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• 01 - Chapter I - The Beginning of the Mystery

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  CHAPTER I. THE BEGINNING OF THE MYSTERY. The history upon which I am now embarking abounds in incidents so amazing that, as I look back on them, as something approaching to scepticism contends with my vivid recollections and makes me feel almost apologetic in laying them before the reader.

  Some of them indeed are so out of character with the workaday life in which they happened that they will appear almost incredible. But none is more fraught with mystery than the experience that befell me on a certain night in the last year of my studentship and ushered in the rest of the astounding sequence. It was past eleven o'clock when I let myself out of my lodgings at Gospel Oak.

  A dark night, cloudy and warm and rather inclined to rain. But despite the rather unfavorable aspect of the weather, I turned my steps away from the town and, walking briskly up the Highgate Road, presently turned into Millfield Lane. This was my favorite walk, and the pretty winding lane, meandering so pleasantly from Lower Highgate to the Heights of Hampstead, was familiar to me under all its aspects.

  On sweet summer mornings, when the cuckoos called from the depths of Kenwood, when the path was spangled with golden sunlight and saucy squirrels played hide and seek in the shadows under the elms, though the place was within earshot of Westminster and within sight of the Dome of St. Paul's. On winter days, when the heath wards mantle of white and the ringing of gliding steel

  came up from the skaters on the pond below. On August evenings, when I would come suddenly on sequestered lovers, to our mutual embarrassment, and hurry by with ill-feigned unconsciousness, I knew all its phases and loved them all. Even its name was delightful, carrying the mind back to those more rustic days when the wits forgathered at the old flask tavern, and John Constable tramped through this very lane

  with his collar-box slung over his shoulder. It was very dark after I had passed the lamp at the entrance to the lane, very silent and solitary too. Not a soul was stirring at this hour, for the last the lovers had long since gone home, and the place was little frequented even in the daytime.

  The elms brooded over the road, shrouding it in shadows of palpable black, and their leaves whispered secretly in the soft night breeze. But the darkness, the quiet and the solitude were restful after the long hours of study and the glare of the printed page, and I strolled on past the ghostly pond and little thatched cottage now wrapped in silence and darkness, with a certain wistful regret that I must

  soon look my last on them, for I had now passed all my examinations but the final fellowship and must soon be starting my professional career in earnest. Presently, a light rain began to fall. Forseeing that I should have to curtail my walk, I stepped forward more briskly, and, passing between the posts, entered the narrowest and most secluded part of the lane.

  But now the rain suddenly increased, and a squall of wind drove it athwart the path. I drew up in the shelter of one of the tall oak fences by which the lane is here enclosed, and waited for the shower to pass. And as I stood with my back to the fence, pensively filling my pipe, I became for the first time sensible of the utter solitude of the place.

  I looked about me and listened. The lane was darker here than elsewhere, a mere trench between the high fences. I could dimly see the posts at the entrance and a group of large elms overshadowing them. In the other direction, where the lane doubled sharply upon itself, was absolute inky blackness, save where a faint glimmer from the wet ground showed the corner of the fence, and a projecting

  stump or tree root jutting out from the corner, and looking curiously like a human foot with its toes pointed upward. The rain fell steadily with a soft, continuous murmur. The leaves of the elm trees whispered together and answered the falling rain. The scotch pines above my head stirred in the breeze with a sound like the surge of

  the distant sea. The voices of nature hushed and solemn, oblivious of man like the voices of the wilderness, and over all and through all a profound, enveloping silence. I drew up closer to the fence and shivered slightly, for the night was growing chill. It seemed a little lighter now in the narrow, trench-like lane, not that the sky was less

  murky, but because the ground was now flooded with water. The posts stood out less vaguely against the background of wet road, and the odd-looking stump by the corner was almost distinct. And again it struck me as looking curiously like a foot, a booted foot with a toe pointing upwards.

  The chime of a church clock sounded across the heath, a human voice, this, penetrating the desolate silence. Then after an interval the solemn boom of Big Ben came up faintly from the sleeping city. Midnight, and time for me to go home.

  It was of no use to wait for the rain to cease. This was no passing shower but a steady drizzle that might last till morning. I relid my pipe, turned up my collar, and prepared to plunge into the rain. And as I stepped out the queer-looking stump caught my eye once more. It was singularly like a foot, and it was odd too that I'd never noticed it before in

  my many rambles through the lane. A sudden childish curiosity impelled me to see what it really was before I went. In the next moment I was striding sharply up the sudden path. Of course I expected the illusion to vanish as I approached, but it did not. The resemblance increased as I drew nearer, and I hurried forward with something more

  than curiosity. It was a foot. I realized it with a shock while I was some paces away, and as I reached the corner I came upon the body of a man lying in the sharp turn of the path, and a limp, sprawling posture with one leg doubled under told its tale at a glance.

  I laid my finger on his wrist. It was clammy and cold, and not a vestige of a pulse could I detect. I struck a wax match and held it to his face. The eyes were wide open and filmy, staring straight up into the reeking sky. The dilated pupils were insensitive to the glare of the match, the eyeballs insensitive

  to the touch of my finger. Beyond all doubt the man was dead. How had he died? Had he simply fallen dead from some natural cause, or had he been murdered? There was no obvious injury and no sign of blood.

  All that the momentary glimmer of the match showed was that his clothes were shiny with a condition that might easily, in the weak light, mask a considerable amount of bleeding. When the match went out I stood for some moments looking down on the prostrate figure as it lay with the rain beating down on the upturned face, professional interest contending with natural awe of the tragic presence.

  The former prompted me to ascertain without delay the cause of death, and indeed I was about to make a more thorough search for some injury or wound when something whispered to me that it is not well to be alone at midnight in a solitary place with a dead man, perchance a murdered man. Had there been any sign of life my duty would have been clear.

  As it was I must act for the best with a due regard to my own safety, and reaching this conclusion I turned away, with a last glance at the motionless figure, and set forth homeward at a rapid pace. As I turned out of Millfield Lane into Highgate Rise I perceived a policeman on the opposite side of the road standing under a tree where the light from a lamp fell on a shining tarpaulin

  cape. I crossed the road and as he civilly touched his helmet I said, I'm afraid there is something wrong up the lane, constable. I've just seen the body of a man lying on the pathway. The constable woke up very completely.

  Do you mean a dead man, sir? He asked. Yes, he is undoubtedly dead, I replied. Whereabouts did you see the body? inquired the constable.

  In the narrow part of the lane, just by the stables of Mansfield House. That's some distance from here, said the constable. You had better come with me and report at the station. You're sure the man was dead, sir? Yes, I have no doubt about it.

  I am a medical man, I added, with some pride. I'd been a medical man about three months and the sensation was still a novel one. Oh, are you, sir? said the officer, with a glance at my half-fledged countenance. Then I suppose you examined the body sufficiently to make sure that the man was dead, but I did not state or assert in the cause of death.

  No, sir, quite so. We can find that out later. As we talked the constable swung along down the hill without hurry, but at a pace that gave me very ample exercise, and I caught his eye from time to time, travelling over my person with obvious professional interest.

  When we'd nearly reached the bottom of the hill, there appeared suddenly on the wet road ahead a couple of figures in waterproof capes. Ah, said the constable, this is fortunate. Here is the inspector and the sergeant. That will save us the walk to the station.

  He accosted the officers as they approached and briefly related what I had told him. You're sure the man was dead, sir, said the inspector, scrutinising me narrowly. But there, we needn't stay here to discuss that. You run down, sergeant, and get a stretcher and bring it along as quickly as you can. I must trouble you, sir, to come with me and show me where the body is.

  Lend the gentleman your cape, sergeant. You can get another at the station. I accepted the stout cape thankfully, for the rain still fell with steady persistency, and set forth with the inspector to retrace my steps. And as we splashed along through the deep gloom of the lane, the officer plied me with

  judicious questions. How long did you think the man had been dead? he asked. Not long, I should think. The body was still quite limp.

  You didn't see any marks of violence? No, there were no obvious injuries. Which way were you going when you came on the body? Which way were you going now? And of course, I came straight back.

  Did you meet or see anyone in the lane? Not a soul, I answered. He considered my answers for some time, and then came the question that I had been expecting. How came you to be in the lane at this time of night? I was taking a walk, I replied, as I do nearly every night.

  I usually finish my evenings reading about eleven, and then I have some supper and take a walk before going to bed. And I take my walk most commonly in Millfield Lane. Some of your men must remember having met me. This explanation seemed to satisfy him, for he pursued the subject no farther, and we

  trekked on for a while in silence. At length, as we passed through the posts into the narrow part of the lane, the inspector asked, We're nearly there, aren't we? Yes, I replied.

  The body is lying in the bend just ahead. I peered into the darkness and surged at the foot that at first attracted my notice, but was not yet able to distinguish it. Nor to my surprise could I make it out as we approached more nearly, and when we reached the corner, I stopped short in utter amazement.

  The body had vanished. What's the matter? asked the inspector. I thought this was the place you meant. So it is, I answered.

  This is the place where the body was lying, here, across the path, with one foot projecting round the corner. Someone must have carried it away. The inspector looked at me sharply for a moment. Well, it isn't here now, said he, and if it has been taken away, it must have been taken

  along to its hamstered lane. We'd better go and see. Without waiting for a reply, he started off along the lane at a smart double, and I followed. We pursued the windings of the lane until we emerged into the road by the lodge gates, without discovering any traces of the missing corpse or meeting any person, and then we

  turned back and retraced our steps. And as we once more approached the crook in the lane where I'd seen the body, we heard a quick measured tramp. Here comes the sergeant with the stretcher, observed the inspector, and he might have saved himself the trouble.

  Once more the officer glanced at me sharply, and this time with unmistakable suspicion. There's nobody here, Robson, he said, as the sergeant came up, accompanied by two constables carrying a stretcher. It seems to have disappeared. Disappeared, exclaimed the sergeant, bestowing on me a look of extreme disfavour.

  That's a rum-go, sir. How could it have disappeared? Ah, that's the question, said the inspector. And another question is, was it ever here? Are you prepared to make a sworn statement on the subject, sir?

  Certainly I am, I replied. Then, said the inspector, we will take it that there was a body here. Look down that stretcher, there's a gap in the fence farther along, we will get through there and search the meadow. The bearers stood the stretcher up against a tree, and we all proceeded up the lane to

  the place where the observant inspector had noticed the opening in the fence. The gravel, though sodden with the wet, took but the faintest impressions of the feet that trod it, and though the sergeant and the two constables threw the combined light of their lanterns on the ground, we were only able to make out very faintly the occasional traces of our own footsteps.

  We scrutinized the break in the fence and the earth around with the utmost minuteness, but could detect no sign of anyone having passed through. The short turf of the meadow on which I'd seen sheep grazing in the daytime was not calculated to yield traces of anyone passing over it, and no traces of any kind were discoverable. When we had searched the meadow thoroughly and without result, we came back into the

  lane and followed its devious course to the kissing-gate at the Hampstead lane entrance, and still there was no sign of anything unusual. True, there were obscure footprints in the soft gravel by the turnstile, but they told us nothing. We could not even be sure that they had not been made by ourselves on our previous visit.

  In short, the net result of our investigations was that the body had vanished and left no trace. "'It's a very extraordinary affair,' said the inspector, in a tone of deep discontent as we walked back. "'The body of a full-grown man isn't the sort of thing you can put in your pocket and

  stroll off with without being noticed, even at midnight. Are you perfectly sure the man was really dead and not in a faint?' "'I feel no doubt whatever that he was dead,' I replied. "'With all respect to you, sir,' said the sergeant. "'I think you must be mistaken.

  I think the man must have been in a dead faint, and after you came away the rain must have revived him so that he was able to get up and walk away.' "'I don't think so,' said I, though with less conviction, for after all it was not absolutely impossible that I should have been mistaken, since I had discovered no mortal injury, and the sergeant's suggestion was an eminently reasonable one.'

  "'What sized man was he?' the inspector asked. "'That I couldn't say,' I answered. It's not easy to judge the height of a man when he's lying down, and the light was excessively dim. But I should say he was not a tall man, and rather slight in build.

  Could you give us any description of him?' "'He was an elderly man, about sixty, I should think, and he appeared to be a clergyman or a priest, for he wore a Roman collar with a narrow dark stripe up the front. He was clean-shaven, and I think wore a clerical suit of black. A tall hat was lying on the ground close by, and a walking-stick which looked like a malacca,

  but I couldn't see it very well, as he'd fallen on it, and most of it was hidden.' "'And you saw all this by the light of one wax match,' said the inspector. "'You made pretty good use of your eyes, sir.' "'A man isn't much use in my profession if he doesn't,' I replied rather stiffly. "'No, that's true,' the inspector agreed.

  "'Well, I must ask you to give us the full particulars at the station, and we shall see if anything fresh turns up. Sorry to keep you hanging about in the wet, but it can't be helped.' "'Of course it can't,' said I, and we trudged on in silence until we reached the station, which looked quite cheerful and home-like despite the grim blue lamp above the doorway.

  "'Well, doctor,' said the inspector, when he had read over my statement, and I had affixed my signature, "'if anything turns up, you'll hear from us. But I doubt if we shall hear anything more of this. Dead or alive, the man seems to have vanished completely. Perhaps the sergeant's right after all, and your dead man is at this moment comfortably

  tucked up in bed. Good night, doctor, and thank you for all the trouble you've taken.' By the time that I reached my lodgings, I was tired out and miserably cold, so cold that I was feigned to brew myself a jarum of hot grog in my shaving-pot. As a natural result, I fell fast asleep as soon as I got to bed, and slept on until the autumn sunshine poured in through the slats of the Venetian blind.

  End of chapter 1

• 02 - Chapter II - The Finding of the Reliquary

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  CHAPTER II. THE FINDING OF THE RELIQUARY. I awoke on the following morning to a dim consciousness of something unusual, and as my wits returned with a rapidity that is natural to the young and healthy, the surprising event of the previous night reconstituted themselves, and once more set agoing the train of speculation. Vividly I saw with my mind's eye the motionless figure lying limp and inert, with the pitiless

  rain beating down on it, the fixed pupils, the insensitive eyeballs, the pulseless wrist, and the sprawling posture. And again I saw the streaming path, void of its dreadful burden, the suspicious inspector, the incredulous sergeant, and the unanswerable questions formulated themselves anew. Had I, after all, mistaken a living man for a dead body? It was in the highest degree improbable, and yet it was not impossible. Or had the body been spirited

  away without leaving a trace? That also was highly improbable, and yet not absolutely impossible. The two contending improbabilities cancelled one another. Each was as unlikely as the other. I turned the problem over again and again as I shaved and took my bath. I pondered upon it over a late and leisurely breakfast, but no conclusion emerged from these reflections. The man, living or dead, had been lying motionless in the lane all

  the time that I was sheltering, and probably for some time before. In the interval of my absence he had vanished. These were actual facts, despite the open incredulity of the police. How he had come there, what had occasioned his death or insensibility, how he had disappeared, and whither he had gone, were questions to which no answer seemed possible. The fatigues of the previous night had left me somewhat indolent. There was no occasion for me to

  go to the hospital today. It was vacation time, the school was closed, the teaching staff were mostly away, and there was little doing in the wards. I decided to take a holiday and spend a quiet day rambling about the heath. And, having formed this resolution, I filled my pipe, slipped a sketchbook into my pocket, and set forth. Automatically my feet turned towards Millfield Lane. It was, as I've said, my usual walk, and on this morning,

  with last night's recollections fresh in my mind, it was natural that I should take my way to the—very different was the aspect of the lane this morning from that which I'd last looked upon. The gloom and desolation of the night had given place to the golden sunshine of a lovely autumn day. The elms, clothed already in the sober livery of the waning year, sighed with pensive reminiscence of the summer that was gone. The ponds repeated

  the warm blue of the sky, and the lane itself was a vista of flickering sunlight and cool, ever-poseful shadow. The narrow continuation beyond the posts was wrapped, as always, in a sombre shade, save for a gleam of yellow light streamed through a chink between the boards of the fence. I made my way straight to the spot where the body had lain and stooped over it, examining each pebble with the closest scrutiny. But not a trace remained. The hard,

  gravelly soil retained no impression either of the body or even of our footsteps. And as for the stain of blood, if there had ever been any, it would have been immediately removed by the falling rain, for the ground here had a quite appreciable slope, and must have been covered last night by a considerable flowing stream. I went on to the break in the fence. It was on the right-hand side of the path, and was at once discouraged by the aspect

  of the ground, for even our rough tramplings had left hardly a trace behind. After an aimless walk across the meadow, now occupied by a flock of sheep, I returned to the lane and walked slowly back past the place where I had sheltered from the rain. And then it was that I discovered the first hint of any clue to the mystery. I had retraced my steps some little distance past the spot where I had seen the body, when my eye was attracted by

  a darker streak on the upper part of the high fence. It was quite faint, and not at all noticeable on the weather-stained oak, but a chance to catch my eye, and I stopped to examine it. The fence which bore it was the opposite one to that in which the break occurred, and since I had sheltered under it, the side of it which looked towards the lane must have been the lee side, and thus less exposed to the rain. I looked at the stain attentively.

  It extended from the top of the fence, which was about seven feet high, half way to the fading away gradually in all directions. The colour was a dull brown, and the appearance very much that of blood which had run down a wet surface. The board which bore the stain was traversed by a vertical crack near one edge, so that I was able to break off a small piece without much difficulty, and on examining that portion of the detached piece which had

  formed the side of the crack, I found it covered with a brownish-red, shiny substance, which I felt little doubt was dried blood, here protected by the crack, and so less altered by contact with water. Naturally, my next proceeding was to scrutinise very carefully the ground immediately beneath the stain. At the foot of the fence a few tussocks of grass and clumps of undergrown weeds struggled for life in the deep shade. The latter certainly

  had on close examination the appearance of having been trodden on, though it was not very evident. But while I was considering an undoubted bruise on the stalk of a little dead nettle, my eye caught the glint of some bright object among the leaves. I picked it out eagerly and held it up to look at it, and a very curious object it was, evidently an article of jewellery of some kind, but quite unlike anything I'd ever seen before.

  It appeared to be a little elongated gold case with eight sides and terminating at either end in a blunt octagonal pyramid with a tiny ring at its apex, so that it seemed to have been part of a necklace. Of the eight flat sides, six were ornamented with sunk quatrefoils, four on each side. The other two sides were plain, except that each had a row of letters engraved on it, AMDG on one side and SVDP on the other. There was no hole mark, and

  as far as I could see, no means of opening the little case. It seemed to have been suspended by a thin silk cord, a portion of which remained attached to one ring, and showed a frayed end where it had broken or chafed through. I wrapped the little object and the detached fragment of the fence in my handkerchief, for I had broken off the latter with the idea of testing it chemically for blood pigment, and then resumed my investigations. The appearances

  suggested that the body had been lifted over the fence, and the question arose what was on the other side. I listened attentively for a few seconds, and then, hearing no sound of footsteps, I grasped the top of the fence, gave a good spring, and hoisting myself up, sat astride and looked about me. The fence skirted the margin of a small lake much overgrown with weeds, amidst which I could see a couple of water hens making off in alarm at the same

  time as my appearance, and beyond the lake rose the dark mass of kenwood. The ground between the fence and the lake was covered with high reedy grass which, immediately below my perch, bore very distinct impressions of feet, and an equally distinct set of tracks led away towards the wood. Or, from the wood to the fence, it was impossible to say which, but in any case, as there were no other tracks, it was certain that the person who made them

  had climbed over the fence. I dropped down on the grass, and, having examined the ground attentively without discovering anything fresh, set off to follow the tracks. For some distance they continued through high grass in which the impressions were very distinct. Then they entered the wood, and here also, in the soft humus, lightly sprinkled with fallen leaves, the footprints were deep and easy to follow. But presently they struck a path, and, as

  they did not reappear on the farther side, it was evident that the unknown person had proceeded along it. The path was an old one, well made of hard gravel, and where it passed through the deeper shade of the wood was covered with velvety moss and grey-green lichen, on which I made out with some difficulty the imprints of feet. But these were no longer distinct. They did not form a connected track, nor was it possible to distinguish them from

  the footprints of other persons who might have passed along the path. Even these I soon lost, where I had halted irresolute under a noble beech that rose from a fantastic coil of roots, and was considering how, if at all, I should next proceed, when there appeared round the curve of the path a man in cord breeches and gaiters, evidently a keeper. He touched his head civilly and vented to inquire my business. I am afraid I have no

  business here at all, I replied, for I did not think it expedient to tell him what had brought me into the wood. I suppose I am trespassing. Well, sir, it is private property, he rejoined, and being so near London we have to be rather particular. Perhaps you would like me to show you the way out onto the heath. I accepted his offer with many thanks for his courteous method of ejecting a trespasser,

  and we walked together through the beautiful woodland until the path terminated at a rustic turnstile. That will be your way, sir, he said, as he led me out, indicating a track that led down to the Vale of Health. I thanked him once more and then asked, Is that a private house, or does it belong to your estate? I pointed to a small house or a large cottage that stood

  within a fenced enclosure not far from the edge of the wood. That, sir, he replied, was formerly a keeper's lodge, which now led for a short term to an artist gentleman who was making some pictures of the heath, but I expected it will be pulled down before long, as there is some talk of the county council taking over that piece of land to add to the public grounds. Good morning, sir.

