He sat behind his broad desk, blinking slowly. With him were Sir John Landervorne and Saulomon, the train guard, each bright-featured under a reading-lamp in the gloom of the great room.
“It is curious,” Villon said slowly to Sir John, “that you should be coming to France to see M. Bencolin, monsieur. He has been away some time. Surely you would know of that?”
Sir John was little grayer, a little more irascible; the rust had got into his voice and the rime on his features. He seemed to be made of wire and iron, gaunt in the leather chair, and the sharp cheekbones threw odd shadows up over his eyes.
“See here,” he said, “I have had the honor to be associated with the French police many times, my dear sir. I was with Bencolin when he dug the truth out of that Fragneau stabbing in England, and the Darworth business, too. I have yet to be a suspect myself. . . . It’s rather a shame Bencolin isn’t here now. Would you accept him as a character witness?”
Villon muttered, “Bah! Bungler!” under his breath, and shifted, and played with a penholder. But he continued smoothly, “Monsieur, this is not a question of character witnesses. You must realize that both you and M. Saulomon here tell an extraordinary story. You say that you were at opposite ends of this corridor, and that neither of you saw a person there who was plainly seen by six people in the various compartments.” He spread out his hands.
Saulomon, who was tall, smooth-shaven, and rather threadbare, ill-at-ease in Villon’s ponderous presence, made a protesting gesture.
“M. le Comte,” he remarked, “‘is justified in ⟨calling⟩ it extraordinary. But it is true. I swear it is true! I do not lie, I. For ten years I have served—”
“Oh, let him talk! It’s true enough,” Sir John
