"He says not, and I believe him; for if he did suspect any particular individual he certainly would gain nothing by concealment of the fact."
"H'm!" said Diana thoughtfully, "so that denial of the saleswoman disposes of the cloak's evidence.
What about the Count's presence in Jersey Street on Christmas Eve?"
"He was not there!"
"But Rhoda, the servant, saw him both in the house and in the back yard!"
"She saw a dark man, with a moustache, but she could not say that he was a foreigner.
She does not know Ferruci, remember.
The man she saw must have been the same as the purchaser of the cloak."
"Where does Ferruci say he was?"
"At Hampstead, visiting a friend."
"Oh!
And what does the friend say?"
"He declares that the Count was with him on Christmas Eve and stayed all night."
"That is very convenient evidence for the Count, Mr. Denzil. Who is this accommodating friend?"
"A doctor called Jorce."
"Can his word be trusted?"
"So far as I can judge from his looks and a short acquaintance, I should say so."
"It was half-past eight when the servant saw the dark man run out of the yard?"
"Yes!"
"And at half-past eight Ferruci was at Hampstead in the house of Dr. Jorce?"
"Not that I know of," said Lucian, remembering that he had asked Jorce the question rather generally than particularly, "but the doctor declared that Ferruci was with him at ten o'clock on that evening, and did not leave him until next morning; so as your father was killed between eleven and twelve, Ferruci must be innocent."
"It would seem so, if this doctor is to be believed," muttered Diana reflectively, "but judging by what you have told me, there is nothing to show that Ferruci was not in Pimlico at eight-thirty, and was not the man whom the servant saw."
"Well, certainly he could get from Pimlico to Hampstead in an hour and a half. However, the main point about all this evidence is, that neither Ferruci nor Lydia Vrain killed your father."
"No! no! that seems clear.
Still! still! they know about it.
Oh, I am sure of it.
It must have been Ferruci who was in Pimlico on that night.
If so, he knows who Wrent is, and why he stayed in Jersey Street."
"Perhaps, although he denies ever hearing the name of Wrent.
But I would not be surprised if the man who could solve the mystery is——"
"Who?—who?"
"Doctor Jorce himself.
I feel sure of it."
CHAPTER XXI TWO MONTHS PASS
Unwilling to give up prosecuting the Vrain case while the slightest hope remained of solving its mystery, Lucian sought out Link, the detective, and detailed all the evidence he had collected since the constituted authorities had abandoned the matter.
Although Mrs. Vrain and Ferruci had exculpated themselves entirely, Denzil thought that Link, with his professional distrust and trained sense of ferreting out secrets, might discern better than himself whether such exculpations were warranted by circumstances.
Link heard all that Denzil had to tell him with outward indifference and inward surprise; for while unwilling, through jealousy of an amateur, to flatter the barrister by a visible compliment, yet he silently admitted that Denzil had made his discoveries and profited by them with much acuteness.
What annoyed him, however, was that the young man had pushed his inquiries to the uttermost limit; and that there was no chance of any glory accruing to himself by prosecuting them further.
Still, on the possibility that something might come of it, he went over the ground already traversed by the amateur detective.
"You should have told me of your intentions when Miss Vrain spoke to you in the first instance," he said to Lucian by way of rebuke. "As it is, you have confused the clues so much that I do not know which one to take."
"It seems to me that I have pursued each clue until fate or circumstance clipped it short," retorted Lucian, nettled by this injustice. "Mrs. Vrain has defended herself successfully, much in the same way as Count Ferruci has done.
Your only chance of getting at the truth lies in discovering Wrent; and unless Rhoda helps you there, I do not see how you can trace the man."
"I am of a different opinion," said Link, lying freely to conceal his doubts of success in the matter. "As you have failed through lack of experience, I shall attempt to unravel this skein."
"You attempted to do so before, and gave it up because of the tangle," said Lucian with quiet irony. "And unless you discover more than I have done, you will dismiss the matter again as impossible.
So far as I can see, the mystery of Vrain's death is more of a mystery than ever, and will never be solved."
"I'll make one last attempt to unriddle it, however," answered Link, with a confidence he was far from feeling, "but, of course—not being one of your impossible detectives of fiction—I may fail."
"You are certain to fail," said Lucian decisively, and with this disheartening prophecy he left Link to his task of—apparently—spinning ropes of sand.
Whether it was that Link was so doubtful of the result as to extend little energy in the search, or whether he really found the task impossible of accomplishment, it is difficult to say, but assuredly he failed as completely as Lucian predicted.
With outward zeal he set to work; interviewed Lydia and the Italian, to make certain that their defence was genuine; examined the Pegall family, who were dreadfully alarmed by their respectability being intruded upon by a common detective, and obtained a fresh denial from Baxter & Co.'s saleswoman that Ferruci was the purchaser of the cloak.
Also he cross-questioned Mrs. Bensusan and her sharp handmaid in the most exhaustive manner, and did his best to trace out the mysterious Wrent who had so much to do with the matter.