  And the keeper, with a parting salute, turned back into the wood. As I took my way homeward by the Highgate ponds, I meditated on the relation of my new discoveries to the mystery of the preceding night. It was a strange affair, and sinister withal. That the tracks led from the lane to the wood and not from the wood to the lane, I felt firmly convinced, and equally so that the body of the unknown priest or clergyman had undoubtedly been spirited

  away, but whither had it been carried? Presumably to some sequestered spot on the wood, and what better hiding place could be found? There, buried in the soft leaf-mould, it might lie undisturbed for centuries, covered only the deeper as each succeeding autumn shed its russet burden on the unknown grave. And what, I wondered, was the connection between this mysterious tragedy and the queer little object that I had picked up? Perhaps there was none.

  Its presence at that particular spot might be nothing but a coincidence. I took it from my handkerchief and examined it afresh. It was a very curious object. As to its use or meaning, I could only form vague surmises. Perhaps it was some kind of locket, enclosing a wisp of hair, the hair perhaps of some dead child or wife or husband, or even lover. It was impossible to say. Of course, this question could be settled by taking it to pieces, but

  I was loathed to injure the pretty little bauble. Besides, it was not mine. In fact, I felt that I ought to notify publicly that I had found it, though the circumstances did not make this very advisable. But if it had any connection with the tragedy, what was the nature of that connection? Had it dropped from the dead man or from the murderer, as I assumed the other man to be, either was equally possible, though the two possibilities had very different values.

  Then the question arose as to what cause I should pursue. Clearly it would be my duty to inform the police of the mark on the fence and the tracks through the grass. But should I hand over the mysterious trinket to them? It seemed the correct thing to do, and yet there might after all be no connection between it and the crime. In the end I left the matter to be decided by the attitude of the police themselves. I called the station on my way home and furnished the inspector with an

  account of my new discoveries, of which he made a careful note, assuring me that the affair should be looked into. But his manner expressed frank disbelief, and was even a trifle hostile, and his emphatic request that I would abstain from mentioning the matter to anyone left me in no doubt that he regarded both my communications as wild delusions, if not as a deliberate hoax. Consequently, though I frequently reproached myself afterwards with the omission, I said nothing about the trinket, and when

  I left the station I carried it in my pocket. No communication on the subject of this mysterious affair ever reached me from the police. That they did actually make some perfunctory investigations I learned later, as will appear in this narrative. But they gave no publicity to the affair, and they sought no further information from me. From my own part I could naturally never forget so strange an experience, but time and the multitudinous interests of my opening life tended to push it farther into

  the background of memory, and there it might have remained forever had not subsequent events drawn it once more from its obscurity. End of chapter 2.

• 03 - Chapter III -

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  CHAPTER III. WHO IS SILVIA? The winter session had commenced at the hospital, but at Hampstead the month of October had set in with something like a return to summer. It is true that the trees had lost something of their leafy opulence, and that here and there, amidst the sober green patches of russet and gold, had made their appearance, as if nature's color orchestra were tuning up for

  the final symphony. But meanwhile the sun shone brightly and with a genial heat. And if, day by day, he fell farther from the zenith, there was nothing to show it but the lengthening noonday shadows, the warmer blue of the sky, and the more rosy tint of the clouds that sailed across it. Other and more capable pens than mine have set forth the charm of autumn and the beauties of Hampstead, queen of suburbs, the world's metropolis. Therefore will I refrain,

  and only note, as relevant to the subject, the fact that on many a day, when the work of the hospital was in full swing, I might have been seen playing truant very agreeably on the inexhaustible heath, or in the lanes and fields adjacent thereto. In truth, I was taking the final stage of my curriculum rather lazily, having worked hard enough in the earlier years, and being still too young by several months to be admitted to the fellowship of the College of Surgeons, promising

  myself that when the weather broke I would settle down in earnest to the winter's work. I have mentioned that Millfield Lane was one of my favorite huts. Indeed, from my lodgings it was the most direct route to the heath, and I passed along it almost daily, and never now without my thoughts turning back to that rainy night when I had found the dead, or unconscious man, lying across the narrow footway. One morning, as I passed the spot, it occurred to me to make a

  drawing of the place in my sketchbook, that I might have some memorial of that strange adventure. The pictorial possibilities of the lane just here were not great, but by taking my stand at the turn, on the very spot where I had seen the body lying, I was able to arrange a simple composition which was satisfactory enough. I am no artist. A neat and intelligible drawing is the utmost that I can produce, but even this modest degree of achievement may be very useful, as I had discovered many a

  time in the wards or laboratories. Indeed, I have often been surprised that the instructors of our youth attach such small value to the power of graphic expression, and it came in usefully now, though in a way that was unforeseen and not fully appreciated at the moment. I had dealt adequately with the fence, the posts, the tree trunks, and other well-defined forms, and was beginning a less successful attack on the foliage when I heard a light, quick step approaching from

  Hampstead Lane. Intuition, if there is such a thing, fitted the footstep with a personality, and for once in a way was right. As the newcomer reached the sharp bend of the path, I saw a girl of about my own age, simply and serviceably dressed and carrying a pochard box and a small campstool. She was not an entire stranger to me. I had met her often in the lane on the heath, so often, in fact, that we developed that profound unconsciousness of one another's existence that

  almost amounts to recognition, and I wondered vaguely who she was and what sort of work she did on the panels in that mysterious box. As I drew back to make way for her, she brushed past, with a single, quick, inquisitive glance at my sketchbook, and went on her way, looking very much alive and full of business. I watched her as she tripped down the lane and passed routine the posts out into the sunlight beyond, to vanish behind the trunks of the elms. Then I returned to my sketch,

  and my struggles to express foliage with a touch somewhat less suggestive of a birch broom. When I had finished my drawing, I sauntered on rather aimlessly, speculating for the hundredth time on the meaning of those discoveries of mine in this very lane. Was it possible that the man whom I had seen was not dead, but merely insensible? I could not believe it. The whole set of circumstances, the aspect of the body, the bloodstain on the fence, the tracks through

  the high grass, and the mysterious gold trinket, were opposed to any such belief. Yet, on the other hand, one would think that a man could not disappear unnoticed. This was no tramp or nameless vagrant. He was a clergyman or a priest. A man who would be known to a great number of persons, and whose disappearance must surely be observed at once, and be the occasion of very stringent inquiries. But no inquiries had apparently been made. I had seen no notice in the papers of any

  missing cleric, and clearly the police had heard nothing, or they would have looked me up. The whole affair was enveloped in the profoundest mystery. Dead or alive, the man had vanished utterly, and whether he was dead or alive, the mystery was equally beyond solution. These reflections brought me almost unconsciously to another of my favorite walks, the pretty footpath from the Heath to Temple Fortune. I had crossed the stile and stepped off the path to survey the

  pleasant scene, when my eye was attracted by a number of streaks of alien color on the leaves of a burdock. Stooping down, I perceived that they were smears of oil paint, and inferred that someone had cleaned a pallet on the herbids. An inference that was confirmed a moment later by what looked like the handle of a brush projecting from a clump of nettles. When I drew it out, it proved to be not a brush, but a very curious knife with a blade shaped like a diminutive and

  attenuated trowel, evidently a painting knife, and also evidently homemade, at least in part, for the tang had been thrust into a short stout brush handle and secured with a whipping of waxed thread. I dropped it into my outside breast pocket and went on my way, wondering if by chance it might have been dropped by my fair acquaintance, and the thought was still in my mind when its object hove in sight. Turning a bend in the path, I came on her quite suddenly, perched on a little

  campstool in the shadow of the hedge, with the open sketching book on her knees, working away with an industry and concentration that seemed to rebuke my own idleness. Indeed, she was so much engrossed with her occupation that she did not notice me until I stepped off the path and approached with the knife in my hand. I wonder, said I, holding it out and raising my cap, if this happens to be your property. I picked

  it up just now among the nettles near the barn. She took the knife from me and looked at it inquisitively. No, she replied, it isn't mine, but I think I know whose it is. I suspect it belongs to an artist who has been doing a good deal of work about the heath. You may have seen him. I've seen several artists working about here during the summer. What was this one like? Well, she answered with a smile, he was like an artist, very much like, quite the orthodox

  get-up, white-brimmed head, rather long hair and a ragged beard, and he wore sketching spectacles, half moon-shaped things, you know, and kid gloves, which were not quite so orthodox. Very inconvenient, I should think. Not so very. I work in gloves myself in the cold weather, or if the midges are very troublesome. You soon get used to the feel of them, and the man I am speaking of wouldn't find them in the way at all, because he works almost entirely with painting

  knives. That is what made me think that this knife was probably his. He had several, I know, and very skillfully used them too. You've seen his work then? Well, she admitted, I'm afraid I descended once or twice to play this snooper. You see, his method of handling interested me. May I ask what a snooper is? I inquired. Don't you know? It's a student's slang name for the kind of person who makes some transparent pretext for coming off the path and passing behind you to get

  a look at your picture by false pretenses. For an instant there flashed into my mind the suspicion that she was administering a quiet backhander, and I rejoined hastily. I hope you are not including me in the genus snooper. She laughed softly. It did sound rather like it, but I'll give you the benefit of the doubt in consideration of your finding the knife, which you'd better keep in trust for the owner. Won't you keep it? You know the probable owner by sight, and I don't,

  and meanwhile you might experiment with it yourself. Very well, she replied, dropping it into her brush tray. I'll keep it for the present at any rate. There was a brief pause, and then I ventured to remark. That looks a very promising sketch of yours, and how well the subject comes. I'm glad you like it, she replied quite simply, viewing her work with her head on one side. I want it to turn out well, because it's a commission, and commissions for small oil

  paintings are rare and precious. Do you find small oil pictures very difficult to dispose of? I asked. Not difficult. Impossible as a rule. But I don't try now. I copy my oil sketches in watercolor, with modifications to suit the market. Again there was a pause, and as her brush wandered toward the pallet, it occurred to me that I had stayed as long as good manners permitted.

  Accordingly, I raised my cap, and having expressed the hope that I had not greatly hindered her, prepared to move away. Oh, not at all, she answered. And thank you for the knife, though it isn't mine. Or, at any rate, wasn't. Good morning. With this, and a pleasant smile and a little nod, she dismissed me, and once more I went my idle and meditative way. It had been quite a pleasant little adventure.

  There is always something rather interesting in making the acquaintance of a person whom one has known some time by sight, but who is otherwise an unknown quantity. The voice, the manner, and the little revelations of character which confirm or contradict previous impressions are watched with interest as they develop themselves and fill in, one by one, the blank spaces of the total personality. I had, as I have said, often met this industrious maiden

  in my walks, and had formed the opinion that she looked a rather nice girl, an opinion that was probably influenced by her unusual good looks and graceful carriage, and a rather nice girl she had turned out to be. Very dignified and self-possessed, but quite simple and frank, though, to be sure, her gracious reception of me had probably been due to my sketchbook. She had taken me for a kindred spirit. She had a pleasant voice and a faultless accent, with just a hint of the fine lady in her

  manner, but I liked her nonetheless for that. And her name was a pretty name too, if I had guessed it correctly, for on the inside of the lid of her box, which was partly uncovered by the upright panel, I had read the letters S.Y.L. The panel hid the rest, but the name could hardly be other than Sylvia. And what more charming and appropriate name could be bestowed upon a comely young lady who spent her days amidst the woods and fields of my beloved Hampstead? Regaling myself with this

  somewhat small beer, I sauntered on along the grassy lane between hedgerows that in the summer had been spangled with wild roses and that were now gay with the big oval berries, sleek and glossy and scarlet, like overgrown beads of red coral. Away across the fields to Golders Green and thence by Millfield Lane, back to my lodgings at Gospel Oak and to my landlady Mrs. Blunt, who had a few plaintive words to say respecting the disastrous effects of unpunctuality and the resulting

  prolonged heat on mutton cutlets and fried potatoes. It had been an idle morning and apparently void of significant events, but yet when I look back on it I see a definite thread of causation running through its simple happenings and I realize that, all unthinking, I had strung on one more bead to the chaplet of my destiny. End of chapter three.

• 04 - Chapter IV - Septimus Maddock, Deceased

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  CHAPTER IV. SEPTOMAS MEDIC. DECEASED. It was getting well on into November when I strolled one afternoon into the hospital museum, not with any specific object, but rather vaguely in search of something to do. During the last few days I had developed a slight revival of industry, which had coincided oddly enough with a marked deterioration of the weather. And pathology being my weakest

  point, the museum had seemed to call me, though not very loudly I fear, to browse amongst its multitudinous jars and dry preparations. There was only one person in the great room, but he was a very important person, being none other than our lecturer on medical jurisprudence, Dr. John Thorndyke. He was seated at a small table whereon was set out a collection of jars and a number of large photographs, of which he appeared to be making a catalogue.

  But intent as he was on his occupation, he looked up as I entered, and greeted me with a genial smile. "'What do you think of my little collection, Jardine?' he asked, as I approached deferentially. Before replying, I ran a vaguely inquiring eye over the group of objects on the table, and was mighty little enlightened thereby. It was certainly a queer collection. There

  was a flat jar which contained a series of five differently coloured mice, another with a similar series of three rats, a human foot, a hand manifestly deformed, a series of four fowls' heads, and a number of photographs of plants. "'It looks,' I replied at length, "'like what the auctioneers would call a miscellaneous lot.' "'Yes,' Dr. Thorndyke agreed. "'It is a miscellaneous collection, in a sense.

  But there is a connecting idea. It illustrates certain phenomena of inheritance which were discovered and described by Mendel.' "'Mendel?' I exclaimed. "'Who is he? I never heard of him.' "'I dare say not,' said Thorndyke, though he published his results before you were born. But the importance of his discoveries is only now beginning to be appreciated.'

  "'I suppose,' said I, "'the subject is too large and complex for a short explanation to be possible.' "'The subject is a large one, of course,' he replied. "'But put in a nutshell, Mendel's great discovery amounts to this, that whereas certain characters are inherited only partially and fade off gradually in successive generations, certain other characters are inherited completely and pass unchanged from generation to generation.

  To take a couple of illustrative cases, if a negro marries a European, the offspring are mulattos, forms intermediate between the negro and the European. If a mulatto marries a European, the offspring are quadrunes, another intermediate forms, and the next generation gives us the octaroon, intermediate again between the quadrune and the European. And so from generation to generation the negro character gradually fades away and finally disappears. But there are other

  characters which are inherited entirely or not at all, and such characters appear in pairs which are positive or negative to one another. Sex is a case in point. A male marries a female, and the offspring are either male or female, never intermediate. The sex character of only one parent is inherited, and it is inherited completely. The characters of maleness or femaleness pass down unchanged through the ages with no tendency to diminish or to shade off into

  one another. That is a case of Mendelian inheritance. I ran my eyes over the collection, and they presently lighted on the rather abnormal-looking foot hanging, white and shriveled in the clear spirit. I lifted the jar from the table, and then, noticing for the first time that the foot had a supernumerary toe, I inquired what point the sossum illustrated. That six-toed foot, Thorndyke replied, is an example of a deformity that is transmitted unchanged for an indefinite number of generations.

  This Brachydactylus hand is another instance. The Brachydactyli reappears in the offspring either completely or not at all. There are no intermediate conditions. He picked up the jar, and having wiped the glass with a duster, exhibited the hand which was suspended within, and the strange-looking hand it was, broad and stumpy, like the hand of a mole. There seem to be only two joints to each finger, I said.

  Yes, the fingers are all thumbs, and the thumb is only a demi-thumb. A joint is suppressed in each digit. It must make the hand very clumsy and useless, I remarked. So one would think. It isn't exactly the type of hand for a list or a Paganini. And yet we mustn't assume too much. I once saw an armless man copying pictures in Luxembourg, and copying them very well, too. He held his brush with his toes, and he was so handy with his feet that he not only painted

  really dexterously, but managed to take his hat off to a lady with quite a fine flourish. So you see, Jardine, it is not the hand that matters, but rather the brain that actuates it. A very indifferent hand will serve if the motor centers are of the right sort. He replaced the jar on the table, and then, after a short pause, turning quickly to me, he asked, What are you doing at present, Jardine?

  Principally idling, sir, I replied. And not a bad thing to do either, he rejoined with a smile. If you do it thoroughly and don't keep it up too long, how would you like to take charge of a practice for a week or so? I don't know that I should particularly care to, sir, I answered.

  Why not? It would be a useful experience, and would bring you useful knowledge. Knowledge that you have got to acquire sooner or later. Hospital conditions, you know, are not normal conditions. General practice is normal medical practice, and the sooner you get to know the conditions of the great world, the better for you. If you stick to the wards too long, you'll get to be

  like the nurses, who seem to think that all the world's a hospital and man and women are only patients. I reflected for a few moments. It was perfectly true. I was a qualified medical man, and yet of the ordinary routine of private practice, I had not the faintest knowledge. To me, all sick people were either inpatients or outpatients. Had you any particular practice in your mind, sir, I asked.

  Yes, I met one of our old students just now. He is at his wit's end to find a locum tenant. He has to go away tonight or tomorrow morning, but he can't get anyone to look after his work. Won't you go to his relief? It's an easy practice, I believe. I turned the question over in my mind, and finally decided to try the venture. That's right, said Dr. Thorndyke. You'll help a professional brother at any rate,

  and pick up a little experience. Our friend's name is Batson, and he lives in Jacob Street, Hampstead Road. I'll write it down. He handed me a slip of paper with the address on it, and wished me success. I started at once from the hospital, already quite elated, as is the way of the youthful, at the prospect of a new experience. Dr. Batson's establishment in Jacob Street was modest to the verge of dinginess. But Jacob Street itself was dingy,

  and so is the immediate neighborhood, a district of tall, grimy houses that might easily have seen better days. However, Dr. Batson himself was spruce enough, and an excellent spirit at my arrival, as was evident when he bounced into the room with a jovial greeting, bringing in with him a faint aroma of sherry. Delighted to see you, doctor! he exclaimed, in his large, brisk voice. That doctor was a diplomatic hit on his part. They don't call

  newly qualified man doctor at the hospital. I met Thorndyke this morning, and told him of my predicament. A busy man is the great unraveler, but never too busy to do a kindness to his friends. Can you take over tonight? I could, said I. Then do. I want particularly to be off by the 8.30 from Liverpool Street. Drop in and have some brub about 6.30. I shall have polished off the day's work by then, and you'll just come in for the evening consultations. Are there any cases that you'll

  want me to see with you? I asked. Oh, no, Batson replied. Rather airily, I thought. They're all plain sailing. There's a typhoid, he's doing well, fourth week, and there's a tonsillitis, an apsoas abscess. That's rather tedious, but still, it's improving. And an old woman with a liver. You won't have any difficulty with them. There's only one queer case, a heart. Velvular? I asked. No, not velvular. I can't tell you that much. I know what it isn't,

  but I'm hanged if I know what it is. Chappy complains of pain, shortens of breath, faintness and so on, but I can't find anything to account for it. Heart sounds all right, pulse quite good, no dropsy, no nothing. Seems like malingering, but I don't see why he should malinger. I think I'll get you to drop in this evening and have a look at him. Are you keeping him in bed? I asked. Yes, said Batson. I am, now. Not that his general condition

  seems to demand it, but he's had one or two fainting attacks, and yesterday he must have needs full down flop in his bedroom when there was nobody there, and by way of making things more comfortable he drops his medicine bottle and falls on the fragments. He might have killed himself, you know. Batson added in an aggrieved tone. As it was, a long splinter from the bottom of the bottle stuck into his back and made quite a deep little wound. So I have kept him in bed

  since, out of harm's way, and there he is, dused sorry for himself. But as far as I can make out, without a single tangible symptom. No facial signs, nothing unusual in his colour or expression. Batson laughed and tapped his gold-rimmed spectacles. Ah, there you are. When you've got minus 5D and some irregular astigmatism and a pair of glasses that don't correct it, all human beings look pretty much alike. Try for sketchy, don't you know?

  I didn't see anything unusual in his face, but you might. Time will show. Now you could along and fetch your traps, and I'll skip round and polish off the sufferers. He launched me into the outer gradiness of Jacob Street and bounced off in the direction of Cumberland Market, leaving me to pursue my way to my lodgings at Gospel Oak. As I threaded the teeming streets of Kenan town, I meditated on the new experience that was opening to me, and with youthful egotism

  I already saw myself making a brilliant diagnosis of an obscure heart case. Also, I reflected with some surprise on the calm view that Batson took of his defective eyesight. A certain type of painter, as I'd observed, finds in semi-blindness a valuable gift which helps him to eliminate trivial detail and to impart a noble breath of effect to his pictures. But to a doctor, no such self-delusion would seem possible. Visual acuteness is the most precious item in his

  equipment. I crammed into a large Gladstone bag the bare necessaries for a week's stay, together with a few indispensable instruments, and then mounted the jingling horse tram of those pre-electric days which, in due course, deposited me at the end of Jacob Street, Hampstead Road. Dr. Batson had not returned from his round when I arrived, but a few minutes later he burst into the surgery, humming an air from the micado. Ha! Here you are then, punctual to the minute.

  He hung his head on a peg, laid his visiting list on the desk of the dispensing counter, and began to compound medicine with the speed of a presser-digitator, talking volubly all the time. That's for the old woman with the liver, Mrs. Much, Cumberland Market. You'll see her prescription in the day book. Suppose you don't know how to wrap up a bottle of medicine. Better watch me. This is the way. He slapped the bottle down on a square of cut paper, gave a few dexterous

  twiddles of his fingers, and held out for my inspection a little white parcel like the mummy case of a deceased medicine bottle. It's quite easy when you've had a little practice, he said, deftly sticking the ends down with sealing wax, but you'll make a frightful mucker of it at first. Which prophecy was duly fulfilled that very evening. What time had I better see that heart case, said I.

