The Cold Blooded Vengeance: 10 Mystery & Revenge Thrillers in One Volume. E. Phillips Oppenheim

had nothing to say?”

      “Nothing whatever.”

      “Indirectly, of course,” Francis continued, “the poor girl was the cause of his death. If she had not insisted upon his going out for a taxicab, the man who was loitering about would probably have never got hold of him.”

      The detective glanced up furtively at the speaker. He seemed to reflect for a moment.

      “I gathered,” he said, “in conversation with the commissionaire, that Miss Hyslop was a little impatient that night. It seems, however, that she was anxious to get to a ball which was being given down in Kensington.”

      “There was a ball, was there?” Francis asked.

      “Without a doubt,” the detective replied. “It was given by a Miss Clara Bultiwell. She happens to remember urging Miss Hyslop to come on as early as possible.”

      “So that’s that,” Francis observed.

      “Just so, Mr. Ledsam,” the detective murmured.

      They were walking along the Mall now, eastwards. The detective, who seemed to have been just a saunterer, had accommodated himself to Francis’ destination.

      “Let me see, there was nothing stolen from the young man’s person, was there?” Francis asked presently.

      “Apparently nothing at all, sir.”

      “And I gather that you have made every possible enquiry as to the young man’s relations with his friends?”

      “So far as one can learn, sir, they seem to have been perfectly amicable.”

      “Of course,” Francis remarked presently, “this may have been quite a purposeless affair. The deed may have been committed by a man who was practically a lunatic, without any motive or reason whatever.”

      “Precisely so, sir,” the detective agreed.

      “But, all the same, I don’t think it was.”

      “Neither do I, sir.”

      Francis smiled slightly.

      “Shopland,” he said, “if there is no further external evidence to be collected, I suggest that there is only one person likely to prove of assistance to you.”

      “And that one person, sir?”

      “Miss Daisy Hyslop.”

      “The young lady whom I have already seen?”

      Francis nodded.

      “The young lady whom you have already seen,” he assented. “At the same time, Mr. Shopland, we must remember this. If Miss Hyslop has any knowledge of the facts which are behind Mr. Bidlake’s murder, it is more likely to be to her interest to keep them to herself, than to give them away to the police free gratis and for nothing. Do you follow me?”

      “Precisely, sir.”

      “That being so,” Francis continued, “I am going to make a proposition to you for what it is worth. Where were you going when I met you this morning, Shopland?”

      “To call upon you in Clarges Street, sir.”

      “What for?”

      “I was going to ask you if you would be so kind as to call upon Miss Daisy Hyslop, sir.”

      Francis smiled.

      “Great minds,” he murmured. “I will see the young lady this afternoon, Shopland.”

      The detective raised his hat. They had reached the spot where his companion turned off by the Horse Guards Parade.

      “I may hope to hear from you, then, sir?”

      “Within the course of a day or two, perhaps earlier,” Francis promised.

      Francis continued his walk along the Embankment to his chambers in the Temple. He glanced in the outer office as he passed to his consulting room.

      “Anything fresh, Angrave?” he asked his head-clerk.

      “Nothing whatever, sir,” was the quiet reply.

      He passed on to his own den—a bare room with long windows looking out over the gardens. He glanced at the two or three letters which lay on his desk, none of them of the least interest, and leaning back in his chair commenced to fill his pipe. There was a knock at the door. Fawsitt, a young beginner at the bar, in whom he had taken some interest and who deviled for him, presented himself.

      “Can I have a word with you, Mr. Ledsam?” he asked.

      “By all means,” was the prompt response. “Sit down.”

      Fawsitt seated himself on the other side of the table. He had a long, thin face, dark, narrow eyes, unwholesome complexion, a slightly hooked nose, and teeth discoloured through constant smoking. His fingers, too, bore the tell-tale yellow stains.

      “Mr. Ledsam,” he said, “I think, with your permission, I should like to leave at the end of my next three months.”

      Francis glanced across at him.

      “Sorry to hear that, Fawsitt. Are you going to work for any one else?”

      “I haven’t made arrangements yet, sir,” the young man replied. “I thought of offering myself to Mr. Barnes.”

      “Why do you want to leave me?” Francis asked.

      “There isn’t enough for me to do, sir.”

      Francis lit his pipe.

      “It’s probably just a lull, Fawsitt,” he remarked.

      “I don’t think so, sir.”

      “The devil! You’ve been gossiping with some of these solicitors’ clerks, Fawsitt.”

      “I shouldn’t call it gossiping, sir. I am always interested to hear anything that may concern our—my future. I have reason to believe, sir, that we are being passed over for briefs.”

      “The reason being?”

      “One can’t pick and choose, sir. One shouldn’t, anyway.”

      Francis smiled.

      “You evidently don’t approve of any measure of personal choice as to the work which one takes up.”

      “Certainly I do not, sir, in our profession. The only brief I would refuse would be a losing or an ill-paid one. I don’t conceive it to be our business to prejudge a case.”

      “I see,” Francis murmured. “Go on, Fawsitt.”

      “There’s a rumour about,” the young man continued, “that you are only going to plead where the chances are that your client is innocent.”

      “There’s some truth in that,” Francis admitted.

      “If I could leave a little before the three months, sir, I should be glad,” Fawsitt said. “I look at the matter from an entirely different point of view.”

      “You shall leave when you like, of course, Fawsitt, but tell me what that point of view is?”

      “Just this, sir. The simplest-minded idiot who ever stammered through his address, can get an innocent prisoner off if he knows enough of the facts and the law. To my mind, the real triumph in our profession is to be able to unwind the meshes of damning facts and force a verdict for an indubitably guilty client.”

      “How does the moral side of that appeal to you?” his senior enquired.

      “I didn’t become a barrister to study morals, or even to consider them,” was the somewhat caustic reply. “When once a brief is in my mind, it is a matter of brain, cunning and resource. The guiltier a man, the greater the success if you can get him off.”

      “And turn him loose again upon Society?”