an expression of horror dawned in his eyes. There was silence in the dull, cheerless cell, whose walls had heard so many tales of misery and suffering. Clifford, watching his client keenly, felt the doubts which had been partly lulled to rest, again rising. Was the man acting? If so, he was doing it extraordinarily well, but. . . . At last Felix moved. ‘My God!’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘It’s a nightmare! I feel helpless. I am in a net, and it is drawing close round me. What does it mean, Mr. Clifford? Who has done this thing? I didn’t know any one hated me, but some one must.’ He made a gesture of despair. ‘I’m done for. What can help me after that? Can you see any hope, Mr. Clifford? Tell me.’ But whatever doubts the lawyer felt he kept to himself.