  Oh, you won't have to see it at all. Man's dead. Message left half an hour ago. Pity, isn't it? I should have liked to hear what you thought of him. Must have been fatty heart. I'll write out the certificate while I think of it. Maggie, where's that note that Mrs. Samway left? The question was roared out vaguely through the open door to a servant of unknown whereabouts, and resulted in the appearance of a somewhat scraggly housemaid bearing an open note.

  Here we are, said Batson, snatching the note out of its envelope and opening the book of certificate forms. Septimus Maddock was the chappie's name, age 51, address 23 Gatun Street. Cause of death? That's just what I should like to know. Primary cause, secondary causes. I wish these infernal government clerks had got something better to do than fill printed forms with silly conundrums. I shall put morbous courtes. That ought to be enough for them. Mrs. Samway,

  that is landlady, you know, will probably call for the certificate during the evening. Aren't you going to inspect the body? I asked. Lord, no, why should I? It isn't necessary, you know. I'm not an undertaker. Wish I was. Dead people a good deal more profitable than alive ones. But surely, I exclaimed, the death ought to be verified. Why, the man may not be dead at all.

  I know, said Batson, scribbling away like a minor poet. But that isn't my business. Business of the law. Law wastes your time with a heap of silly questions that don't matter and leaves out the question that does. Asks exact time when I last saw him alive, which doesn't matter a hang, and doesn't ask whether I saw him dead. Bumble was right. Law's an ass. But still, I persisted, leaving the legal requirements out of consideration, ordered you, for your own sake and as a public

  duty, to verify the death. Supposing the man were not really dead? That would be awkward for him, said Batson, and awkward for me, too, if he came to life before they buried him. But it doesn't really happen in real life. Premature burial only occurs in novels. His easygoing confidence jarred on me considerably. How could he or anyone else know what happened? I don't see how you arrive at that, I objected. It could only be proved by wholesale disinterment.

  And the fact remains that, if you don't verify a reported death, you have no security against premature burial, or even cremation. Batson started up and stared at me, his wide-open, pale blue eyes looking ridiculously small through his deep, concave spectacles. By Jove! he exclaimed. I'm glad you mentioned that. About cremation, I mean. Because that is what will probably happen. I witnessed the Chappie's Will a couple of days ago, and I remember now that

  one of the clauses stipulated that his body should be cremated. So I shall have to verify the death for the purpose of the cremation certificate. We'd better pop round and see him at once. With characteristic impulsiveness, he sprang to his feet, snatched his head from its peg, and started forth, leaving me to follow. Beastly nuisances, these special regulations, said Batson, as he ambled briskly up the street, gave a lot of trouble and caused a lot of delay.

  Isn't the ordinary death certificate sufficient in the case of cremation? I asked. For purpose of law it is, though there is some talk of new legislation on the subject. But the company are a law unto themselves. They have made the most infernally stringent regulations, and as there is no crematorium near London, excepting the one at Woking, you have to abide by their rules. And that reminds me. Here Batson halted and scowled at me ferociously through his spectacles.

  Reminds you, I repeated, that they require a second death certificate, signed by a man with certain special qualifications. He stood awhile frowning and muttering under his breath, and then suddenly turned and bounced off in a new direction. Going to catch the other chappie and take him with us, he explained as he darted out into the Hempstead Road. Be of my mind, then. A fellow named O'Connor, assistant physician to the North London Hospital. He'll do if you can catch him at

  home. If not, you'll have to manage him. Batson looked at his watch, holding it within four inches of his nose, and broke into a trot as we entered a quiet square. Halfway up he halted at a door which bore a modest brass plate inscribed Doctor O'Connor, and seizing the bell knob, worked it vigorously in and out as if it were the handle of an air pump. Doctor in? He demanded briskly of a startled housemaid, and without waiting for an answer,

  he darted into the hall, down the whole length of which he staggered, executing a sort of sword dance, having caught his toe on an unobserved doormat. The doctor was in, and he shortly appeared in evening dress with an overcoat on his arm, and apparently in as great a hurry as Batson himself. Won't it do to-morrow? he asked, when Batson had explained his difficulties and the service required. Might as well come now, said Batson persuasively. Won't take a minute,

  and then I can go away in peace. Very well, said O'Connor, wriggling into his overcoat. You go along, and I'll follow in a few minutes. I've got to look in on a patient on my way up west, and shall be late for my appointment as it is. Write the address on my card here. He held out a card to my principal, and when the letter had scribbled the address on it, he bustled out and vanished up the square. Batson followed at the same headlong speed,

  and again overlooking the mat, came out on the pavement like an ill-started sprinter. Gaten Street, at which we shortly arrived, was a grey and dingy side street exactly like a score of others in the same locality, and number twenty-three differed from the rest of the seedy-looking houses in no respect, save that it was perhaps a shade more dingy. The door was opened in answer to Batson's indecorously brisk knock by a woman.

  Perhaps I should say a lady, who had once admitted us, and to whom Batson began, without preface, to explain the situation. I got your note, Mrs. Samway. I was going to bring my friend here round to see the patient. Very unfortunate affair. Very sad. Unexpected too. Didn't seem particularly bad yesterday. What time did it happen?

  I can't say exactly, was the reply. He seemed quite comfortable when I looked in on him the last thing at night, but when I went in about seven this morning he was dead. I should have let you know sooner, but I was expecting you to call. Yes, said Batson. Very unfortunate. By the way, Mr. Maddock desired that his remains should be cremated, I think. Yes, so my husband tells me. He is the

  executor of the will, you remember, in the absence of any relatives. All Mr. Maddock's relations seem to be in America. Have you got the certificate forms? asked Batson. Yes. My husband got all the papers from the undertaker this afternoon. Very well, Mrs. Samway. Then we'll just take a look at the body. Have to certify that I've seen it, you know? Mrs. Samway ushered us into a sitting room where

  she had apparently been working alone, for an unfinished mourning garment of some kind lay on the table. Leaving us here, she went away and presently returned with a sheave of papers and a lighted candle when we rose and followed her to her back room on the ground floor. It was a smallish room, sparely furnished, with heavy curtains drawn across the window, and by one wall a bed on which was a motionless figure covered by a sheet.

  Our conductress stood the candlestick on a table by the bed and stepped back to make way for Batson, who drew back the sheet and looked down on the body in his peering, near-sighted fashion. The deceased seemed to be a rather frail-looking man of about fifty, but beyond the fact that he was clean-shaven I could form very little idea of his appearance, since, in addition to the usual bandage under the chin to close the mouth, a tape had been carried round the head to secure

  a couple of pads of cotton wool over the eyes to keep the eyelids closed. As Batson applied his stethoscope to this chest of the dead man, I glanced at our hostess not without interest. Mrs. Samway was an unusual-looking woman, and I thought her decidedly handsome, though not attractive to me personally. She seemed to be about thirty, rather over the medium height and of fine, jewnesque proportions, with a small head very gracefully set on the

  shoulders. Her jet-black hair, formerly parted in the middle, was brought down either side of the forehead in wavy but very smooth masses and gathered behind in a neat, precisely plaited coil. The general effect reminded me of the so-called clitia, having the same reposefulness, though not the gentleness and softness of that lovely head, but the most remarkable feature of this woman was the colour of her eyes, which were of the palest grey or hazel that I've ever seen,

  so pale in fact that they told as spots of light, like the eyes of some lemurs or those of a cat seen in the dusk, a peculiarity that imparted a curiously intense and penetrating quality to her glance. I just noted these particulars when Batson, having finished his examination, held out the stethoscope to me. May as well listen, as you're here," said he, and turning to their hostess, he added,

  let us see those papers, Mrs Samway. As he stepped over to the table, I took his place on a chair by the bedside and proceeded to make an examination. It was of course only a matter of form, for the man was obviously dead, but having insisted so strongly on the necessity of verifying the death, I had to make a show of becoming scepticism. Accordingly I tested both by touch and with the stethoscope the region of the

  heart. Needless to say, no heart sounds were to be distinguished, nor any signs of pulsation. Indeed, the very first touch of my hand on the chilly surface of the chest was enough to banish any doubt. No living body could be so entirely destitute of animal heat. I laid down the stethoscope and looked reflectively at the dead man, lying so still and rigid, with his bandaged jaws and blindfolded eyes, and speculated vaguely on his personality when alive, and on the hidden

  disease that had so suddenly cut him off from the land of the living, and insensibly, by habit I suppose, my fingers strayed to his clammy, pulseless wrist. The sleeve of his night-shirt was excessively long, almost covering the fingers, and I had to turn it back to reach the spot where the pulse would normally be felt. In doing this I moved the dead hand slightly and then became aware of a well-marked rigor mortis, or death stiffening, in the arm of the corpse, a condition which I

  ought to have observed sooner. At this moment, happening to look up, I caught the eye of Mrs. Samway fixed on me with a very remarkable expression. She was leaning over Batson as he filled up the voluminous certificate, but had evidently been watching me, and the expression of her pale cat-like eyes left no doubt in my mind that she strongly resented my proceedings. In some confusion, and accusing myself of some failure in outward decorum,

  I hastily drew down the dead man's sleeve and arose from the bedside. You noticed, I suppose, said I, that there is fairly well-marked rigor mortis. I didn't, said Batson, but if you did it'll do as well. Better mention it to O'Connor when he comes. He ought to be here now. Who's O'Connor? asked Mrs. Samway.

  Oh, he's the doctor who's going to sign the confirmatory certificate. Again a gleam of unmistakable anger flashed from her hostess' eyes as she demanded, Then who is this gentleman? This is Dr. Humphrey Jardine, said Batson. Apologize for not introducing him before. Dr. Jardine is taking my practice while I'm away. I'm off tonight for about a week.

  Mrs. Samway withered me with a baleful glance of her singular eyes and remarked stiffly, I don't quite see why you brought him here. She turned her back on me and I decided that Mrs. Samway was somewhat of a tartar, though to be sure my presence was a distinct intrusion. I was about to beat a retreat when Batson's apologies were interrupted by a noisy red

  tat at the street door. Ah, here's O'Connor, said Batson, and as Mrs. Samway went out to open the door he added, Seem to have put our foot in it, though I don't see why she need have been so peppery about it, and O'Connor needn't have banged at the door like that with death in the house. He'll get into trouble if he doesn't look out.

  Our colleague's manner was certainly not ingratiating. He burst into the room with his watch in his hand, protesting that he was three minutes late already, and he added, If there's one thing that I did test, it's being late at dinner. Got the forms? Yes, replied Batson. Here they are. That's my certificate on the front page. Yours is overleaf.

  Dr. O'Connor glanced rapidly down the long table of questions, muttering discontently. Made careful external examination? Hmm. Have you made a post-mortem? Of course I haven't. What an infernal rigamarole. If cremation ever becomes general, there'll be no time for anything but funerals. Who nursed the deceased?

  I did, said Mrs. Samway. My husband relieved me occasionally, but nearly all the nursing was done by me. My name is Letitia Samway. Was the deceased a relation of yours? No, only a friend. He lived with us for a time in Paris, and came to England with us. What was his occupation?

  He was nominally a dealer in works of art. Actually, he was a man of independent means. Have you any pecuniary interest in his death? He has left us about seventy pounds. My husband is the executor of the will. I see. I better have a few words with you outside, Batson, before I make my examination.

  It's all a confounded farce, but we must go through the proper forms, I suppose. Yes, by all means, said Batson. Don't leave any loophole for queries or objections. He rose and accompanied O'Connor out into the hall, whence the sound of hurried muttering came faintly through the drawer. As soon as we were alone, I endeavored to make my peace with Mrs. Samway by offering apologies for

  my intrusion into the house of mourning. For the time being, I concluded, I am Dr. Batson's assistant, and as he seemed to wish me to come with him, I came without considering that my presence might be objected to, I hope you'll forgive me. My humility appeared entirely to appease her. In a moment, her stiff and forbidding manner melted into one that was quite gracious, and she rewarded me with a smile that made her face really charming.

  Of course, she said, it was silly of me to be so cantankerous and rude, too. But it did look a little callous, you know, when I saw you playing with his poor dead hand. So you must make allowances. She smiled again, very prettily, and at this moment my two colleagues re-entered the room. Now then, said O'Connor, let us see the body, and then we shall have finished.

  He strode over to the bed, and turning back the sheet, made a rapid inspection of the corpse. Ridiculous farce, he muttered. Looks all right. Would, in any case, though, parcel of wrapped tape. What's the good of looking at the outside of a body? Postmortems the only thing that's any use. What's this piece of tape plaster on the back?

  Oh, said Batson. That is a little cut that he made by falling on a broken bottle. I stuck the plaster on because you can't get a bandage to hold satisfactorily on the back. Besides, he didn't want a bandage constricting his chest. No, of course not, O'Connor agreed. Well, it's all regular and straightforward.

  Give me the form, and I'll fill it up and sign it. He seated himself at the table, looked once more at his watch, groaned aloud, and began to write furiously. The Egyptians weren't such bad judges after all, he remarked as he laid down the pen and rose from his chair. Embarming may have been troublesome, but when it was done, it was done for good.

  The deceased was always accessible for reference in case of a dispute, and all this red tape was saved. Good night, Mr. Samway. He buttoned up his coat and bustled off, and a minute or so later we followed. By Jove, exclaimed Batson. This business has upset my arrangements finally. I shall have to buck up if I'm going to catch my train. There's all the medicine to be made up and sent out yet,

  to say nothing of dinner. But dinner will have to wait until the business is all settled up. Don't you hurry, Jardine. I'll just run on and get to work. He broke into an elephantine trot and soon disappeared round a corner, and when I arrived at the surgery, I found him posting up the day book with the speed of a parliamentary reporter. Batson's dexterity with medicine bottles and wrapping paper

  filled me with admiration and despair. I made a futile effort to assist, but in the end, he snatched away the crumpled paper in which I was struggling to enswath a bottle, dropped it into the waste paper basket, snatched up a clean sheet, and slap bang at the twinkling of an eye, he had transformed the bottle into a neat little white parcel as a conjurer changes a cocked hat into a guinea pig. It was wonderful. My host was a cheerful soul, but restless. He got up from

  the table no less than six times to pack some article that he'd just thought of, and after dinner, when I accompanied him to his bedroom, I saw him empty his trunk no less than three times to make sure that he'd forgotten nothing. He quite worried me. Your overquick man is apt to wear out other people's nerves more than his own. I began to look anxiously at the clock and felt a real relief when the maid came to announce that the cab was at the door.

  Well, goodbye, doctor. He sang out cheerily, shaking my hand through the open window of the cab. Don't forget to keep the stock bottles filled up. Saves a world of trouble. And don't take too long on your rounds. Ta-da! The cab rattled away, and I went back into the house, a full-blown general practitioner. End of chapter four.

• 05 - Chapter V - The Lethal Chamber

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  CHAPTER V. THE LETHAL CHAMBER A young and newly qualified doctor, emerging for the first time into private practice, is apt to be somewhat surprised and disconcerted by the new conditions. Accustomed to the exclusively professional and scientific atmosphere of the hospital, the sudden appearance of the personal element as the predominant factor rather takes him

  aback. He finds himself in a new and unexpected position. No longer a mere impersonal official, a portion of a great machine, he is the paid servant of his patients, who are not always above letting him feel the conditions of his service. A hospital patient, drilled into a certain respectful submissiveness by the discipline

  of the wards, has given place to an employer, usually critical, sometimes dresselent, and occasionally addicted to a disagreeable frankness of a speech. The locum tenens, moreover, is peculiarly susceptible to these conditions, especially if, as in my case, his appearance is youthful. Patients resent the substitution of a stranger for the familiar medical attendant, and are

  at no great pains to disguise the fact. The old woman with the liver, to adopt Batson's pollucid phrase, hinted that I was rather young, adding encouragingly that I should get the better of that in time, while the more morose typhoid bluntly informed me that he hadn't bargained for being attended by a medical student.

  Taken as a whole, I found private practice disappointing, and soon began to wish myself back in the wards and to sigh for my quiet, solitary rambles on hamster teeth. Still, there were rifts in the cloud. Some of the patients appreciated the interest that I took in their cases, evidently contrasting it with a rather casual attitude of my principle, and some were positively friendly.

  But in general, my reception was such as to make me slightly apprehensive whenever a new patient appeared. On the fourth evening after Batson's departure, Mrs. Semway was announced, and I prepared myself with a customary snub. But I was mistaken.

  I think it would be more gracious than her manner towards me, though the object of her visit occasioned me some embarrassment. "'I have called Dr. Jardine,' she said, "'to ask you if you could let me have the account for poor Mr. Maddock. My husband is the executor, you know, and as we shall be going back to Paris quite shortly,

  he wants to get everything settled up.' I was in rather a quandary. Of the financial side of practice I was absolutely ignorant, had I thought it best to say so. "'But,' I added, "'Dr. Batson will be back on Friday evening, if you can wait so long.' "'Oh, that will do quite well,' she replied.

  "'But don't forget to tell him that we want the account at once.' I promised not to forget, and then remarked that she would no doubt be glad to be back in Paris. "'No,' she answered, "'I shall be rather sorry. Of course Camden Town is not a very attractive neighborhood, but it is close to the heart

  of London, and then there are some delightful places near and quite accessible. There is Highgate, for instance.' "'Yes, but it's getting very much built over, isn't it?' "'Unfortunately it is, but yet there are some very pleasant places left. The old village is still charming, so quaint an old world.

  And then there's Hampstead. What could be more delightful than the Heath?' "'But perhaps you don't know Hampstead?' "'Oh, yes, I do,' said I. "'My rooms are at Gospel Oak, quite near the Heath, and I think I know every nook and corner

  of the neighborhood. I am pining for a stroll on the Heath at this very moment.' "'I dare say you are,' she said sympathetically. "'This is a depressing neighborhood if you can't get away from it. We found it very dismal at first, after Paris.'

  "'Do you live in Paris?' I asked. "'Not permanently,' she replied. "'But we spent a good deal of time there. My husband is a dealer in works of art, so he has to travel about a good deal.

  That is how we came to know Mr. Maddock.' "'He was a dealer too, wasn't he?' I inquired. "'Yes, in a way. But he had means of his own, and his dealing was a mere excuse for collecting things that

  he was not going to keep. He had a passion for buying, and then he used to sell the things in order to buy more. But I am afraid I am detaining you with my chatter.' "'No, not at all,' I said eagerly, only too glad to have an intelligent, educated person to talk to.

  You are the last caller, and I hope I have finished my day's work.' Accordingly, she stayed quite a long time, chatting on a variety of subjects, and finally on that of cremation. "'I dare say,' she said, "'it is more sanitary and wholesome than burial, but there is something rather dreadful about it.

  Perhaps it is because we are not accustomed to the idea.' "'Did she go to the funeral?' I asked. "'Yes. Mr. Maddock had no friends in England but my husband and me, so we both went.

  It was very solemn and awesome. The coffin was laid on the catafalque while the short service was read, and then two metal doors opened and it was passed through out of our sight. We waited some time, and presently they brought us a little terracotta urn with just a handful or two of white ash in it.

  That was all that was left of our poor friend Septimus Maddock. Don't you think it is rather dreadful?' "'Death is always rather dreadful,' I answered. But when we look at the ashes of a dead person we realize the total destruction of the body, whereas the grave keeps its secrets.

  If we could look down through the earth and see the changes that are taking place we should probably find the slow decay more shocking than the swift consumption by fire. Fortunately we cannot, but we know that the final result is the same in both.' Mrs. Samway shuddered slightly and drew her raps more closely about her. "'Yes,' she said with a faint sigh.

  The same end awaits us all, but it is better not to think about it.' We were both silent for a while. I sat with my gaze bent rather absently on the case book before me, turning over her last somewhat gloomy utterance, until, chancing to look up, I found her pale penetrating eyes fixed on me with the same strange intentness that I had noticed when she had looked at

  me as I sat by the body of Maddock. As she met my glance she looked down quickly but without confusion, and with a return to her habitual reposefulness. Half unconsciously I returned her scrutiny. She was a remarkable looking woman, a beautiful woman too, but of a type that is, in our time

  and country, rare, an ancient or barbaric type in which womanly beauty and grace are joined to manifest physical strength. I felt that some unusual racial mixture spoke in her inconsistent colouring. Her clear pink skin, her pale eyes and the jet black hair that rippled down either side of her low forehead in little crimpy waves, as regular and formal as the archaic curls

  of early Greek sculpture. But predominant over all other qualities was that of strength. Full and plump, soft and almost ultra-feminine, lissome and flexible in every pose and movement, yet, to me, the chief impression that her appearance suggested was strength. Sheer muscular strength.

  Not the rigid, bull-dog strength of a strong man, but the soft and supple strength of a leopard. I looked at her as she sat almost limply in her chair, with her head on one side, her hands resting in her lap and a beautiful soft, womanly droop of the shoulders. And I felt that she could have started up in an instant, active, strong, formidable,

  like a roused panther. I was going on, I think, to make comparisons between her and that other woman who was one to trip so daintily down Millfield Lane when she raised her eyes slowly to mine and suddenly she blushed scarlet. Am I a very remarkable-looking person, Dr. Jardine?

  she asked quietly, as if answering my thoughts. The rebuke was well merited. For an instant a paltry compliment flirted on my lips, but I swallowed it down. She wasn't that kind of woman. I'm afraid I've been staring you out of countenance, Mrs. Samway, I said apologetically.

  Hardly that, she replied with a smile. But you certainly were looking at me very attentively. Well, I said, recovering myself, after all, a cat may look at a king, you know. She laughed softly, a very pretty musical laugh, a rose, still blushing warmly. And she retorted, by the same reasoning, you think a king may look at a cat.

