CHAPTER XXXVI. A FAINT CLUE.

It was a day or two later before Lawrence saw Prout again. In the meantime he had not been idle. In some vague way or another he felt sure he was on the track of the Corner House mystery. A dozen theories were formed and abandoned. If Prout had only possessed Lawrence's imagination!

"But is there anything in the letters?" the latter asked after Prout had given him a precis of their contents. "Something we can go by?"

"I'm afraid not, sir," Prout admitted. "The only thing I have established so far is that my prisoner is the brother of the murdered man. Oddly enough, he has no idea that the writer of those letters is dead. And as he declines to disclose his own name, we cannot discover the identity of his murdered brother."

Lawrence read over the letters carefully, there was less here than he expected. They were all full of vague schemes of making money by various shady ways, and all bewailed the fact that the writer could not obtain the necessary capital to start. Really the letters were hardly worth reading.

But patience is generally rewarded. Here was a hiatus after a series of regular dates. The writer had been drinking heavily, somebody had got hold of him, and was detaining him somewhere against his will. He was not allowed to say where he was. His last letter of the series hinted at a possibility of large sums of money.

"I'm afraid it's no good, sir," said Prout when Lawrence had finished.

"I don't quite agree with you," Lawrence said. "The man was detained again his will. Where was he detained? In the Corner House? Because his gaoler was afraid of his discretion. Now go a step further and ask who detained him yonder. You can answer that question for yourself."

"Countess Lalage," Prout muttered. "But why?"

"Ah, that is the point. Get to that, and the problem is solved. Now listen to me, Prout. The rascal who wrote those letters and the rascal who received them were brothers. They were fond of each other, which you will admit is possible. I see that for some reason of your own you have concealed the fact from the prisoner that his brother is no more. If you tell him the truth he will probably make some startling admission."

Prout nodded admiringly. Lawrence took a photograph from his pocket.

"Tell him the news abruptly," he said. "And when the man has digested that, show him the photograph. It is a recent one of Countess Lalage. I want to know if he recognises her."

Prout departed on his errand. It was easy enough for him to obtain a private interview with the prisoner, who received him with polite mockery. His instinct told him that Prout wished to learn something.

"You are welcome;" he said; "it is so dull here that even the conversation of a mere detective is pleasing."

"The detective was sharp enough to get you here," Prout said.

"Ah, well, even the great Napoleon made a mistake or two."

"Which you are likely to do yourself," said Prout, "if you try to be too smart. I want you to answer me a few questions, which don't affect your case at all. Give me the desired information, and I'll make matters as easy as I can for you on your trial. I can't get you off, but I can lighten the case."

The other man nodded. Prout was talking sense now.

"Go on, mon brave," he said. "I will do what I can for you--and myself."

"It's about those letters I found in your possession," Prout said, "the letters to you from your brother. I know they are from your brother, because I have seen him, and also his handwriting. You need not be afraid of him, because he is far beyond being injured by any one in the world."

"Say," the other whispered fiercely. "Poor Leon--is he dead?"

Prout nodded. It was some little time before the other spoke. His next question startled the detective.

"Was he murdered?" came the hoarse whisper.

"He was. You didn't know he was dead, yet you guessed how he died. He was the victim of what you call the Corner House----"

"Ah, I remember now. I was too busy to read, but I heard people speaking about it. My poor brother, my poor Leon."

"Leon--?"

"Leon Lalage."

"Your brother's name was Leon Lalage?" Prout asked.

"That is so, and my name is René. To think we were once happy boys together on my mother's flower farm in Corsica!"

René Lalage bowed his head and wept after the manner of his nation. He had offered Prout a far more valuable clue than he had expected. All sorts of possibilities were opening out before the eyes of the detective.

"I am interested in getting at the truth about your brother's death," he said. "That is why I am here today. Before you knew how he came by his death you asked me if your brother had been murdered. Why?"

"Because there was one who hated him. I cannot and will not say any more than that. He stood in the way of somebody. So long as he kept away it was all right. But Leon was not one of that sort. He was as brave as a lion. Had he not been so fond of the drink he might have done anything. But there was something in the blood of both of us that took us into evil ways. Thank God our mother is dead, the flower farm gone, and the secret of the wonderful perfume that made the name of Lalage famous for two centuries is buried in my mother's grave."

"One more question and I have done," said Prout. "Your brother had some one to fear. Now was that some one a man or a woman?"

"A woman. I can't say more than that."

Prout was fairly satisfied. He produced a photo that Lawrence had given him.

"Is that the woman by any chance?" he asked.

René Lalage thought not. All the same, he seemed puzzled. But he could not be definite, and Prout was fain to be content.

"This seems to be a great lady," the prisoner said. "She conveys nothing to me except as to her eyes. No, it is not possible. And she would not be in English costume. Some years ago she was in England playing at one of the theatres or music halls. There was a fine picture of her in one of the papers--Lalage, the dancer."

Prout felt that he was getting on.

"Can you tell me the name of the paper?" he asked.

René Lalage confessed himself puzzled. Compatriots had shown him the paper, but he had forgotten. There was a headpiece to the paper with a woman on it blowing a trumpet. It seemed to be all actors and the like.

"It has gone from my mind," he said. "It is so long ago. Even then my brother and this woman had drifted apart. I am not happy in my mind today, for your news has disturbed me more than I can tell. Even a rascal like myself can be possessed of a heart, eh?"

"If I come again can you refresh your memory?"

"It is possible. It is not for me to say. Only poor Leon must be avenged!"

The speaker clutched Prout passionately by the arm. His whole frame was quivering with passion.

"The vengeance comes closer," said Prout; "it is closer than you imagine. And I fancy that your evidence will hang the murderer."