CHAPTER XII. A SPEAKING LIKENESS.

It was some little time before Lord Ravenspur replied. For a moment or two he seemed to be bereft of the gift of speech.

"It sounds almost incredible," he managed to stammer at length. "You are absolutely certain you are not mistaken?"

"No, I am not mistaken. Mrs. Delahay's face is far too striking a one to be taken for that of anybody else. Of course, I am not asking you to give me any information. I am not seeking to pry into your secrets; but this mystery maddens me. The most extraordinary part of the whole affair is this--for three years on and off I have known Mrs. Delahay intimately. I saw a great deal of her in Florence, also in Paris last year. And she has always given me the impression of being absolutely straightforward and single minded. And now, for some reason or another, she has taken it into her head to tell deliberate lies which appear to have no point or meaning. If she had only said that she went to call upon a friend after her husband had gone out, no further question would have been asked. Of course, I had not forgotten the evidence of the man Stevens. I must confess I should like to see him and ask him a few pointed questions. But apart from all that, you must see the necessity of getting Mrs. Delahay to tell the truth. It is just possible that she is shielding somebody. It is just possible that the whole thing is capable of explanation. But of that you are the best judge."

"It is a miserable business altogether," Ravenspur groaned. "I am obliged to you for the straightforward way in which you have told me everything, and I will do my best with Maria Delahay. She refused to see me this morning, but I will go round after dinner and make another attempt to get an interview."

It was somewhat later in the evening that Walter looked up his friend Venables again. As he expected, he found the journalist to be greatly interested in the Delahay case. Walter had debated the matter over in his mind. He could see no harm in telling Venables what he had discovered.

"It is certainly a curious case," the latter remarked. "And professional interests apart, I should like to get to the bottom of this mystery. But I see you have some suggestion to make in connection with it. What is your idea?"

"Well, I have been thinking it out as I came along," Walter explained; "and it seems to me that we might get a good deal out of the witness John Stevens. He is the sort of man who would do anything for money, and a sovereign or two ought to loosen his tongue. I don't want to say anything unkind about Louis Delahay, because he was a great friend of ours; and, so far as I know, his past is a clean and honourable one. But then you never can tell. What is a man like that doing to make an enemy, who is prepared to run the risk of being hanged for killing him? And why does he want to go round to his studio at such an hour in the morning?"

"I thought of all that," Venables said grimly. "Depend upon it, your unfortunate friend had some secret chapters in his life of which the world will probably never know anything. But what has all this got to do with that fellow Stevens?"

"I was just coming to that point. If I had been the coroner I should have asked Stevens a great many more questions this morning. As it was, the authorities seemed content to let him go after he had given evidence to the effect that he had seen Mrs. Delahay with her husband. He told the court that he had been prowling and spying about Fitzjohn Square for some months, and he gave a pretty plain hint to the effect that he could tell a story or two about some of the inhabitants there. Now, for six months or more before Delahay went to Florence to be married, he lived a bachelor life at this house; and all this time Stevens was prowling about the neighbourhood after dark. It is not a very pleasant thing to have to do, but I should like to talk the matter over with Stevens and see if he can give us any information as regards Delahay. If you will telephone to Scotland Yard and get them to give you Stevens' address, we will go round to his rooms and interview him at once."

It was no difficult matter to get the address in question, and presently the two friends reached the shabby house in the dingy street where Stevens lived. An exceedingly dirty child informed the visitors that Mr. Stevens was out at present, but that he always left his whereabouts behind him in case he might be required professionally. At the present moment, the precocious child informed the strangers, Mr. Stevens could be found at the Imperial Palace Theatre in Vauxhall Bridge Road.

"That is a bit of a coincidence," Venables remarked. "However, we can't do better than go down to the theatre."

There was some little trouble in finding Stevens, and the performance was nearly at an end before he was pointed out to Walter by one of the attendants. He appeared to be none too sober, judging by his flushed face and somewhat unsteady gait; though, since the morning, his wardrobe had undergone a decided change for the better. The greasy, seedy frock-coat had vanished. Also the dilapidated silk hat. In fact the man looked quite prosperous.

"I would suggest that we don't speak to him in here," Venables said. "Let us follow him out into the road."

Walter fell in at once with the idea. In the road Stevens paused as if waiting for somebody, and presently from the stage door there appeared the slim, graceful figure of Valdo. For some moments the two men stood in earnest conversation together, and from their attitude it was plainly evident that they were in hot dispute upon some point. The discussion lasted some little time. Then with a shrug of his shoulders, Valdo put his hand in his pocket and passed a coin or two over to his companion. Stevens was understood to say something to the effect that that would suffice for the present. Then he lounged off down the road and paused presently before a public-house which glittered invitingly opposite.

"Catch him before he goes in there," Venables whispered hurriedly. "If the fellow has any more to drink he will be perfectly useless to us for the rest of the evening."

Stevens turned suspiciously as Walter spoke to him.

"I think your name is Stevens," the latter said. "My friend here is a journalist and is greatly interested in the Fitzjohn Square mystery. We have been reading your evidence of this morning, and have come to the conclusion that you may be able to afford us some useful information. If you will answer a few questions we will make it worth your while."

"To the extent of a couple of sovereigns," Venables put in.

"Then I am your man," Stevens exclaimed with alacrity. "Perhaps you wouldn't mind coming round as far as my rooms. I have got a pretty poor memory for things, so I always jot everything down in my diary. I put everything down pretty well, because you never know what information is likely to be useful. I once made fifty pounds out of the simple fact that I saw a footman reading some postcards he was posting. Since then I have neglected no trifles."

"What we want," Walter explained, "is all you can tell us about Mr. Louis Delahay. You know him very well by sight, and you must be acquainted with some of his habits."

Stevens laughed knowingly, and nodded his head.

"I could open your eyes about a few of them in that neighbourhood," he said. "I haven't been loafing about Fitzjohn Square all these months for nothing. If I were a blackmailer, which I am not, I could live on the fat of the land. That is too dangerous a game to play, and I prefer to get along as I am."

The man was evidently in a condition when he was past concealing anything. He chattered away glibly until his rooms were reached. Then with a flourish he opened the door and invited his visitors to enter. He apologised for the fact that he had nothing whereon to entertain the strangers, which apology was duly accepted. It was, perhaps, on the whole, a fortunate thing that Stevens' cellar was empty. He ushered his companions into a grimy room, stuffy from want of air, and reeking with the odour of stale tobacco smoke.

"You will excuse me for a moment," he said politely. "I will go into my bedroom and get my diary. I suppose pretty well all you want to know has happened quite lately."

"It is the last six months with which we are chiefly concerned," Walter explained. "Before that does not matter."

Stevens turned away and closed the door behind him. He was gone some little time, so that his visitors had ample opportunity to take stock of their surroundings. There was nothing in the place of any value except a small circular picture in a handsome frame, depicting a beautiful face, which was evidently the work of some artist of repute. The painting was so glaringly out of place that it immediately attracted Venables' attention.

"How did that get here?" he asked.

"My word, you may well ask that," Walter cried in surprise. "Here is another amazing discovery! You remember my uncle being robbed of some pictures a few years ago, one of which he declared was the best thing he had ever done?"

"You don't mean to say," Venables exclaimed, "that, that----"

"Indeed, I do," Walter said under his breath. "I declare to you that the painting hanging up there is the one which my uncle always considered his masterpiece."