  Farewell, Dr. Jardine. Good night. She held out her hand, a beautifully shaped hand, though rather large. As I've said, she was not a small woman, and as it clasped mine, though the pressure was quite gentle, it conveyed, like her appearance, an impression of abundant physical strength.

  I accompanied her to the door and watched her as she walked up the dingy street with an easy erect undulating gait, even as might have walked those women who are portrayed for the wonder of all time on the ivory-toned marble of the Parthenon frieze. I followed with my eyes the dignified graceful figure until it vanished round the corner, and then went back to the consulting room, dimly wondering why a woman of such manifest

  beauty and charm should offer little attraction to me. Batson's practice, among its other drawbacks, suffered from a deadly lack of professional interest. Whether this was its normal condition, or whether his patients had got wind of me and called in other and more experienced practitioners, I know not.

  But certainly, after the stirring work of the hospital, the cases that I had to deal with seemed very small beer. Hence the prospect of a genuine surgical case came as a grateful surprise, and I hailed it with enthusiasm. It was on the day before Batson's expected return that I received the summons, which

  was delivered to me in a dirty envelope as I sat by the bedside of the last patient on my list. Is the messenger waiting? I asked, tearing open the envelope. No, doctor, he had just handed in the note and went off.

  He seemed to be in a hurry. I ran my eye over the message, scrawled in a rather illiterate hand on a sheet of common note paper, and read, Sir, will you please come at once to the mineral waterworks in Norton Street? One of our men has injured himself rather badly.

  Yours truly, J. Parker. P.S. He is bleeding a good deal, so please come quick. The postscript gave a very necessary piece of information, an injury which bled would require certain dressings and surgical appliances over and above those contained in my pocket

  case, and to obtain these I should have to take Batson's house on the way. Sipping the note into my pocket, I wished my patient a hasty adieu and strode off at a swinging pace in the direction of Jacob Street. The housemaid, Maggie, helped me to find the dressings and pack the bag, for she was a handy intelligent girl, though no beauty, and meanwhile I questioned her as to the whereabouts

  of Norton Street in the mineral water factory. Oh, I know the place well enough, sir, said she, though I didn't know the works were open. Norton Street is only a few minutes' walk from here. It's quite close to Gatun Street.

  In fact, these works are just at the back of the Samways house. You go up to the corner by the market and take the second on the right and then... Look here, Maggie, I interrupted. You'd better come and show me the way, as you know the place. There's no time to waste on fumbling for the right turning.

  Very well, sir, she replied, and the bag being now packed with all necessary instruments and dressings, we set forth together. Is this a large factory? I asked, as she trotted by my side, to the astonished admiration of Jacob Street and the neighborhood in general.

  No, sir, she replied, it's quite a small place. The last people went bankrupt and the works were empty and to let for a long time. I thought they were still to let, but I suppose somebody has taken them and started the business afresh. It's round here.

  She parted at me round the corner into a narrow by-street, near the end of which she holded at the gate of a yard or muse. Above the entrance was a weather-beaten board bearing the inscription, International Mineral Water Company, and a half-defaced printed bill offering the premises to let, and at the side was a large bell-pool.

  A vigorous tuck at the letter set a bell jangling within, and as Maggie tripped away up the street, a small wicket in the gate opened, disclosing the dimly seen figure of a man standing in the inner darkness. Are you the doctor? he inquired.

  I answered, yes, and being thereupon bidden to enter, stepped through the opening of the wicket, which the man immediately closed, shutting out the last gleam of light from the street lamp outside. It's rather dark, said the unseen custodian, taking me by the arm. It is indeed, I replied, groping with my feet over the rough cobbles.

  Hent you better get a light of some kind? I will in a minute, was the reply. You see, all the other men have gone home. We close at six sharp. This is the way.

  I'll strike a match. The man is down in the bottling-room. My conductor struck a match by the light of which he guided me through a doorway, along a passage or corridor, and down a flight of stone steps. At the bottom of the steps was a flagged passage, out of which opened what looked like

  a range of cellars. Along the passage I walked warily, followed by the stranger, and lighted very imperfectly by the matches that he struck, the glimmer of which threw a gigantic and ghostly shadow of myself on the stone floor, but fell utterly to pierce the darkness ahead. I was exactly opposite the yawning doorway of one of the cellars when the match went

  out, and the man behind me exclaimed, Wait a moment, doctor, don't move until I strike another light. I halted abruptly, and the next moment I received a violent thrust that sent me staggering through the open doorway into the cellar. Instantly the massive door slammed, and a pair of heavy bolts were shot in succession

  on the outside. What the devil is the meaning of this? I roared, battering and kicking furiously at the door. Of course there was no answer, and I quickly stopped my demonstrations, for it dawned on me in a moment that the factory was untenanted, saved by the ruffian who had admitted me,

  that I had been decoyed here of a set purpose, though what that purpose was I could not imagine. But it was not long before I received a pretty broad hint as to the immediate intentions of my host. A gentle thumping at the door of my cellar attracted my attention, and caused me to lay my ear against the wood.

  The sound that I heard was quite unmistakable. The crevices of the door were being filled, apparently with pieces of rag which my friend was ramming home, presumably with a chisel. In fact the door was being corked to make the joints air-tight. The object of this proceeding was clear enough.

  I was shut up in an air-tight cavity in which I was to be slowly suffocated. That was quite obvious. Why I was to be suffocated I could form no sort of guess, excepting that I had fallen into the hands of a homicidal lunatic. But I was not greatly alarmed.

  The air in a good-sized cellar will last a considerable time, and I could easily poke out anything that my friend might stuff into the keyhole. Then when the man arrived in the morning I could kick on the cellar door, and they would come and let me out. There was nothing to be particularly frightened about.

  Were there any men? The injured man was evidently a myth. Supposing the other men were a myth too. I recalled Maggie's remark that she had thought the place was still at still. Perhaps it was.

  That would be rather more serious. At this point my agitations were broken in upon by sounds from the adjoining cellar, the sound of someone moving about and dragging some heavy body. And it struck me at once as strange that I should hear these sounds so distinctly, seeing the massive door of my own cellar was sealed and the walls were of solid brick, as I ascertained

  by rapping at them with my knuckles. But I had no time to consider this circumstance, for there suddenly rose a new sound, whereat, I must confess, my heart fairly came into my mouth, a loud penetrating hiss like the shriek of escaping steam. It seemed to come from some part of the cellar in which I was immured, from a spot nearly

  overhead, and was immediately echoed by a similar sound in the adjoining cellar, and then by a third. Even as the last sound broke forth, the door of the adjoining cellar slammed, the bolts were shot, and then faintly mingled with a discordant hissing. I could hear the dull thumping that told me that the cracks of that door, too, were being

  caulked. It was a frightful situation. The hissing sound was obviously caused by the escape of gas under high pressure, and that gas must be entering my cellar through some opening. I fell from my matchbox, and groping along the wall towards the point whence the loudest

  sound, and indeed all the sounds, proceeded, I struck a match. The glimmer of the wax vest made everything clear. Close to the ceiling, about seven feet from the ground, was an opening in the wall about six inches square, and pouring through this in a continuous stream was a cloud of white particles that glistened like snowflakes.

  As I stood under the opening, some of them settled on my face, and the more than icy coldness of the contact told the whole horrible tale in a moment. This white powder was snow. Carbonic acid snow. The hissing sound came from three of those great iron bottles charged under pressure

  with liquefied carbonic acid which are used by mineral water manufacturers for aerating the water. The miscreant, or lunatic, who had imprisoned me, had turned on the taps, and the liquid was escaping and turning into the snow, with the cold produced by its own rapid evaporation and expansion.

  Of course, the snow would quickly absorb heat, and, without again liquefying, evaporate into the gaseous form. In a very short time both cellars would be full of the poisonous gas, and I, well, in a word, I was shut up in a lethal chamber. It has taken me some time to write this explanation, which, however, flashed through my brain in

  the twinkling of an eye as the light of the match fell on that sinister cloud of snowflakes. In a moment I had my coat off, and was stuffing it for dear life into the opening. It was but a poor protection against the gas, which would easily enough find its way through the interstices of the fabric, but it would stop the direct stream of snow and give me time to think.

  On what incalculable chances do the great issues of our lives depend? If I had been a short man I must have been dead in half an hour, for the opening through which the cloud of snow was pouring was well over seven feet above the floor, and would have been quite out of my reach. Even as it was, with my six feet of stature and corresponding length of arm, it was impossible

  into the opening with the necessary force, for I had to stand close to the wall with my arm upraised at a great mechanical disadvantage. Still, as I have said, imperfect as the obstruction was, it served to stop the inrushing cloud of snow. It would take some time for the heavy gas in the adjoining cellar to rise to the level

  of the opening, and meanwhile I could be devising other measures. I lit another match and looked about me. The cellar was much smaller than I had thought, and was absolutely empty. The floor was of concrete, the walls of rough brickwork and the ceiling of plaster all cracked and falling in.

  There was plenty of ventilation there, but that was of no interest to me. Carbonic acid is so heavy that it behaves almost like a liquid, and it would have filled the cellar and suffocated me even if the top of my prison had been opened to the sky. The adjoining cellar was already filling rapidly, and when the gas in it reached the level of the opening it would percolate through my coat and come pouring down into my cellar.

  But that, as I've said, would take some time, if the dividing wall was moderately sound. This important qualification, as soon as it occurred to me, set me exploring the wall with the aid of another match, and very unsatisfactory was the result. It was a bad wall, built of inferior brick and worse mortar, and was marked by innumerable

  holes where wall hooks and other fastenings had been driven in between the bricks. My brief survey convinced me that, so far from being gas-tight, the wall was as pervious as a sponge, and that whatever I meant to do to preserve my life I must set about without delay. But what was I to do?

  That was the urgent, the vital question. Escape was evidently impossible. There were no means of stopping up the numberless holes in weak places in the wall. The only vulnerable spot was the door. If I could establish some communication with the outer air, I could, for a time at least,

  disregard the poisonous gas with which I should presently be surrounded. The first thing to be considered was the keyhole. That must be unstopped at once. Fumbling in my bag, for I had grown of a sudden niggerdly with my matches, I found a good-sized probe which I insinuated into the keyhole, and in a moment my hopes in that direction

  were extinguished, for the end of the probe impinged upon metal. The keyhole was not stopped with rag, but with a plate of metal fixed on the outside. With rapidly growing alarm, but with a tidiness born of habit, I put the probe back in the bag and began feverishly to review the situation and consider my resources. And then I had an idea.

  Only a poor, forlorn hope, but still an idea. There is a certain ingenious type of pocket knife devised principally in the interest of the cutlery trade, that innocent persons, usually of the female persuasion, are wont to bestow as presents on their masculine friends. Such a knife I chanced to possess.

  It had been given to me by an aunt, and sentimental considerations had induced me to give it an amount of room in my trouser's pocket that I continually grudged. However, there it was at this critical moment, with its corkscrew, gimlet, its bewildering array of blades, its hoof-pick, toothpick, tweezers, file, screwdriver and assorted unclassifiable tools, a ponderous lump of pocket-destroying uselessness, and yet the appointed means of

  saving my life. The gimlet was the first tool that I called into requisition. Very gingerly, for these tools are commonly over-tempered and brittle, I bored in the thick plank a hole at about the level of my mouth, and as I worked I turned over my further plans.

  When the gimlet was through the door, I selected a tool on whose use I had often speculated, a sharp-edged spike, like a diminutive and very stumpy bayonet, which I proceeded to use broach-wise to enlarge the hole. When this tool worked loose, I exchanged it for a screwdriver, with which I managed to broach the hole out to about half an inch in width, and this was as large as I could

  make it, and it was not large enough. True, one could breathe fairly comfortably through a half-inch hole, but with the deadly gas circulating around a freer opening was very desirable. Then I bethought me that the magic knife contained a saw, a wretched thick-bladed affair, but a saw, which would actually cut wood if you gave it time.

  This implement suggested a simple plan which I forthwith put into execution, working as rapidly as I could without running the risk of breaking the tools. My plan was to make a second hole some two inches diagonally below the first, and from each hole to carry two saw cuts at right angles to one another. The two pairs of cuts would intersect and take a square piece out of the door, giving

  me a little window through which I could breathe in comfort. It was a trifling task, but yet, with the miserable tools I had, it took a considerable time to execute, the more since the saw blade was wider than the holes, excepting at its point. However, it was accomplished at last, and I had the satisfaction of pushing out a little

  separated square of wood, and feeling that I now had free access to the pure air outside my dungeon. But it was not too soon. As I rested from my labours, it occurred to me to test the condition of the air inside. Lighting a wax match, I held the little taper so that the flame ascended steadily, and then

  lowered it slowly. As it descended, the flame changed colour somewhat, and about eighteen inches from the floor it went out quite suddenly. There was then a layer of the pure gas about eighteen inches deep, covering the floor, and no doubt rising pretty rapidly.

  This was rather startling, and it warned me to have recalls without delay to my breathing hole. For though carbonic acid gas behaves somewhat as a liquid, it is not a liquid. Like other gases, it has the power of diffusing upwards, and the air of the cellar must be already getting unsafe.

  Accordingly, after carefully wiping the surface of the door with my handkerchief, I applied my mouth, with some distaste, to the opening, and took in a deep draught of undoubtedly pure air. The position in which I had to stand with my mouth to the hole was an irksome one, and I foresaw that it would presently become very fatiguing.

  Moreover, when the gas reached the level of my head, it would be difficult to prevent some of it from finding its way into my mouth and nostrils, and if it did, I should most assuredly be poisoned. This consideration suggested the necessity of making another hole at a lower level to let out the gas, and allow me to rest myself by a change of position.

  After this new task had to be carried out with my mouth glued to the breathing-hole, and very awkward and tiring, I found it, and very slow was the progress that I made. This second hole was smaller than the first, for time was precious, and I reflected that I could easily enlarge it by fresh saw cuts, each two of which would take out a triangular piece of wood.

  But it was tedious work, and its completion left me with aching arms. Indeed, I was beginning to ache all over from the constrained position. Taking a deep breath and shutting my mouth, I stood up and stretched myself. Then I lit a match and looked at my watch. Half past eight.

  I had been over two hours in the cellar. And meanwhile the patients were waiting for me at the surgery, and no doubt murmuring at the delay. How soon would my absence lead to inquiries? Or were inquiries being made even now?

  Looking at the match that I still held in my hand, I noticed that its flame was pelleted and bluish, and as I lowered it slowly, it went out when it was a little over two feet from the floor. The gas then was still rising, though not so rapidly as I had feared, but from the altered color of the flame it was evident that the air of the cellar, generally, contained enough

  diffused gas to be actively poisonous. After a time the erect position began to grow insupportably fatiguing. I felt that I must sit down for a few minutes' rest, even though prudence whispered that it was highly unsafe. I struggled for a while, but eventually, conquered by fatigue, sat down on the floor at my mouth,

  and glided closely to the lower breathing-hole. I persuaded myself that I would sit only just long enough to recover some of my strength, but minute after minute sped by, and still I felt an unaccountable reluctance to rise. Suddenly I became conscious of a vague feeling of drowsiness, of a desire to lean back against the woolen doze.

  It was only slight, but its significance was so appalling that I scrambled to my feet in a panic, and putting my mouth to the upper breathing-hole took several deep inspirations. But I soon realized that the upright position was impossible. The drowsy feeling continued, and there was growing with it a lassitude and weakness of the limbs that threatened to leave me only the choice between sitting or falling.

  A wave of furious anger swept over me and roused me a little, a burst of hatred of the cowardly wretch who had decoyed me as I now suspected to my death. Then this feeling passed, and was succeeded by chilly fear, and I sank down once more into a sitting position with my mouth pressed to the lower opening. The time ran on unrackened by me.

  Gradually, by imperceptible degrees, my mental state grew more and yet more sluggish. Anger and fear and ever-dwindling hope flooded by turns across the slowly fading field of my consciousness. Intervals of quiet indifference, almost of placid comfort, began to intervene, with increasing lassitude and a growing desire for rest.

  To lie down, that was what I wanted. To lay my head upon the stony floor and sink into sweet oblivion. At last I must have actually dozed, though fortunately without removing my mouth from the breathing-hole, for I had no sense of the passage of time when I was suddenly aroused but allowed in continuous jangling of a bell.

  I listened with a sort of dull eagerness and keeping awake with a conscious effort. The bell peeled wildly and without a pause for what seemed to me quite a long time. Then it ceased, and again my consciousness began to grow dim. After an interval I know not how long, there came to me dimly and only half perceived the closing of a door, the patter of quick footsteps, and then the voice of a man calling me by

  name. I struggled to get on to my feet but could not move, but I still held the clasp-knife and was able to rap with it feebly on the door. Then I heard the voice, it sounded nearer now and yet infinitely far away, and again I rapped on the door and shouted through the breathing-hole, a thin muffled cry such as

  one utters in a troubled dream. And then the drowsiness crept over me again, and I heard no more. The next thing of which I was conscious was a sounding thwack on the cheek with something wet that felt like a dead fish. I opened my eyes and looked vaguely into two faces that were close to mine and seemed to

  be lighted by a lamp or candle. The faces were somehow familiar, but yet I failed clearly to recognize them, and after staring stupidly for a few moments I began to doze again. Then the dead fish returned to the assault and I again opened my eyes. Another vigorous flop caused me to open my mouth with an unparliamentary gasp.

  Ah, that's better, said a familiar and yet unplaced voice. When a man is able to swear, he's fairly on the road to recovery. Flop! The renewed attentions of the dead fish, which turned out later to be merely a wet towel, evoked further demonstrations on my part of progressing recovery, accompanied

  by a nervous titter in a female voice. Gradually the clouds rolled away, and to my returning consciousness the faces revealed themselves as those of Maggie the housemaid and Dr. Thorndyke. Even to my muddled wits the presence of the latter was somewhat of a puzzle, and in the intervals of anathematizing the deceased fish, which I had not yet identified, I found myself

  hazily speculating on the problem of how my revered teacher came to be in this place, and what place this was. Come now, Jardine, said Dr. Thorndyke, emptying a jug of water on my face, and receiving a volley of spluttered expletives in exchange. Pull yourself together.

  How did you get in that cellar? Hang a vino, said I, composing myself for another nap. But here the wet towel came once more into requisition, and that with such vigor that, in a fit of exasperation, I set up and yawned. I think you'd better fetch a cab, said Thorndyke, as Maggie wrung out the towel afresh.

  But leave the gate open when you go out. What's the cab for? I asked sulkily. Can't I walk? If you can it will be better, said Thorndyke.

  Let us see if you are able to stand. He hoisted me on to my feet, and he and Maggie, taking each an arm, walked me slowly up and down the cobbled yard, which I now began to recognize as appertaining to the mineral waterworks. At first I staggered very drunkenly, but by degrees the drowsy feeling wore off, and I was able to walk with Thorndyke's assistance only.

  I think we might venture out now, said he, at length, piloting me towards the gate, and when I had stumbled rather awkwardly through the wicket, we set forth homeward. On my arrival home, Thorndyke ordered a supply of strong coffee and a light meal, after which, it being obvious that I was good for nothing in a professional sense, he suggested that I should go to bed.

  Don't worry about the practice, said he. I'll send for my friend Jervis, and between us we will see that everything is looked after. If Maggie will give me a sheet of paper and an envelope, I'll write a note to him. And then she can take a hansom to my chambers, and give the note either to Dr. Jervis or my man Polton.

  Meanwhile, I will stay here and see that you don't go to sleep prematurely. He wrote the note, and Maggie, having made such improvements in her outward garb as befitted the status of a rider in hansoms, took charge of it and departed with much satisfaction and dignity. Thorndyke made a few inquiries of me as to the circumstances that had led to my incarceration

  in the cellar, but finding that I knew no more than Maggie, whom he had already questioned, he changed the subject. Nor would he allow me again to refer to it. No, Jardine, he said. Better think no more of it for the present.

  Have a good night's rest, and then, if you're all right in the morning, we will go into the matter and see if we can put the puzzle together. End of chapter 5

• 06 - Chapter VI - A Council of War

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  CHAPTER VI. A COUNCIL OF WAR I awoke somewhat late on the following morning. Indeed, I was but half awake when there came a somewhat masterful and peremptory tap at my bedroom door, followed by the appearance in the room of a rather tall gentleman of some thirty years of age. I should have diagnosed him instantly as a doctor by his self-possessed proprietary manner of entering, but he left

  me no time for guessing as to his identity. "'Good morning, Jardine,' he said briskly, jingling the keys and small change in his trousers pockets. "'My name is Jervis, second violin in the Thorndike orchestra. I'm in charge here, pro tem. How are you feeling?' "'Oh, I'm all right. I was just going to get up.'

  "'You needn't trouble about the practice. I'm quite fit.' "'We'll have to hear it,' said Jervis. "'But it better keep quiet all the same. My orders are explicit, and I know my place too well to disobey. Thorndike's instructions were that you are not to make any visits or go abroad until after the inquest.'

  "'Inquest?' I exclaimed. "'Yes. He's coming here at four o'clock to hold an inquiry into the circumstances that led to your being locked up in a cellar. And until then, I'm to look after the practice and keep an eye on you. What time do you expect the offspring of the flitter-miles "'Who?' I demanded.

  "'Batson. He's coming back today, isn't he?' "'Yes. About six o'clock tonight.' "'Then you'll be able to clear out. So much the better. The neighborhood doesn't seem very wholesome for you.' "'I suppose I can do the surgery work,' said I.

  "'You'd better not. Better follow Thorndike's instructions literally. But you can tell me about the patients and help me to dispense. And that reminds me that a person named Samway called just now. A rather fine-looking woman. Reminded me of a big, sleek tabby cat. She wouldn't say what she wanted. Do you know anything about her?' "'I expect she came about her account. But she'll have to see Batson. I told her so only

  a night or two ago.' "'Very well, then,' said Jervis. Then I'll be off now. And you take things easy. And just think over what happened last night so as to be ready for Thorndike.' With this he bustled away, leaving me to rise and breakfast at my leisure. His advice to me to think over the events of the previous night was rather superfluous. The experience

  was not one that I was likely to forget. To have escaped from death by the very slanderous chance was in itself a matter to occupy one's thoughts pretty completely, apart from the horrible circumstances. And then there was the mystery in which the whole affair was enveloped. A mystery which utterly baffled any attempt to penetrate it. Turn it over as I would, and it was hardly out of my thoughts for a minute at a time all day. No glimmer

  of light could I perceive. No faintest clue to any explanation of that hideous and incomprehensible crime. At four o'clock punctually to the minute Dr. Thorndike arrived, and having quickly looked me over to see that I was none the worse for my adventure, proceeded to business. "'Have you finished the visits, Jervis?' he asked.

  "'Yes, and send off all the medicine. There's nothing more to do until six.' "'Then,' said Thorndike, "'we might have a cup of tea in the consulting room, and talk this affair over.' "'I'm rather taking possession of you, Jardine,' he added. "'But I think we ought to see where we are quite clearly, even if we decide finally to hand the case over to the police. Don't

  you agree with me?' "'Certainly,' I agreed, highly flattered by the interest he was taking in my affairs. "'Naturally, I should like to get to the bottom of the mystery.' "'So should I,' said he. "'And to that end, I propose that you give us a completely circumstantial account of the whole affair. I have had a talk with your very intelligent little maid,

  Maggie, and now I want to hear what happened after she left you.' "'I don't think I have much to tell that you don't know,' said I. However, I will take up the story where Maggie left off, and I proceeded to describe the events in detail, much as I have related them to the reader. Thorndike listened to my story with profound attention, making an occasional memorandum, but not uttering a word until I had finished.

  Then, after a rapid clown through his memoranda, he said, "'You spoke of a note that was handed in to you. Have you got that note? I left it on the writing table, and it's probably there still.' "'Yes, here it is. I brought it over to the little table on which our tea was laid and handed it to him, and as he took it from me with the dainty carefulness of a photographer

  handling a wet plate, I noted mentally that the habit of delicate manipulation contracted in a laboratory makes itself evident in the most trifling of everyday actions.' "'I see,' he remarked, turning the envelope over and scrutinizing it minutely, that this is addressed to Dr. H. Jardine. It appears, then, that he knows your Christian name. Can you account for that?'

  "'No, I can't. The only letter I've had here was addressed Dr. Jardine, and I've signed no certificates or other documents.' He made a note of my answer, and drawing the missive from its envelope, read it through. "'The handwriting,' he remarked, "'looks disguised rather than illiterate, and the diction is inconsistent. The blatantly incorrect adverb at the end does not agree with the

  rest of the phraseology and the correct punctuation. As to the signature, we may neglect that, unless you are acquainted with anyone in these parts of the name of Parker.' "'I am not,' said I. "'Very well. Then, if you will allow me to keep this note, I will file it for future reference. Now I will ask you a few questions about this adventure of yours, which is really

  a most astonishing and mysterious affair, even more mysterious, I may add, than it looks at the first glance. But we shall come to that presently. At the moment we are concerned with the crime itself, with a manifest attempt to murder you, and the circumstances that led up to it. And there are certain obvious questions that suggest themselves. The first is, can you give any explanation of this attempt on your life?'

  "'No, I can't,' I replied. It is a complete mystery to me. I can only suppose that the fellow was a homicidal lunatic.' "'A homicidal lunatic,' said Thorndyke, is the baffled investigator's last resource. But we'd better not begin supposing at this stage. Let us keep strictly to facts. You do not know of anything that would explain this attack on you.'

  "'No.' Then the next question is, had you any property of value on your person?' "'No. Five pounds would cover the value of everything I had about me, including the instruments.' Then that seems to exclude robbery as a motive.' The next question is, does any person stand to benefit considerably by your death? Have

  you any considerable expectations in the way of bequests, reversions, or succession to landed property or titles?' "'No,' I replied with a faint grin. I shall come in for a thousand or two when my uncle dies, but I believe the London Hospital is the alternative legatee, and I suppose we would hardly suspect the hospital governors of this little affair. Otherwise the only

  person who would benefit by my death would be the undertaker who got the contract to plant me.' Thorndyke nodded and made a note of my answer. "'That,' said he, disposes of the principal motives for premeditated murder. There remains the question of personal enmity. Not a common motive in this country. Have you, as far as

  you know, an enemy or enemies who might conceivably try to kill you? As far as I know, I have not an enemy in the world, or anyone even who would wish to do me a bad turn.' "'Then,' said Thorndyke, that seems to dispose of all the ordinary motives for murder, and I may say that I have only put these questions as a matter of routine precaution, ex abundancia cauteli, as Jervis says when he is in a forensic mood, because certain other facts which I

  have learned seem to exclude any of these motives except perhaps robbery from the person.' "'You haven't been long picking up those other facts,' remarked Jervis. Why, the affair only happened last night.' "'I've only made a few simple inquiries,' replied Thorndyke. This morning I called on Mr. Hirefield, whose name, a solicitor and agent to the landlords, I copied from the

  notice on the gate at the works last night. He knows me slightly, so I was able to get from him the information that I wanted. It amounts to this. About four months ago a Mr. Gill wrote to him and offered a lump sum for the use of the mineral waterworks for six months. Hirefield accepted the offer and drew up an agreement, as desired, granting Gill immediate possession of the premises and the small stock and plant of which the

  residue was to be taken back at evaluation by the landlords at the expiration of the term. I noted Gill's address as it appeared on the agreement and sent my man, Poulton, to make inquiries. The address is that of a West Kensington lodging-house at which Gill was staying when he signed the agreement. He had been there only three weeks. He left two days after the date of the agreement and the landlady does not know where he went or

  anything about him.' "'Sounds a bit fishy,' Jervis remarked. Did he tell Hirefield what he wanted the premises for?' I understood that something was said about some essay work in connection with certain or rather uncertain mineral concessions. But of course that was no affair of Hirefield's.

  His business was to get the rent and, having got it, his interest in Mr. Gill lapsed. But you see the bearing of these facts. Gill's connection with these works does, as Jervis says, look a little queer, especially after what has happened. But seeing that he made his arrangements four months ago, at a time when Jardine had no thought of coming into this neighborhood, it is clear that those arrangements could have no connection with

  this particular attempt. Gill obviously did not take those works with the intention of murdering Jardine. He took them for some other purpose, quite possibly the purpose that he stated. And we must not assume that Gill was the perpetrator of this outrage at all. Could you identify the man who let you in?' No, I replied, certainly not. I hardly saw him at all. The place was pitch dark, and

  whenever he struck a match he was either behind me or in front with his back to me. The only thing I could make out about him was that he had some sort of coarse wash-leather gloves on. Ha! exclaimed Thorndyke. Then we were right, Jervis. I looked in surprise from one to the other of my friends and was on the point of asking

  Thorndyke what he meant when he continued. That closes another track. If you couldn't identify the man, a description of Gill, if we could obtain it, would not help us. We must begin at some other point. "'It seems to me,' said Jervis, that we haven't much to go upon at all.' We haven't much, agreed Thorndyke, but we still have something. We find that the motive

  of this attempt was apparently not robbery, nor the diversion of inheritable property, nor personal enmity. It must have been premeditated, but yet it could not have been planned more than a week in advance, for Jardine has only been in his neighborhood for that time and his coming was unexpected. The appearances very strongly suggest that the motive, whatever it was, has been generated recently, and probably locally, so we'd better make a start from

  that assumption. "'Is it possible,' Jervis suggested, that this man Gill may be some sort of anarchist crank or a sort of thug? It is actually conceivable that he may have taken these premises for the express purpose of having a secure place where he could perpetrate murders and conceal the bodies.'

  "'It is quite conceivable,' said Thorndyke, and when we go and look over the works, which I propose we do presently, we may as well bear the possibility in mind, but that is merely a speculative suggestion.' "'To return to your affairs, Jardine, has your stay here been quite uneventful?' "'Perfectly,' I replied.

  "'No unusual or obscure cases? No injuries?' "'No, nothing out of the common,' I replied. "'No deaths? One? But the man died before I took over.' "'Nothing unusual about that? Everything quite regular?' "'Oh, perfectly,' I answered.

  "'And then with the sun quam as I recalled Batson's uncertainty as to the actual cause of death, I added, at least, I hope so.' "'You hope so?' queried Thorndyke. "'Yes, because it's too late to go into the question now. The man was cremated.' At this a singular silence fell. Both my friends seemed to stiffen in their chairs, and both

  looked at me silently but very attentively. Then Thorndyke asked, "'Did you have anything to do with that case?' "'Yes,' I replied. "'I went with Batson to examine the body.'

  "'And are you perfectly satisfied that everything was as it should be?' I was on the point of saying, yes, and then suddenly there arose before my eyes the vision of Mrs. Samway looking at me over Batson's shoulder with that strange, inscrutable expression. And again I recalled her unexplained anger and then her sudden change of mood. It had impressed me uncomfortably at the time, and it impressed me uncomfortably now.

  "'I don't know that I am, but I come to think it over,' I replied. "'Why not?' asked Thorndyke. "'Well,' I said, a little hesitatingly, to begin with, I don't think the cause of death was quite clear. Batson couldn't find anything definite when he attended the man, and I know that the patient's

  death came as quite a surprise. "'But surely,' exclaimed Thorndyke, he took some measures to find out the cause of death. He didn't. He assumed that it was a case of fatty heart and certified it as Morbus Cordis, and a man named O'Connor confirmed the certificate after examining the body.'

  "'After merely inspecting the exterior?' "'Yes.' My two friends looked at one another significantly, and Thorndyke remarked, with a disapproving shake of the head, "'And this is what all the elaborate precautions amount to in practice.

  A case which might have been one of the crudest and boldest poisoning gets past with hardly a pretence of scrutiny. And so it will always be. Routine precautions against the unsuspected are no precautions at all. That is the danger of cremation.

  It restores to the poisonous security that he enjoyed in the old days, when there were no such sciences as toxicology and organic chemistry, when it was impossible for him to be tripped up by an exhumation and an analysis.' "'You don't think it likely that this was a case of poisoning, do you?' I asked.

  "'I know nothing about the case,' he replied, accepting that there was gross neglect in issuing the certificates. "'What do you think about it yourself?' I looked back at the case. "'Is there anything besides the uncertainty that strikes you as unsatisfactory?'

  I hesitated, and again the figure of Mrs. Samway rose before me with that strange, billful look in her eyes. Finally, I described the incident to my colleagues. "'Mrs. Samway,' exclaimed Jervis, "'is that the handsome Lucretia Borgia lady with the mongoose eyes who called here this morning?

  By Jove, Jardine, you're giving me the creeps.' "'I understand,' said Thorndyke, "'that you're making as if to feel the dead man's pulse.' "'Yes.' "'There is no doubt, I suppose, that he really was dead. None whatever.

  He was as cold as a fish, and besides there was quite distinct rigor mortis.' "'That seems conclusive enough,' said Thorndyke, but he continued to gaze at his open notebook with a profoundly speculative and thoughtful expression. "'It certainly looks,' said Jervis, as if Jardine had either seen something or had been about to see something that he was not wanted to see, and the question is what that something

  could have been.' "'Yes,' I agreed gloomily, "'that is what I have just been asking myself. There might have been a wound or injury of some kind, or there might have been the marks of a hypodermic needle on the wrist. I wish I knew what she meant by looking at me in that way.'

  "'Well,' said Jervis, "'we shall never know now. The grave gives up its secrets now and again, but the crematorium furnace never. Whether he died naturally or was murdered, Mr. Maddock is now a little heap of ashes with no message for anyone this side of the day of judgment.' Thorndyke looked up.

  "'That seems to be so,' said he, and really we have no substantial reasons for thinking that there was anything wrong. So we come back to your own affairs, Jardine, and the question is what would you prefer to do?' "'In what respect?' I asked.

  "'In regard to this attempt on your life. You have told us that you have not an enemy in the world, but it appears as if you had, and a very dangerous one too. Now, would you like to put the case into the hands of the police, or would you rather that we kept our own counsel and looked into it ourselves?'

  "'I should like you to decide that,' said I. "'The reason that I ask,' said Thorndyke, is this. The machinery of the police is adjusted to professional crime, burglary, coining, forgery, and so forth, and their methods are mostly based on information received. The professional crook is generally well known to the police, and when wanted for any particular

  job, can be found without much difficulty, and the information necessary for his conviction obtained from the usual sources. But in cases of obscure nonprofessional crime, the police are at a disadvantage. The criminal is unknown to them. There are no confederates from whom to get information.

  Consequently, they have no starting point for their inquiries. They can't create clues, and they very naturally will not devote time, labor, and money to cases in which they have nothing to go on. Now, this affair of yours does not look like a professional crime. No motive is evident, and you can give no information that would help the police.

  I doubt if they would do much more than give you some rather disagreeable publicity, and they might even suspect you of some kind of imposture.' "'Gad!' I exclaimed, that's just what they would do. It's what they did last time, and this affair would write me down in their eyes a confirmed mystery-monger.'

  "'Last time?' queried Thorndyke. "'What last time is that?' "'Have there been any other attempts?' "'Not on me,' I replied. But I had an adventure one night about six or seven weeks ago that has made the Hampstead

  police look on me, I think, with some suspicion. And here I gave my two friends a description of my encounter with a dead, or insensible, cleric in Milford Lane, and my discoveries on the following morning.' "'But, my dear Jardine,' Thorndyke exclaimed when I had finished, "'what an extraordinary man you are!

  It seems as if you could hardly show your nose out of doors without becoming involved in some dark and dreadful mystery.' "'Well,' said I, "'I hope I have now exhausted my gifts in that respect. I am not thirsting for more experiences.

  But what do you think about that Hampstead affair? Do you think I possibly have been mistaken? Could the man have been merely insensible, after all, as the police suggested?' Thorndyke shook his head. "'I don't think,' he replied,

  "'that it is possible to take that view. You see, the man had disappeared. I could not have got away unassisted. In fact, he could not have walked at all. One would have to assume that some persons appeared directly after you left and carried him away,

  and that they appeared and retired so quickly as not to be overtaken by you on your return a few minutes later with the police. That is assuming too much. And then there are the traces which you discovered on the following day, which seem to suggest strongly that a body had been carried away to Kenwood.

  It is a thousand pities that you encountered that keeper. If you could have followed the tracks while they were fresh, you might have been able to ascertain whether it had been carried. But now, to return to your latest experience, what shall we do?

  Shall we communicate with the police, or shall we make a few investigations on our own account?' "'As far as I am concerned,' I replied eagerly, "'a private investigation would be greatly preferable. But wouldn't it take up rather a lot of your time?'

  "'Now, Jardine, you needn't apologize,' said Jarvis. Unless I am much mistaken, my respected senior has struck soundings as the nautical phrase has it. He has a theory of your case, and he would like to see it through. Isn't that so, Thorndyke?'

  "'Well,' Thorndyke admitted, I will confess that the case piques my curiosity somewhat. It is an unusual affair, and suggests some curious hypotheses which might be worth testing. So if you agree, Jardine,

  that we make at least a few preliminary investigations, I suggest that, as soon as Batson returns, we three go over to what the newspapers would call the scene of the tragedy, and reconstitute the affair on the spot.'

  "'And what about Batson?' I asked. "'Shall we tell him anything?' "'I think we must,' said Thorndyke, if only to put him on his guard, for your unknown enemy may be his enemy too.'

  At this moment the street door banged loudly, a quickstep danced along the hall, and Batson himself burst into the room. "'Good Lord!' he exclaimed, halting abruptly at the door,

  and gazing in dismay at our little council. "'What's the matter? Anything happened?' Thorndyke laughed as he shook the hand of his quantum pupil. "'Come, come, Batson,' said he. "'Don't make me out such a bird of ill omen.'

  I was afraid something awkward might have occurred. Police job or inquest, or something of that sort.' "'You weren't so very far wrong,' said Thorndyke. "'When you are at liberty, I'll tell you about it.' "'I'm at liberty now,' said Batson,

  dropping into a chair and glaring at Thorndyke through his spectacles. "'No scandal, I hope.' Thorndyke reassured him on this point and gave him a brief account of my adventure

  and our proposed visit to the works, to which he listened with occasional ejaculations of astonishment and relief. "'By gum!' he exclaimed. "'What a mercy you got there in time!

  If you hadn't, that would have been an inquest and a devil of a fuss. I should never have heard the last of it. Ruined the practice and worried me into a lunatic asylum. "'Oh, and about those works?

  I wouldn't go there if I were you.' "'Why not?' Thorndyke asked. "'Well, you may have to answer some awkward questions, and we don't want this affair to get about, you know. No use raising a dust.

  Rump as of any kind plays their dues with a medical practice.' Thorndyke smiled at my principal's frank egoism. "'Jervis and I went over last night,' said he, and had a hasty look around, and we found the place quite deserted.

  Probably it is so still.' "'Then you won't be able to get in. How'd you get in last night?' "'I happened to have a piece of stiff wire in my pocket,' Thorndyke replied impassively.

  "'Ha!' said Batson. "'Wire, eh? Picklock, in fact. I wouldn't if I were you. Devil of a bobbery if anyone sees you.

  Hello, there goes the book!' "'Patient. Let him wait. Doesn't six yet, is it?' "'Two minutes past,' replied Thorndyke, rising and looking at his watch.

  "'Perhaps we'd better be starting, as it's now dark, and the business at the works, if there is any, is probably over for the day.' "'Hang the works,' exclaimed Batson. I wouldn't go nosing about there.

  What's the good? Jardine's all right, and the chappy isn't likely to be on view. You'll only raise a stink for nothing and bring in a bunch of people

  who are beastly reporters humming about the place. There's that damn bell again. Well, if you won't stay, perhaps you'll look me up some other time.

  Always delighted to see you. Jervis, too.' "'You're not going, Jardine. I've got to settle up with you and hear your report.' "'I'll look in later,' said I,

  when you've finished the evening's work.' "'Right you are,' said Batson, opening the door and adroitly etching us out. "'Sorry you can't stay. Good night, good night.'

  He shepherded us persuasively and compellingly down the hall with a skill born of long practice with careless patience, and having exchanged us on the doorstep

  for a stout woman with two children, returned into the house with his prey and was lost to sight. End of chapter 6

• 07 - Chapter VII - An Unseen Enemy

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  CHAPTER VII. From my late principal's house we walked away quickly down the lamplit street, all, I think, dimly amused at the circumstances of our departure. "'Is Batson always like that?' Thondike asked. "'Always,' I replied.

  "'Hurry and bustle our normal states.' "'Dear, dear,' commented Thondike, "'what a terrible amount of time he must waste. "'Of course, one can understand now how that cremation muddle came about. "'Your incurable hustler is always thinking of the things he has got to do next,

  "'instead of the thing that he is doing at the moment. "'By the way, Jardine, I am taking it for granted that you would like to inspect these premises. "'It is not essential. Jervis and I had a preliminary look round last night, "'and I dare say we picked up most of the facts that are likely to be of importance, "'if we should be going farther into the matter.

  "'I think it would be as well for me to take a look at the place, "'and show you exactly where and how the affair happened.' "'I think so too,' said Thondike. "'It was all pretty evident, but you might be able to show us something that we had overlooked. "'Here we are. Wonder if Mr. Gill is on the premises, supposing him still to frequent them.'

  "'He looked up and down the street, and taking a key from his pocket, inserted it into the lock. "'Why, how on earth did you get the key?' I asked. "'Thondike looked at me slyly. "'We keep a tame mechanic,' said he, as he turned the key and opened the wicket. "'Yes, but how did you get the pattern of the lock?' I asked.

  "'Thondike laughed softly. "'It is only a simple trade lock. The fact is, Jardine, that in our branch of practice "'we have occasionally to take some rather irregular proceedings. "'For instance, I usually carry a small set of picklocks, fortunately for you. "'That is how I got in last night.

  "'Then I never go abroad without a little box of moulding wax. "'The most invaluable material, Jardine, for collecting certain kinds of evidence. "'Well, with a slip of wood and a bit of wax, I was able to furnish my man "'with the necessary data for filing up a blank key. "'One doesn't want to be seen using a picklock.

  "'Now, can you show us the way?' "'He flashed a pocket electric lamp on the ground, "'and we advanced over the rough cobbles until he reached a door at the side. "'This is where I went in,' said I. "'It opens into a sort of corridor, and at the end is a door opening on some steps

  "'that lead down to the passage below. "'Thorndike tried the handle of the door and pushed, but it was evidently locked or bolted. "'I left this door unlocked last night,' said he. "'So it is clear that someone has been here since. "'I hardly expected that. I thought our friend would have cleared off for good.

  "'But it is possible that Gill had nothing to do with the attempt. "'The premises may have been used by someone who happened to know that they were unoccupied. "'It would have been quite easy for such a person to gain admittance, as you see.' "'While speaking, he had produced from his pocket a little bunch of skeleton keys, "'with one of which he now quietly unlocked at all.

  "'These builder's locks,' said he, are merely symbolic of security. "'You are not expected to unfasten them without authority, but you can if you like, "'and happen to have a bit of stiff wire.' "'We entered the corridor and, as we proceeded, looked into the rooms that opened out of it. "'One of them was meagerly furnished as an office, but the thick layer of dust on the desk

  "'and stools showed clearly that it had been long disused. "'The other rooms were empty and desolate, and showed no trace of use or occupation. "'The worthy Gill,' said Jervis, "'seems to have been able, like Diogenes, to get on with a very modest outfit.' "'Yes,' agreed Thorndike.

  "'It is a little difficult to guess what his occupation is. "'The place looks as if it had never been used at all. "'Shall I go first?' "'He halted for a moment, passing the light of his lamp over the massive door "'at the head of the steps, and then began to descend.

  "'It was certainly a horrible and repulsive place, especially to my eyes, "'with the recollection of my late experience fresh in my mind. "'The rough brick walls covered with the crumbling remains of old whitewash, "'the black masses of cobwebs that drooped like funereal stalactites from the ceiling, "'the fungi that sprouted in corners, and the snail tracks that glistened in a lamp light

  "'on the stone floor, all contributed to a vault-like sepulchral effect "'that was most unpleasantly suggestive of what might have been and very nearly had been. "'My late prison was easily distinguished by the two holes in the door. "'We looked in, but that cellar was completely empty, save for a few chips of wood "'and a pinch or two of sawdust, memorials of my sojourn in the lethal chamber

  "'at which I could hardly look without a shudder. "'Then we passed on to the next cellar, the one adjoining my prison, "'and this was an object of no little curiosity to me. "'Here, while I was securely bolted into my cell, "'that unknown villain had deliberately and in cold blood made all the arrangements for my murder.

  "'Arrangements which he little suspected that I should survive to look upon. "'Thorndyke, too, was interested. He stood at the open door, "'looking in as if considering the positions of various objects, as in fact he was. "'Someone has been here since last night, Jervis,' said he. "'P.S.' agreed Jervis.

  "'That gas bottle has been taken down from the opening. You see, Jardine,' he continued, "'he had stood that big packing-case up on end and laid the gas bottle along the top "'with its nozzle just opposite the hole. "'Two other bottles were standing upright with their nozzles upwards.' "'I understand,' said Thorndyke,

  "'that you heard three bottles only turned on.' "'Yes,' I answered. "'There was the one opposite the hole and two others.' "'I ask,' Thorndyke said, "'because there are, as you see, seven other bottles lying by the wall.

  "'Those are all empty. We tried them when we came here last night. "'I know nothing about those others,' said I. "'The three bottles that I have mentioned I heard distinctly, "'and after he had turned on the third, the man went out of the cellar and closed up the door.' "'Then,' said Thorndyke,

  "'the other seven were presumably used for some other, and let us hope, more legitimate purpose. "'I wonder why our friend has been at the trouble of moving the cylinders.' "'Perhaps,' suggested Jervis. "'He thought that the arrangement might be a little too illuminating for the police "'if they should happen to pay a visit to the place.

  "'He may not be aware that the apparatus had already been inspected in situ by us. "'Or again, the cylinders may have been moved by someone else. "'We are assuming that he is a lawful occupant of the premises, "'but he may be a mere secret intruder like ourselves, "'who has discovered that the place is more or less unoccupied,

  "'and has made use of the premises and planned for his own benevolent purposes.' "'Yes,' agreed Thorndyke, "'that is perfectly true, but we can put the matter to the test, at least negatively. "'If the cylinders have been moved by an innocent stranger, they will bear the prints of hands.' "'But why shouldn't the man himself leave the prints of his hands on the cylinders?' I asked.

  "'Because, my dear Jardine, he is too knowing a bird. "'Jervis and I went carefully over the cylinders last night, "'in the hope of getting a few fingerprints to submit to Scotland Yard, "'but not a festiche could we find. Our friend has seen to that. "'We assumed that he had operated in gloves, and your description of him confirmed our assumption.'

  "'Which, in its way, is an interesting fact, "'for a man who is knowing enough to take these precautions "'has probably had some previous experience of crime, "'or at least has some acquaintance with the ways of criminals. "'The suggestion, in fact, is that, although this is not an ordinary professional crime,

  "'the perpetrator may be a professional criminal. "'And the further suggestion is, of course, that of very deliberate premeditation.' "'While he had been speaking, he had produced from his pocket a small flattened bottle "'fitted with a metal cap and filled with a yellowish powder. "'Remove the cap and uncover a perforated inner cap, like that of an iodoform dredger.

  "'He proceeded to shake a cloud of the light powder over the three upper cylinders, "'drying them with his foot to make the powder spread. "'Then he blew sharply on them, one after the other, "'when the powder disappeared from their surfaces, leaving visible one or two "'shapeless whitened smears, but never a trace of a fingerprint, or even the shape of a hand.

  "'Thondike rose and slipped the bottle back in his pocket. "'Apparently,' said he, "'the cylinders were moved by our unknown friend, "'with the same careful precautions as on the first occasion. "'A wary gentleman, this Jervis.

  "'He'll give us a run for our money at any rate.' "'Yes,' agreed Jervis. "'He doesn't mean to give himself away. "'He preserves his incognito most punctuously. "'I'll say that for him.'

  "'And meanwhile,' said Thondike, "'we had better proceed with our measures for drawing him out of this modest retirement. "'I want you, Jardine, to look round this cellar and tell us if any of the things that you see in it "'reminds you of anything that has happened to you, or suggests any thought or reflection.' "'I looked round, I'm afraid rather vagantly.

  "'A more unsuggestive collection of objects I've never looked upon. "'There are the gas cylinders,' I said feebly. "'But I've told you about them. "'I don't see anything else, except a few altiments of rubbish.' "'Then take a good look at the rubbish,' said he.

  "'Remember that it may be necessary at some future time for you to recall "'exactly what this cellar was like and what it contained. "'You may even have to make a sworn statement. "'So cast your eye round and tell us what you see.' "'I did so, wondering inwardly what the dews I was expected to see

  "'and what might be the importance of my seeing it.' "'I see,' said I, "'a mouldy-looking cellar about fifteen feet by twelve, "'with very bad brick walls, a plaster ceiling in an advanced stage of decay, "'and a concrete floor.

  "'And a left-hand wall is a hole about six inches square "'opening into the adjoining cellar. "'The contents are ten gas cylinders, all apparently empty, "'a key or spanner, which seems to have been used to turn the cocks, "'a large packing case, which, to judge by its shape,

  "'seems to have contained gas cylinders. "'The word large,' interrupted Tholndike, "'is not a particularly exact one. "'Well then, a packing case about seven feet long by two and a half feet wide and deep.' "'That's better,' said Tholndike.

  "'Always give your dimensions in quantitative terms, if possible.' "'Go on. There are a couple of waterproof sheets,' said I. "'I don't see quite what they can have been used for.' "'Never mind their use,' said Tholndike. "'Note the fact that they are here.'

  "'I have,' said I. "'And that seems to complete the list, with the exception of the straw "'on which I suppose the gas cylinders were packed. "'There's a large quantity of that, but not more than would seem necessary for the purpose. "'And that seems to complete the inventory.

  "'And I may say that none of these things conveys any suggestion whatever to my mind.' "'Probably not,' said Tholndike. "'And it is quite possible that none of these things has any particular significance at all. "'But as they are the only facts offered us, we must make the best of them. "'There is one other cellar that we have not yet looked into, I think.'

  "'We came out, and walking along the passage came to another door which stood slightly ajar. "'Tholndike opened it, and throwing in the light of his lamp, "'revealed a considerable stack of long iron gas bottles "'and one or two packing cases similar to the one I'd already seen. "'I presume,' said he, that these are full cylinders,

  "'the store from which our friend got his supply, but we may as well make sure. "'He ran back into the adjoining cellar, and returned with the spanner, "'with which he proceeded to turn the cock of one of the topmost cylinders, "'upon which a loud hiss and a thin snowy cloud showed that his surmise was correct. "'He'd just closed the cock and stepped out into the passage to take back the spanner,

  "'when I saw him stop suddenly as if listening. "'And then he sniffed once or twice. "'What is it?' asked Jervis. "'But Tholndike, without replying, ran quickly along the passage and up the steps, "'and I heard him trying the door at the top.

  "'Bring up one of the empty cylinders,' he said quietly. "'They have bolted us in, and apparently set fire to the place. "'We did not require much urging to act quickly. "'Picking up one of the long ponderous iron cylinders, "'we ran with it along the passage towards the light of Tholndike's lamp.

  "'As we ascended its steps, I became plainly aware of the smell of burning wood "'and of a crackling sound faintly audible through the massive door. "'There is only one bolt,' said Tholndike. "'I noticed it as we came in. "'I will throw my light on the part of the door where it is fixed,

  "'and you two must batter on that spot with the cylinder.' "'The door was, as I've said, a massive one, "'but it would have been a massive door indeed that could have withstood "'the blows of that ponderous iron cylinder "'wielded by two strong men whose lives depended on their efforts.

  "'At the very first crash at the battering ram, a tiny chink opened "'and at each thundering blow the building shook. "'Furiously we pounded at the thick plank-billed door "'and slowly the chink widened as the screws of the bolt tore out of the woodwork. "'And as the chink opened, a thin reek of pungent smoke filtered in,

  "'and the cold light of Tholndike's lantern became contrasted with a red glare from without. "'And then, suddenly, the door, under the heavy battering, "'burst from its fastenings and swung open. "'A blinding, choking cloud of smoke and sparks rolled in upon us, "'through which we could see in the corridor outside

  "'a pile of straw and crates and broken packing cases blazing and cracking furiously. "'It looked as if we were cut off beyond all hope. "'Jervis and I had dropped the now useless cylinder "'and were gazing in horror at the blazing mass that filled the corridor "'and cut off our only means of escape, when we were recalled by the voice of Tholndike,

  "'speaking in its usual quiet and precise manner. "'We must get the full cylinders up as quickly as possible,' said he. "'And running down the steps, he made straight for the end cellar, "'whether we followed him. Picking up one of the cylinders, "'we carried it quickly to the top of the steps.

  "'Lay it down,' said Tholndike, and fetch another. "'Jervis and I ran back to the cellar, "'and taking up another cylinder, brought it along the passage. "'As we were ascending the steps, there suddenly arose a loud penetrating hiss, "'and as we reached the top, we saw Tholndike disengaging the spanner

  "'from the cock of the cylinder, out of which a jet of liquid was issuing, "'mingled with a dense, snowy cloud. "'An instantaneous glance as we laid down the fresh cylinder reassured me very considerably. "'The icy, volatile liquid and the falling cloud of intently cold carbonic acid snow "'had produced an immediate effect, as was evident in a blackened smoldering patch

  "'in the midst of the blazing mass. With reviving hope, I followed Jervis once more "'down the steps and along the passage to the end cellar, from which we brought forth "'a third cylinder. By this time, the passage was so filled with smoke that it was difficult "'either to see or to breathe, and the bright light that at first poured in through the open doorway "'had already pulled down so far that Tholndike's figure, framed in the opening, loomed dim and

  "'shadowy amidst the smoke and against a dusky red background. We found him when we reached the "'top of the steps, holding the great gas bottle and directing the stream of snow and liquid "'onto those parts of the wood and straw from which flames still issued. "'It will be all right,' he said in his calm and emotional way. "'The fire had not really got an effective start. The straw made a great show, but that is nearly

  "'all burned now, and all this carbonic acid gas will soon smother the burning wood. "'But we must be careful that it doesn't smother us, too. The steps will be the safest place "'for the present.' He opened the cock of the new cylinder, and, having placed it so that it played "'on the most refractory part of the burning mass, back to the steps where Jervis and I stood "'looking through the doorway. The fire was, as he'd said, rapidly dying down. The volumes of gas

  "'produced by the evaporation of the liquid and the melting snow cut off the supply of air, so "'that in place of the flames that had at first looked so alarming, only a dense reek of smoke "'arose. "'Now,' said Thurndike, after we'd waited on the steps a couple of minutes more, "'I think we might make a sortie and put an end to it. If we can get the smoldering stuff "'off that wooden floor down onto the stone, the danger will be over.'

  "'He led the way cautiously into the corridor, and, once more bringing his electric lamp into "'requisition, he began to kick the smoldering cases and crates and the blackened masses of straw "'down the steps onto the stone floor of the passage, whether we followed them and scattered "'them with our feet, until they were completely safe from any chance of re-ignition. "'There,' said Jervis, giving a final kick at the small heap of smoking straw,

  "'I think that ought to do. There's no fear of that stuff lighting up again, "'and if I may venture to make the remark, the sooner we're off these premises, the happier I "'shall be. Our friend's methods of entertaining his visitors are trifled too strenuous for my "'taste. He might try dynamite next.' "'Yes,' I agreed. Or he might take pot-shots at us with "'a revolver from some dark corner.' "'It is much more likely,' said Thurndike, that he is cleared

  "'off in anticipation of the alarm of fire. Still, it is undeniable that we shall be safer outside. "'Shall I go first and show you a light?' He piloted us along the corridor and up the cobbled yard, "'putting away his lamp as he unlocked the wicket. There was no sign of anyone about the premises, "'nor, when we had passed out of the gate, was there anyone in sight in the street. I looked "'about, expecting to see some sign at the fire, but there was no smoke visible and only a slight

  "'smell of burning wood. The smoke must have drifted out at the back.' "'Well,' Thurndike remarked, "'it has been quite an exciting little episode, and a highly "'satisfactory finish, as things turned out, though it might easily have been very much the "'reverse. But for the fortunate chance of those gas bottles being available, I don't think we "'should be alive at this moment.' "'No,' agreed Jervis, we should be in much the same condition

  "'by this time as Batson's late patient Mr. Maddock, or at least well on our way to that "'disembodied state. However, all's well that ends well. Are you coming our way, Darlene?' "'I will walk a little way with you,' said I. Then I must go back to Batson to settle up and "'fetch my traps.' I walked with them to Oxford Street, and we discussed our late adventure as we "'went. There was a pretty strong hint to clear out, wasn't it?' Jervis remarked.

  "'Yes,' replied Thurndike. "'It didn't leave us much option. But the affair can't be left at this. "'I shall have a watch set on those premises. I shall make some more particular inquiries about "'Mr. Gill. By the way, Jardine, I haven't your address. I better have it in case I want to "'communicate with you. And you'd better have my card, in case anything turns up which you think I "'ought to know.' We cornerly exchanged cards, and as we had now reached the corner of Oxford Street,

  "'I wished my friends adieu, and thoughtfully retraced my steps to Jacob Street.' End of chapter 7

• 08 - Chapter VIII - It's an Ill Wind --

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  CHAPTER VIII. A SILENT WITNESS By R. Austin Freeman This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, recording by Anna Simon. It's an ill wind.

  London is a wonderful place. From the urban grainers of Jacob Street to the borders of Hampstead Heath was, even in those days of the slow horse tram, but a matter of minutes. A good many minutes, perhaps, but still considerably under an hour. Yet in that brief and leisurely journey one exchanged the grim sordidness of a most unlovely

  street for the solitude and sweet rusticity of open and charming country. A day or two after my second adventure in the mineral waterworks I was leaning on the parapet of the viaduct, the handsome red brick viaduct with which some builder, unknown to me, had spanned the pond beyond the upper heath, apparently with purely decorative motive, and in a spirit of sheer philanthropy.

  For no road seemed to lead anywhere in particular over it, and there was no reason why any wayfarer should wish to cross the pond rather than walk round it. Indeed, in those days it was covered by a turfy expanse seldom trodden by any feet but those of the sheep that grazed in the meadows bordering the pond. I leaned on the parapet, smoking my pipe with deep contentment and looking down into the

  placid water. The water lilies spread their flat leaves on its surface, and a small party of urchins angled from the margin, with the keen joy of the juvenile sportsman who suspects that his proceedings are unlawful.

  I had lounged on the parapet for several minutes when I became aware of a man approaching along the indistinct track that crossed the viaduct, and as he drew near I recognized him as the on the morning after my discovery of the body in Millfield Lane. I would have let him pass with a smile of recognition, but he had no intention of passing. Touching his hat politely, he halted, and having wished me good morning, remarked,

  "'You didn't tell me, sir, what it was you were looking for that morning when I met you in the wood.' "'No,' I replied, "'but apparently someone else has.' "'Well, sir, you see,' he said, "'the sergeant came up the next day with a plainclothes man to have a look round, and as the sergeant is an acquaintance of mine, he gave me the

  tip as to what they were after.' "'I'm sorry, sir, you didn't tell me what you were looking for.' "'Why?' I asked. "'Well,' he replied, "'we might have found something if we had looked while the tracks were fresh.

  Unfortunately, there was a gale in the night that fetched down a lot of leaves and blew up those that had already fallen, so that any footmarks would have got hidden before the sergeant came.' "'What did the police officers seem to think about it?' I asked.

  "'Why, to speak the truth,' the keeper replied. "'They seemed to think it was all bogey.' "'Do you mean to say,' I asked, "'that they thought I had invented the whole story?' "'Oh, no, sir,' he replied, "'not that. They believed you had seen a man lying in the lane, but they didn't believe that he

  was a dead man, and they thought your imagination had misled you about the tracks.' "'Then I suppose they didn't find anything,' said I. "'No, they didn't, and I haven't been able to find anything myself, though I've had a good look round.' And then, after a brief pause,

  "'I wonder,' he said, "'if you would care to come up to the wood and have a look at the place yourself?' I considered for a moment. I had nothing to do, for I was taking a day off, and the man's proposal sounded rather attractive.

  Finally, I accepted his offer, and we turned back together towards the wood. Hamster, the hamster of those days, was singularly rustic and remote. But within the wood it was incredible that the town of London actually lay within the sound of a church bell or the flight of a bullet. Along the shady paths, carpeted with moss and silvery lichen, overshadowed by the bows

  of noble beaches, or in leafy hollows with the humus of sentries under our feet, and the whispering silence of the woodland all around, we might have been treading the glades of some primeval forest. Nor was the effect of this strange remoteness less, when presently, emerging from the thicker portion of the wood, we came upon a moss-grown, half-ruinous boathouse on the sedgey margin

  of a lake, in which was drawn up a rustic-looking and evidently little-used punt. "'It's wonderful quiet about here, sir,' the keeper remarked, as a water-hand stole out from behind a clump of high rushes and scrambled over the leaves of the water lilies. "'And presumably,' I remarked, "'it's quieter still at night.' "'You're right, sir,' the keeper replied.

  "'If that man had got as far as this, he'd have had mighty little trouble in putting the body where no one was ever likely to look for it. "'I suppose,' said I, "'that you had a good look at the edges of the lake.' "'Yes,' he answered. "'I went right round it and so did the police, for that matter, and we had a good look at

  the punt, too. "'That all the same, it wouldn't surprise me if one fine day that body came floating up among the lilies.' "'Always supposing, that is,' he added, "'that there really was a body.' "'How far is it?'

  I asked. "'From the lake to the place where you met me that morning.' "'It's only a matter of two or three minutes,' he answered. "'We may as well walk that way, and you can see for yourself.' "'Accordingly, we set forth together, and coming presently upon one of the moss-grown

  paths followed it past a large summer-house until we came inside of the beach beyond which I had encountered him while I was searching for the tracks. As we went he applied me with questions as to what I had seen on the night in the lane, and I made no scruple of telling him all that I had told the police, seeing that they on their side had made no secret of the matter.

  Of course it was idle after this long period, for it was now more than seven weeks since I had seen the body, to attempt anything in the nature of research. It certainly did look as if the man who had stolen into that wood that night had been bound for the solitary lake. The punt, I had noticed, was only secured with a rope, so that the murderer, for such

  I assumed he must have been, could easily have carried his dreadful burden out into the middle and there sunk it with weights, and so hidden it for ever. It was a quick, simple and easy method of hiding the traces of his crime, and if the police had not thought it worthwhile to search the water at Draggs there was no reason why the buried secret should not remain buried for all time.

  After we had walked for some time about the pleasant, shady wood, less shady now that the yellowing leaves were beginning to fall with the passing of autumn, the keeper conducted me to the exit by which I had left on the previous occasion. As I was passing out of the wicket my eye fell once more on the cottage which I then noticed, and recalling the remark that my fair acquaintance had let fall concerning

  the artist to whom the derelict knife was supposed to belong, I said, "'You mentioned, I think, that that house was led to an artist.' "'It was,' he replied, "'but it's empty now. The artist has gone away.' "'It must be a pleasant little house to live in,' I said, "'at any rate in summer.'

  "'Yes,' he replied, "'a country house within an hour's walk with the Bank of England. Would you like to have a look at it, sir? I've got the keys.' Now I certainly had no intention of offering myself as a tenant, but yet, to an idle man, there is a certain attractiveness in an empty house of an eligible kind, a certain interest

  in roaming through the rooms and letting one's fancy furnish them with one's own household goods. I accepted the man's invitation, and opening the wide gate that admitted to the garden from a by-road, we walked up to the door of the house. "'It's quite a nice little place,' the keeper remarked.

  "'There isn't much garden, you see, but then you've got the heath all round, and there's a small stable and coach-house if you should be wanting to go into town.' "'Did the last tenant keep any kind of carriage?' I asked. "'I don't think so,' said the keeper, "'but I fancy he used to hire a little cart sometimes

  when he had things to bring in from town, but I don't know very much about him or his habits.' We walked through the empty rooms together, looking out of the windows and commenting on the pleasant prospects that all of them commanded, and talking about the man who had last lived in the house.

  "'He was a queer sort of fellow,' said the keeper. "'He and his wife seem to have lived here all alone without any servant, and they seem often to have left the house to itself for a day or two at a time, but he could paint. I have stopped and had a look when he has been at work, and it was wonderful to see how he knocked off those pictures.

  He didn't seem to use brushes, but he had a lot of knives, like little trowels, and he used to shovel the paint on with them, and he always wore gloves when he was painting. Didn't like to get the paint on his hands, I suppose.' "'It sounds as if it would be very awkward,' I said. "'Just what I should have thought,' the keeper agreed.

  But he didn't seem to find it so. This seems to be the place that he worked in.' Apparently the keeper was right. The room which he had now entered was evidently the late studio, and did not appear to have been cleaned up since the tenant left.

  The floor was littered with scraps of paper on which a pallet knife had been cleaned, with empty paint tubes and one or two broken and worn-out brushes, and, in a packing-case, seemed to have served as a receptacle for rubbish, were one or two canvases that had been torn from their stretches and thrown away. I picked them out and glanced at them with some interest, remembering what my fair friend

  had said. For the most part they were mere experiments or failures, deliberately defaced with strokes or daubs of paint, but one of them was a quite spirited and attractive sketch, rough and unfinished, but skillfully executed and undefaced. I stretched out the crumpled canvas and looked at it with considerable interest, for it

  represented Millfield Lane, and showed the large elms and the posts and the high fence under which I had sheltered in the rain. In fact it appeared to have been taken from the exact spot on which the body had been lying, or from which I had made my own drawing. Not that there was anything in the latter coincidence, for it was the only sketchable

  spot in the lane. "'It's really quite a nice sketch,' I said. "'It seems a pity to leave it here among the rubbish.' "'It does, sir,' the keeper agreed. "'If you like it you'd better roll it up and put it in your pocket.

  You won't be robbing anyone.' As it seemed that I was but rescuing it from a rubbish heap, I ventured to follow the keeper's advice, and rolling the canvas up, carefully stowed it in my pocket. And shortly after, as I had now seen all that there was to see, which was mighty little, we left the house, and at the gate the keeper took leave of me with the touch of his head.

  I made my way slowly back towards my lodgings by way of the Spaniards' road and Hampstead Lane, turning over in my mind as I went the speculations suggested by my visit to the wood. Of the existence of the lake I had not been previously aware. Now that I had seen it I felt very little doubt that it was known to the mysterious

  such I felt convinced he was, who must have been lurking in the lane that night when I was sheltering under the lee of the fence. The route that he had then taken appeared to be the direct route to the lake. That he was carrying the body I had no doubt whatever, and seeing that he had carried it so far it appeared probable that he had some definite hiding-place in view.

  And what hiding-place could be so suitable as this remote piece of still water? No digging, no troublesome and dangerous preparation would be necessary. There was the punt and readiness to bear him to the deep water in the middle. A silent, easily handled conveyance, a few stones or some heavy object from the boathouse, would be all that was needful, and in a moment he would be rid forever of the dreadful witness

  of his crime. Thus reflecting, not without dissatisfaction at the passive part that I had played in this sinister affair, I passed through the turnstile or kissing-gate at the entrance to Milford Lane. Almost certainly the murderer or the victim or both had passed through that very gate

  on the night of the tragedy. The thought came to me with added solemnity with the recollection of the silent wood and the dark, still water fresh in my mind, and caused me unconsciously to tread more softly and walk more sedately than usual. The lane was little frequented at any time, and now, at midday, was almost as deserted

  as at midnight. Very remote it seemed, too, and very quiet, with the silence that recalled the hush of the wood, and yet the silence was not quite unbroken. From somewhere ahead, from one of the many windings of the tortuous lane, came the sound of hurried footsteps.

  I stopped to listen. There were two persons, one treading lightly, the other more heavily, apparently a man and a woman, and both were running, running fast. There was nothing remarkable in this, perhaps, but yet the sound smote on my ear with a certain note of alarm that made me quicken my pace and listen yet more intently.

  And suddenly there came another sound, a muffled, whimpering cry like that of a frightened woman. Instantly I gave an answering shout and sprang forward at a swift run. I had turned one of the numerous corners and was racing down a straight stretch of the lane when a woman darted round the corner ahead and ran towards me, holding out her hands.

  I recognized her at a glance, though now she was dishevelled, pale, wild-eyed, breathless, and nearly frantic with terror, and rage against her assailant spurred me on to greater speed. But when I would have passed her to give chase to the wretch, she clutched my arm frantically with both hands and detained me. "'Let me go and catch the scoundrel!'

  I exclaimed, but she only clung the tighter. "'No,' she panted, "'don't leave me! I'm terrified! Don't go away!' I ground my teeth.

  Even as we stood I could hear the ruffian's footsteps proceeding as rapidly as they had advanced. In a few moments he would be beyond pursued. "'Do let me go and stop that villain!' I implored.

  "'You're quite safe now, and you can follow me and keep me in sight.' But she shook her head passionately and still clutching my sleeve with one hand pressed the other to her heart. "'No, no, no!' she gasped with a catch in her voice that was almost a sob. "'I can't be alone!

  I'm frightened! Oh, please don't go away from me!' What could I do? The poor girl was evidently beside herself with terror and exhausted by her frantic flight. It would have been cruel to leave her in that state.

  But all the same it was infuriating. I had no idea what the man had done to terrify her in this way. But that was of no consequence. The natural impulse of a healthy young man when he learns that a woman has been ill-used is to hammer the offender effectively in the first place and then to inquire into the affair.

  That was what I wanted to do, but it was not to be. "'Well,' I said by way of compromise, "'let us walk back together, perhaps when we will be able to find out which way the man went.' To this she agreed. I drew her arm through mine, for she was still trembling and looked faint and weak, and we

  began to retrace her steps towards Highgate. Of course the man was nowhere to be seen, and by the time that we had returned to the where I had found the body of the priest, the man was not only out of sight, but his footsteps were no longer audible. Still we went on for some distance in the hopes of meeting someone who could tell us

  which way the miscreant had gone, but we met nobody. Only some distance past the posts we came inside of a sketching box and a campstool lying by the side of the path. "'Surely those are your things?' I said.

  "'Yes,' she answered. "'I had forgotten all about them. I dropped them when I began to run.' I picked up the box and the stool and debated with myself whether it was worthwhile to go on any farther.

  From where we stood nothing was to be seen, for the lane was still enclosed on both sides by a seven-foot fence of oak boards, but the chance of overtaking the fugitive was not to be considered. By this time he was probably out of the lane, on the heath or in the surrounding meadows. And meanwhile my companion, though calmer and less breathless, looked very pale and

  shaken. "'I don't know that it's any use,' I said, "'to tire you by going any farther. The man is evidently gone.' She seemed relieved at my decision, and it then occurred to me to suggest that she should sit down a while on the bank under the high fence to recover herself, and to this too

  she assented gladly. "'I'm sure I shan't,' I said, with perfect confidence in the correctness of my statement. "'Well,' she said, "'what happened was this,' as nearly as I can remember. I was coming up the path from the ponds, and I had to pass a man, and he was standing there with his head down.

  He was standing there, and he was standing there, and he was standing there, and he was standing there, and he was standing there, and he was standing there, and he was standing he had to pass a man, who was leaning against a fence by the style. As I came near to him, he looked at me at first in quite an ordinary way, and then he suddenly began to stare in a most singular and disturbing fashion, not at me so much,

  as at this little crucifix which I wear hung from my neck. As I passed through the turnstile he spoke to me. "'Would you mind letting me look at that crucifix?' he asked. It was a most astonishing piece of impertinence, and I was so taken aback that I hardly had the presence of mind to refuse.

  However, I did, and very decidedly, too. Then he came up to me, and in a most threatening and alarming manner said, "'You found that crucifix. You picked it up somewhere near here. It's mine, and I'll ask you to let me have it, if you please.'

  Now this was perfectly untrue. The crucifix was given to me by my father when I was quite a little child, and I've worn it ever since I have been grown up. Ever since he died, in fact, six years ago. I told the man this, but he made no pretence of believing me, and was evidently about to

  renew his demand when two labourers appeared, coming down the lane. I thought this a good opportunity to escape, and walked away quickly up the lane. It was very silly of me. I ought to have gone the other way.' "'Of course you ought,' I agreed.

  "'You ought to have got out into a public road at once.' "'Yes, I see that now,' she said. It was very foolish of me. However, I walked on pretty quickly, for there was something in the man's face that had frightened me, and I was anxious to get home.

  I looked back from time to time, and when I saw no sign of the man, I began to recover myself. But just as I had got to the most solitary part of the lane, just about where we are now, shut in by these high fences, I heard quick footsteps behind me. I looked back and saw the man coming after me.

  Then, I suppose, I got in a sudden panic, for I dropped my sketching things and began to run. But as soon as I began to run, the man broke into a run too. I raced for my life, and when I heard the man gaining on me, I suppose I must have called out.

  Then I heard your shout from the upper part of the lane and ran on faster than ever to gain your protection. That's all, and I suppose you think that I've been making a great fuss about nothing.' "'I don't think anything of the kind,' I said, and neither would our absent friend if I could get hold of him.

  By the way, what sort of person was he? A tramp? Oh no, quite a respectable-looking person. In fact, he would have passed for a gentleman.' "'Can you give any sort of description of him?'

  Not that verbal descriptions are of much use, except in the case of a hunchback or a Chinaman or some other easily identifiable creature.' "'No, they're not,' she agreed, and I don't think that I can tell you much about this man, excepting that he was clean-shaved, of medium height, quite well dressed, and wore a round head and slate-coated suede gloves.'

  "'I'm afraid we shan't get hold of him from that description,' I said. The only thing that you can do is to avoid solitary places for the present, and not to come through this lane again alone.' "'Yes,' she said, I suppose I must, but it's very unfortunate. One cannot always take a companion when one goes sketching, even if it were desirable,

  which it is not. As to the desirability, in the case of a good-looking girl, of wandering about alone in solitary places, I had my own opinions, and very definite opinions they were, but I kept them to myself. And so we sat silent for a while. She was still pale and agitated, and perhaps her recital of her misadventure had not been

  wholly beneficial. At the moment that this idea occurred to me, a crackling in my breast pocket reminded me of the forgotten canvas, and I bethought me that perhaps a change of subject might divert her mind from her very disagreeable experience. Accordingly I drew the canvas out of my pocket, and, unrolling it, asked her what she thought

  of the sketch. In a moment she became quite animated. "'Why,' she exclaimed, "'this looks exactly like the work of that artist who was working on the heath a little while ago.' "'It is his,' I replied, considerably impressed and rather astonished at her instantaneous

  recognition. "'But I didn't know you were so familiar with his work.' "'I'm not very familiar with it.' she replied. "'But, as I told you, I sometimes managed to steal a glance or two when I passed him.

  You see, his technique is so peculiar that it's easily recognized, and it interested me very much. I should have liked to stop and watch him and get a lesson.' "'It is rather peculiar work,' I said, looking at the canvas with new interest. Very solid and yet very smooth.

  "'Yes, it is typical knife-work, almost untouched with a brush.' That was what interested me. The knife is a dangerous tool for a comparative tyro like myself, but yet one would like to learn how to use it. Did he give you this sketch?'

  I smiled guiltily. "'The truth is,' I admitted, "'I stole it.' "'How dreadful of you!' she said. "'I suppose that you could not be bribed to steal another.' "'I would steal it for nothing if you asked me,' I answered.

  "'And meanwhile you'd better take possession of this one. It would be of more use to you than to me.' She shook her head. "'No, I won't do that,' she said, though it is most kind of you. "'You paint, I think, don't you?'

  "'I am only the merest amateur,' I replied. I annexed the sketch for the sake of the subject. I've rather an affection for this lane.' "'So had I,' said she, until to-day. "'Now I hate it.

  But might I ask how you managed your theft?' I told her about the empty cottage and the rejected canvases in the rubbish box. I'm afraid none of the others would be of any use to you, because he had drawn a brush full of paint across each of them. "'Oh, that wouldn't matter,' she said.

  The brush strokes would be on dry paint and could easily be scraped off. Besides, it is not the subject but the technique that interests me. Then I will get into the cottage somehow and proloin the remaining canvases for you.' "'Oh, but I mustn't give you all this trouble,' she protested. "'It won't be any trouble,' I said.

  I shall quite enjoy a deliberate and determined robbery. But where shall I send the spoil?' She produced her card-case, and, selecting a card, handed it to me, with a smile. "'It seems to me,' she said, "'that I am inciting you to robbery and acting as a receiver of stolen goods.

  But I suppose there is no harm in it, though I feel that I ought not to give you all this trouble.' I made the usual polite rejoinder as I took from her the little magical slip of pasteboard that, in a moment, transformed her from a stranger to an acquaintance, and gave her a local habitation and a name.

  Before bestowing it in my pocket-book, I glanced at the neat copper plate and read the inscription. "'Miss Sylvia Vine, the Hawthorn's North End.' The effect of our conversation had answered my expectations. Her agitation had passed off, the colour had come back to her cheeks, and, in fact, she seemed quite recovered.

  Apparently, she thought so herself, for she rose, saying that she now felt well enough to walk home, and held out her hand for the colour-box and stool. "'I think,' said I, "'that if you won't consider me intrusive, I should like to see you safely out onto an inhabited road at least.' "'I shall accept your escort gratefully,' she replied.

  "'As far as the end of the lane, or farther, if it's not taking you too much out of your way.' Needless to say, I would gladly have escorted so agreeable and winsome a prodigy from John O'Groats to Lens End, and found it not out of my way at all. And when she passed out of the gate into Hemslet Lane, I clung tenaciously to the box and stool,

  and turned towards the Spaniards as though no such thing as dismissal had ever been contemplated. In fact, with the reasonable excuse of carrying the impedimenta, I maintained my place by her side in the absence of a definite congee. And so we walked together, talking quite easily, principally about pictures and painting, until in the pleasant little hamlet she halted by a garden gate and, taking her possessions

  from me, held out a friendly hand. "'Good-bye,' she said. "'I can't thank you enough for all your help and kindness. I hope I have not been very troublesome to you.' I assured her that she had been most amenable, and when I had once more cautioned her to

  avoid solitary places we exchanged a cordial handshake and parted, she to enter the pleasant, rustic-looking house, and I to betake myself back to my lodgings, lightening the way with much agreeable and self-congratulatory reflection.' End of chapter 8

• 09 - Chapter IX - Thorndyke takes up the Scent

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  Chapter 9 of A Silent Witness by R. Austin Freeman. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, recording by Anna Simon. Chapter 9. Thorndyke takes up the scent. At my lodgings, which I reached at an unconscionably late hour for lunch, I found a little surprise

  awaiting me. A short note from Dr. Thorndyke, asking me if I should be at Liberty early on the following afternoon to show him the spot on which I had found the mysterious body. Of course I answered by return, begging him to come straight on from the hospital to an early lunch, over which we could discuss the facts of the case before setting out.

  Having dispatched my letter, I called at the officers of the house agent who had the letting of the cottage on the heath, to see if he had duplicate keys. Fortunately he had, and was willing to entrust them to me on the understanding that they should be returned sometime during the next day. I did not, however, go on to the cottage, for it occurred to me that Thorndyke would

  probably wish to visit the wood, and I could make my visit and proloin the canvases then. A telegram on the following morning informed me that Thorndyke would be with me at twelve o'clock, and punctually to the minute he arrived. "'I hope you don't mind me swooping down on you in this fashion,' he said, as the servant showed him into the room.

  I assured him very truthfully that I was delighted to be honoured by a visit from him, and he then proceeded to explain. You may wonder, Jardine, why I am busying myself about this case, which is really no business of mine, or at least appears to be none. But the fact is that as a teacher and a practitioner of medical jurisprudence, I find it advisable

  to look into any unusual cases. Of course, there is always a considerable probability that I may be consulted concerning case, but apart from that, I have the ordinary specialist's interest in anything remarkable in my own speciality. I should think, said I, that it would be well for me to give you all the facts before we

  start.' "'Exactly, Jardine,' he replied, that is what I want. Tell me all you know about the affair, and then we shall be able to test our conclusions on the spot.' He produced a large-scale ordinance map, and folding it under my direction so that it showed

  only the region in which we were interested, he stood it up on the table against the water bottle, where we could both see it, and marked on it with a pencil each spot as I described it. It is not necessary for me to record our conversation. I told him the whole story as I have already told it to the reader, pointing out on the

  map the exact locality where each event occurred. "'It's a most remarkable case, Jardine,' was his thoughtful comment when I had finished. Most remarkable. "'You think that there is no doubt that the man was really dead?' I asked.

  "'Had you any doubt the time yourself?' "'None at all,' I replied. It was only the disappearance of the body, and perhaps the sergeant's suggestion that made me think it possible that I might have been mistaken.' Thorndyke shook his head.

  "'No, Jardine,' said he, the man was dead. We are safe in assuming that. And on that assumption our investigations must be based. The next question is, how was the body taken away? Did you measure the fence?'

  "'No, but I should say it is about seven feet high.' "'And what kind of fence is it? Are there any footholds?' "'I can show you exactly what the fence is like,' I answered. That sketch which I have pinned up on the wall was apparently painted from the exact

  spot on which the body lay. That fence on the right-hand side is the one under which I sheltered, and is exactly like the one over which the body seems to have been lifted.' Thorndyke rose and walked over to the sketch which I had fixed to the wall with drawing pins.

  "'Not a bad sketch, this, Jardine,' he remarked. Very smartly put in, apparently mostly with a knife. Where did you get it?' I had to confess that the canvas was unlawfully come by and told him how I had obtained it. "'You don't know the artist's name?' said Thorndyke, looking closely at the sketch.

  "'No. In fact, I know nothing about him, excepting that he worked mostly with a small painting knife and usually wore kid gloves.' "'You don't mean that he worked in gloves?' said Thorndyke. "'So I am told,' said I.

  I never saw him.' "'It's very odd,' said Thorndyke. I have heard of men wearing a glove on the pallet hand to keep off the midges, and many men painting gloves in exceptionally cold weather. "'But this sketch seems to have been painted in summer.'

  "'I suppose,' said I. The midges don't confine their attentions to the pallet hand, and after all, to a man who worked entirely with the knife, a glove wouldn't be really in the way.' "'No,' Thorndyke agreed. That is true.'

  He looked closely at the sketch and even took out his pocket-lens to help his vision, which seemed almost unnecessary. It appeared that he was as much interested in the unknown artist's peculiar technique as was my friend, Miss Sylvia Vine. "'By the way,' said he, when it resumed his seat at the table, "'you were telling me about

  some kind of gold trinket that you had picked up at the foot of the fence. Shall we have a look at it?' I fetched the little gold object from the dispatch box in which I had locked it up and handed it to him. He turned it over in his fingers, read the letters that were engraved on it, and examined

  a little piece of silk cord that was attached to one ring. "'There is no doubt,' said he. "'As to the nature of this object, nor of its connection with the dead man, this is evidently a reliquary, and these initials engraved upon it bear out exactly your description of the body.

  SVDP evidently means St. Vincent de Paul, who, as you probably know, was a saint who was distinguished for his works of charity. You have mentioned that the dead man wore a Roman collar with a narrow dark stripe up the front. That means that he was the lay brother of some religious order, probably some philanthropic

  order, to whom St. Vincent de Paul would be an object of special devotion. The other letters, A, M, D, G, are the initials of the words, ad majorum de gloriam, the motto of the Society of Jesus. But as St. Vincent de Paul was not a Jesuit saint, the motto probably refers to the owner of the reliquary, who may have been a Jesuit or a friend of the Society.

  It was apparently attached, perhaps to the neck, by this silk cord, which seems to have been frayed nearly through, and probably broke when the body was drawn over the top of the fence. "'I suppose I ought to have shown it to the police,' I said. "'I suppose you ought,' he replied, "'but as you haven't, I think we'd better say

  nothing about it now.' He handed it back to me, and I dropped it into my pocket, intending to return it presently to the dispatch box. A few minutes later we set it forth on our journey of exploration. It is not necessary to describe this journey in detail, since I have already taken the

  reader over the ground more than once. We went, of course, to the place where I had found the body, and walked right through to Hampstead Lane. Then we returned and reconstituted the circumstances of that eventful night, after which I conducted to the place where I assumed that the body had been lifted over the fence.

  "'I suppose,' I said, "'we must go round and pick up the track from the other side.' He looked up and down the lane, and smiled. "'Would your quantum professor lose your respect forever, Jardine, if you saw him climb over a fence in a frock coat and a topper?' "'No,' I answered, "'but it might look a little quaint if anyone else saw you.'

  "'I think we'll risk that,' he said. "'There's no one about, and I should rather like to try a little experiment. Would you mind if I hoisted you over the fence? There is something of an outsize, but then so am I too, which balances the conditions.' Of course I had no objection, and when we had looked up and down the lane, and listened

  to make sure that we had no observers, Thornlite picked me up, with an ease that rather surprised me, and hoisted me above the level of the fence. "'Is it all clear on the other side?' he asked. "'Yes,' I answered, "'there's no one in sight.' "'Then I want you to be quite passive,' he said, and with this he hoisted me up further,

  until I hung with my own weight across the top of the fence. Leaving me hanging thus, he sprang up lightly, and having got a stride at the top, dropped down on the other side, when he once more took hold of me and drew me over. It wasn't so very difficult,' he said. Of course it would have been more so to a shorter man, but on the other hand it is extremely

  unlikely that the body was anything like your size and weight. We now followed the track up to the wood, which we entered by an opening in the fence, through which I assumed that the murderer had probably passed. I conducted Thornlite by the nearest route to the boathouse, and when he had thoroughly examined the place, and made notes of the points that appeared to interest him, I showed

  him the way out by the turnstile. It was here when we came inside of the cottage that I foresawed me of my promise to Miss Thornlite. I was fine, and somewhat sheepishly explained the matter to Thornlite. "'It won't take me a minute to go in and sneak the things,' I said obligatedly, and

  was proposing that he should walk on slowly, when he interrupted me. "'I'll come in with you,' said he. There may be something else to filch. Besides, I'm rather partial to empty houses. There is something quite interesting, I think, in looking over the traces of recent occupation

  and speculating on the personality and habits of the late occupiers. Don't you find it so?' I said yes, truthfully enough, for it was a feeling of this kind that it first led me to look over the cottage. But my interest was nothing to Thornlite's, for no sooner had I let him in at the front

  door than he began to browse about through the empty rooms and passages for all the world like a cat that had just been taken to a new house. "'This was evidently the studio,' he remarked, as we entered the room from which I had taken the canvas. He doesn't seem to have had much of an outfit, as he appears to have worked on his sketching

  easel. You can see the indentations made by the toe-points. There are no marks of the casters of a studio easel.' He noticed, too, that he sat on a campstool to work. It did not appear to me to matter very much what he had sat on, but I kept this opinion

  to myself, and what Thornlite curiously, as he picked up the empty paint tubes and scrutinized them one after the other. His inquisitiveness filled me with amused astonishment. He turned out the rubbish box completely, and having looked over every inch of the discarded canvases, he began systematically to examine, one by one, the pieces of paper on which the

  late resident had wiped his palette knife. Having rolled up and pocketed the waste canvases, I expressed myself as ready to depart. "'If you're not in a hurry,' said Thornlite, I should like to look over the rest of the premises.' He spoke as though we were inspecting some museum or exhibition, and indeed his interest

  and attention, as he wandered from room to room, were greater than that of the majority of visitors to a public gallery. He even insisted on visiting the little stable and coach-house, and when he had explored them both, ascended the rickety steps to the loft over the latter. "'I suppose,' said I, this was the lumber-room or store.

  Judging by the quantity of straw, it would seem as if some cases had been unpacked here.' "'Probably,' agreed Thornlite. In fact, you can see where the cases have been dragged along, and also by that smooth, indented line where some heavy metallic object has been slid along the floor. Perhaps if we look over the straw we may be able to judge what those cases contained.'

  It didn't seem to me to matter at brass farthing what they contained, but again I made no remark, and together we moved a great mass of straw, almost handful by handful, from one end of the loft to the other, while Thornlite not only examined the straw, but even closely scrutinized the floor on which it lay. As far as I could see, all this minute and apparently purposeless searching was entirely

  without result, until we were in the act of removing the last armful of straw from the corner, and even then the object that came to light did not appear a very remarkable one under the circumstances, though Thornlite seemed to find what appeared to me a most unreasonable interest in it. The object was a pair of canvas pliers which Thornlite picked up almost eagerly and examined

  with profound attention. "'What do you make of that, Jardine?' he asked at length, handing the implement to me. "'It's a pair of canvas pliers,' I replied. "'Obviously,' he rejoined.

  "'But what do you suppose they have been used for?' I opined that they had been used for straining canvases, that being their manifest function. "'But,' objected Thornlite, he would hardly have strained his canvases up here. Besides, you will notice that they have, in fact, been used for something else. You observe that the handles are slightly bent as if something had been held with great

  force, and if you look at the jaws, you will see that that something was a metallic object about three-quarters of an inch wide, with sharp corners. "'Now, what do you make of that?' I looked at the pliers, inwardly reflecting that I didn't care tuppence what the object was, and finally said that I would give it up.

  "'The problem does not interest you keenly,' Thornlite remarked with a smile. "'And yet, it ought to, you know. However, we may consider the matter on some future occasion. Meanwhile, I shall follow your pernicious example and proloin the pliers.' His interest in this complete stranger appeared to me very singular, and it seemed for the

  moment to have displaced that in the mysterious case which was the object of his visit to me. "'A strange vagabond sort of man that artist must have been,' he remarked, as we walked home across the heath. "'But I suppose one picks up vagabond habits in travelling about the world.'

  "'Do you gather they travelled much, then?' I asked. "'He appears to have visited New York, Brussels, and Florence, which is a selection suggesting other travels.' I was wondering vaguely how Thornlite had arrived at these facts, and was indeed about

  to ask him, when he suddenly changed the subject by saying, "'I suppose, Jardine, you don't wonder about this place alone at night?' "'I do sometimes,' I replied. "'Then I shouldn't,' he said. "'You must remember that a very determined attempt has been made on your life, and it

  would be unreasonable to suppose that it was made without some purpose. "'But that purpose is still unaccomplished. You don't know who your enemy is, and consequently can take no precautions against him, excepting by keeping away from solitary places. It is an uncomfortable thought, but at present you have to remember that any chance stranger

  may be an intending murderer. So be on your guard.' I promised to bear his warning in mind, though I must confess his language seemed to me rather exaggerated. And so we walked on, chatting about various matters, and though we arrived at my lodgings.

  Thornlite was easily persuaded to come in and have tea with me, and while we were waiting for its arrival, he renewed his examination of the sketch upon the wall. "'Aren't you going to have this strained on a stretcher?' he asked. I replied, yes, and that I intended to take it with me the next time I went into town. "'Let me take it for you,' said Thornlite.

  "'I should like to show it to Jehovah's to illustrate the route that we have marked on the map. Then I can have it left at any place that you like.' I mentioned the name of an artist's collar man in the handset road, and, unpinning the canvas, rolled it up and handed it to him.

  He took it from me, and, rolling it up methodically and carefully, bestowed it in his breast pocket. Then he brought forth the map, and as we drank our tea and talked over our investigations, he checked our route on it and marked the position of the cottage. Shortly after tea, he took his leave, and I then occupied an agreeable half hour in composing a letter to Miss Vine to accompany the loot from the deserted house.

  End of chapter 9

• 10 - Chapter X - The Unheeded Warning

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  CHAPTER X. THE UNHEEDED WARNING. Thorndyke's warning, so emphatically expressed, ought to have been alike unnecessary and effective. As a matter of fact, it was neither. I suppose that, to a young man not naturally timorous, the idea of a constantly lurking the prosaic conditions of modern civilization is one that is not readily accepted.

  At any rate, the fact is that I continued to walk abroad by day and by night with as much unconcern as if nothing unusual had ever befallen me. It was not that the recollection of those horrible hours in the poisoned cellar had in any way faded. That incident I could never forget.

  But I think that in the back of my mind there still lingered the idea of a homicidal lunatic, although that idea had been so scornfully rejected by Thorndyke. But before I described the amazing experience by which I once more came within a hair's breadth of a sudden and violent death, I must refer to another incident. Not because it seemed to be connected with that alarming occurrence, but because it came

  first in the order of time and had its own significance later. It was a couple of days after Thorndyke's visit that I walked down the Hampstead Road with the intention of fetching the sketch from the artist's color mans. The shop was within a few hundred yards of Jacob Street, and as I crossed the end of that street I was just considering whether I ought to look in on Batson when a lady bowed

  to me and made as if she would stop. It was Mrs. Samway. Of course I stopped and shook hands, and while I was making the usual polite inquiries I felt myself once more impressed with the unusualness of the woman. Even in her dress she was unlike other women, though not in the least eccentric or bizarre.

  At present she was clothed from head to foot in black, but a scarlet bird's wing in a croquet-ish little velvet toque and a scarlet bow at her throat gave an effect of color that, unusual as it was, harmonized completely and naturally with her jet-black hair and her strange un-English beauty. So you haven't started for Paris yet?

  I remarked. No, she replied. My husband is gone and may perhaps come back. At any rate, I am staying in England for the present. Then I may possibly have the pleasure of seeing you again, I said, and she graciously replied

  that she hoped it might be so, as we shook hands and parted. A few minutes later, in the artist's collar-man's shop, I had another chance meeting and a more agreeable one. The proprietor had just produced the sketch, now greatly improved in appearance by being strained on a stretcher, when the glass door opened and a young lady entered the shop.

  And my surprise, when that young lady turned out to be none other than Miss Vine. Well, I exclaimed, as we mutually recognized each other, what an extraordinary coincidence! I don't see that it is very extraordinary, she replied. Most of the Hampstead people come here because it is the nearest place where you can get proper artist's materials.

  Is that the sketch you were telling me about? Yes, I answered, and it is the pick of the loot. But it isn't too late to alter your mind. I'll say the word and it's yours. Well, she replied with a smile, I'm not going to say the word, but I want to thank you for

  rescuing those other treasures for me. She had, as a matter of fact, already thanked me in a very pretty little note, but I was not averse to her mentioning the subject again. We stepped back to the door and in the brighter light looked at the sketch together. It's a pity, she remarked, that he handled it so carelessly before the paint was hard.

  Those finger marks wouldn't matter a bit on a brush painted surface, but on a smooth knife surface they're rather a disfigurement. She placed the sketch in my hand and I backed nearer to the glass door to get a better light. Happening to glance up, I noticed that a sudden and very curious change had come over her. A look of haughty displeasure and even anger apparently directed at somebody or something

  outside the shop. For a few moments I took no notice. Then half unconsciously I looked round just as some person moved away from the door. I looked once more at Miss Vine. She was quite unmistakably angry.

  Her cheeks were flushed and there was a resentful light in her eyes that gave her an expression quite new to me. I suppose she caught my inquiring glance, for she exclaimed, Did you see that woman? I'd never heard of such impertinence in my life.

  What did she do? I asked. She came right up to the doorway and looked over your shoulder and then stared at me in the most singular and insolent manner. I could have slapped her face.

  Not through the glass door, I suggested, on which her anger subsided in a ripple of laughter as quickly as it had arisen. What was this objectionable person like? I asked. Was she a charwoman or a slavey?

  Oh, not at all, replied Miss Vine. Quite a ladylike looking person, except for her manners. But tastefully dressed, too. A black and vermilion scheme of colour. The reply startled me a little.

  Had she a scarlet bird's wing in her head? I asked. Yes, and a scarlet bow at her throat. I hope you're not going to say that you know her. It was a rather delicate situation.

  I could not actually disavow the acquaintance, but I did not feel inclined to have a black and scarlet fly introduced into the sweet smelling ointment of my intercourse with the fair Sylvia. So I explained with great care the exact scope of the acquaintance, on which Miss Vine remarked that she supposed that doctors could not be held responsible for the people they knew,

  and proceeded to make her purchases. I did not take the sketch away with me after all, for it occurred to me that I might as well leave it to be framed, but instead I carried forth with me the parcel containing Miss Vine's purchases. I had not far to carry it, for she was returning at once to Hampstead.

  I was tempted to return for the sake of enjoying a chat with her, too, but discreetly withstood the temptation, and having escorted her to a tram, I turned my face south and walked away at a leisurely pace into the jaws of an all-unsuspected danger. It was some hours, however, before anything remarkable happened. My immediate objective was Lincoln's infield, where, at the College of Surgeons, a lecture

  on epidermic appendages was to be delivered by the Hunterian professor. And there, in the College theatre, I spent a delightful hour while the genial professor took his hearers with him on a personally conducted tour among structures that ranged from the plumage of the sunbird to the dermal plates of the crocodile, from the silken locks of beauty to the quills of the porcupine or the male of the armadillo.

  When I came out, the dusk was just closing in. It was a slightly foggy evening. The last glow of the sunset in the western sky lighted up the haze into a rosy background, against which the shadowy buildings were relieved in shapes of cloudy grey. It was a lovely effect, an effect such as London alone can show, a fugitive as a breath

  on a mirror. As I sauntered westward up the Strand, I presently bethought me that, before the light should have faded completely, I would see how the effect looked by the riverside. Having quickly down Buckingham Street, I came out onto the embankment and looked into the west.

  But the light was nearly gone, the shadows of evening were closing in fast, and the fog, creeping up the river, ushered in the night. I landed on the parapet and watched the last glimmer die away, watched the darkness deepen on the river, and the faint lights on the barges moored on the southern shore at first twinkle pallidly and then fade out as the fog thickened.

  I lit my pipe and looked down at the dark water swirling past, and gradually fell into a train of half-dreamy meditation. Not for the first time since the occurrence my thoughts turned to Mrs. Samway. Why had she stared at Miss Vine in that singular manner? If indeed it was really Mrs. Samway, and if she really had stared in the manner alleged,

  it was an odd affair, but after all it did not very much matter. And with this my thoughts rambled off in a new direction. It was the cottage on the heath that they wanted this time, and the picture of Thorndyke's cat-like prowlings and prying arose before me. That was very queer too.

  Was it possible that this learned and astute man habitually went about eagerly probing into the personal habits and trivial actions of chance strangers? The apparently puerile inquisitiveness that he displayed seemed totally out of character with all that I knew about the man. But then it often happens that the private life of public men develops personal traits

  that are surprising and disappointing to those who have only known them in connection with their public activities. I had become so completely immersed in my thoughts as to be almost oblivious of what was happening around. Indeed there was mighty little happening.

  The gathering darkness and the thin fog limited my view to a few square yards. Now and again a muffled hoot from the lower river spoke of life and movement on the water, and at long intervals an occasional wayfarer would pass along the pavement behind me. My reflections had reached the point recorded above, when a person emerged in the obscurity near to the parapet and approached as if to pass close behind me.

  I only caught the dusky's shape indistinctly with the tail of my eye, so indistinctly that I could not say certainly whether it was that of a man or a woman, for I was still gazing down at the dark water. He or she approached quietly, swerving towards me across the wide pavement. I was in the act of passing quite close to me when a thing happened.

  Of a sudden I felt my knees clasp in a powerful grip, and at the same moment I was lifted off my feet and thrust forward over the parapet. Instinctively I clutched at the stonework, but its flat surface offered nothing for my fingers to grasp. Then my assailant let go, and the next instant I plunged head first into the icy water.

  It was fortunate for me that the tide was nearly full, else must I almost certainly have broken my neck. As it was, my head struck on the firm mud at the bottom with such force that for some moments I was half stunned. Nevertheless, I must have struck out automatically, for when I began to recover my wits my head

  was above water, and I was swimming as actively as my clinging garments would let me. But apparently, in those moments of dazed semi-consciousness, I must have struck out towards the middle of the river, for now I was encompassed by a murky void in which nothing was visible save one or two reddish luminous patches, presumably the lamps on the embankment. Towards one of these I turned and struck out vigorously.

  The water was desperately cold, and hampered as I was with my clothing, I felt that I should not be able to keep myself afloat very long, strong swimmer as I was. But the dim red nebula of the unseen lamps moved past slowly, showing me that I was drifting down on the ebb tide. Before me, I knew, was the long, inhospitable wall of the embankment.

  True, there were some steps, if I was not mistaken, by Cleopatra's needle, but the question was whether I had not drifted past them already. I had given one or two lusty shouts as soon as I cleared my chest of the mouthful of water that I had got in my first plunge, and I was now letting off another yell when, out of the darkness behind me, came a prolonged hoot.

  I looked round quickly in the direction whence the sound had come, and then became aware of the churning of a propeller. Almost at the same moment a dim, ruddy smudge of light broke through the darkness over the river and began rapidly to brighten until it took the form of the twin masthead lights of a tug with a vessel in tow.

  For a moment I hesitated. My first impulse was to avoid the danger of being run down, but suddenly I altered my mind, for as the tug bore down on me, with a roaring of water and a loud clank of machinery, I saw that she was not absolutely end-on, for her green star-bought light, which had been for a moment visible, suddenly disappeared.

  Of what happened during the next few moments I have but a confused recollection. A splashing and churning, with the loud wash of water, the throb of the engines, and a glare of light which blazed before my eyes for a moment, to vanish in an instant into pitchy darkness, a huge black object, felt rather than seen to sweep past before me. And then my hand clutched a wooden projection, and I felt myself dragged violently through

  the water. The projection that I had laid hold of was the leeboard of a sailing barge, as I discovered when the rush of the water banged me against it, and much ado I had to hold on, with the water dragging at me and spouting up over my head. But with what strength was left to me I reached out with the other hand and clawed hold of

  the dwarfed bulwark over which the water was lapping, and so, with a last violent effort, contrived to drag myself up onto the deck. I assayed to stand up, and did in fact succeed, but as my sensations suggested those of a leaden statue with India rubber legs, I sat down hastily on the hatch cover to avoid going overboard.

  And there I sat for a minute or two, leaning against a lowered mast with my teeth chattering, and seeming to grow more and more chilled and exhausted every moment. Numb as my mind was by this time, my medical instincts told me that this would not do. Somehow I must get warmth and shelter, for I might as well have been drowned at once as dye of exposure and cold.

  I looked round lethargically. There was no sign of anyone on board. Another barge was towing alongside, and the bows of two others were dimly visible astern. On those rearmost barges there must certainly have been some one steering. But they were inaccessible to me, and I had not the energy to shout, nor could anyone

  have got across to me if I had. Suddenly my eye fell on a little chimney that rose by the cabin scuttle. A thin stream of smoke issued from it and blew away astern. Perhaps then the crew were below, or if not at least there was a fire. I crawled aft, holding on with my hands, and, pushing back the scuttle, backed cautiously

  down a ladder, closing the scuttle after me. There seemed to be nobody below, and the cabin was in darkness, save for the glow of the fire that burned in the little grate. The air was probably warm, though to me it felt icy. But at least there was no wind to play on my wet clothes.

  I sat down on the locker as near to the fire as I could, and rested my elbows on the little triangular table. When I looked to the marrow, and utterly exhausted, I was sensible of a growing desire to sleep, a desire which I repressed, as I believed, with noble resolution. But apparently my efforts in this respect were not so successful as I had supposed,

  for the next incident opened with suspicious suddenness. A vigorous shake, which dislodged one of my elbows, introduced the episode. I looked up, blinking sulkily, at a bright and most objectionably dazzling light, which further inspection showed to proceed from a hurricane lamp held by a rather dirty hand. "'Here, wake up, mister,' said a hoarse voice.

  "'This here ain't the Hotel Cecil, you know.' I sat up, and stared vaguely at the speaker, or at least the holder of the lamp, but could not think of anything appropriate to say. Then another voice emerged from nowhere in particular. "'He's been overboard.

  That's what he's been.' "'Any fool can see that,' said the first man. "'But the question is, who is he, and what's he doing in my cabin?' "'Who are you, mister?' "'Now, that would seem to be a perfectly simple and straightforward question.

  But it is not so simple as it seems. To a complete stranger, the bare mention of a name is unaluminating. Further explanations are needed. And at that moment I did not feel equal to explanations. Besides, I was not so very clear on the subject myself.

  Consequently, I preserved a silence which perhaps was wooden rather than golden. "'The ear, the ear,' persisted the first man. "'I'm asking you a question.' "'What's so good of asking questions of a man which's been a-ramming his crumpet against the bottom of the river?'

  processed the other man. "'What do you mean?' demanded the first mariner. "'Can't you see,' retorted the other, "'as he stuck the ground hard.

  Look at his head. "'Here the first mariner, Lucifer or lamb-bearer, wiped his hand over the top of my head and then examined the tip of his forefinger critically, as though it were the arming of a deep sea lead.' "'You're right, Abel,' said he.

  "'That's mud off the bottom, that is. He must have took a regular header. Suicide, perhaps, and all that is mind. Found it a bit damper in what he expected. Put the kettle on, Abe.

  From this moment the two mariners treated me as if I'd been a lay figure. Silently they peeled off my wet clothes and dried my skin with vigorous friction as if it had been a wet deck. They'd not only asked no further questions, but when I would have spoken they urged me to economize my wind.

  They inducted me into stiff and hairy garments of uncouth aspect. And finally Abe set before me on the table a large earthenware mug, the contents of which steamed and diffused through the cabin a strong odor of Dutch gin. "'You get outside that, mister,' said the luminiferous mariner, who turned out subsequently to be the skipper.

  "'And then you'd best turn in.' The treatment was not strictly orthodox, but I obeyed without demeure. Most people would have done the same under the circumstances. With the process of getting outside it took time, for the grog was boiling hot and had been brewed with a flexible wrist.

  By the time that I'd emptied the mug I was not only revived, but, so far as my memory serves, rather disposed to be garelessly explanatory and facetious. I even felt a slight inclination to sing. But my friends would stand no nonsense. As soon as the mug was fairly empty they bundled me, neck and crop, into a sort of elongated cupboard and proceeded to pile on me

  untold quantities of textile fabrics, including a complete suit of oil skins. Then they commanded me to go to sleep, which I believe I must have done almost instantly. End of chapter 10

• 11 - Chapter XI - A Chapter of Accidents

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  CHAPTER XI. A CHAPTER OF ACCIDENTS. Awakening in a strange place is always a memorable experience, especially to the young in whom the capacity for novel sensations has not yet been exhausted by repetition. When I emerged somewhat gradually from the unconsciousness of sleep, my first impressions concerned themselves with the unusual appearance of the bedroom wall and its remarkable proximity to my nose.

  I further noticed that the bedstead had become inexplicably tilted and that the house appeared to be swaying, and as I mused on these phenomena with the vagueness of the half-awake, a loud voice, proceeding apparently from the floor above, roared out the mystic words, Le-o! whereupon there ensued a sound like the shaking of colossal tablecloth and a loud clanking

  of chains, and my bedstead took a sharp tilt to the opposite side. This roused me pretty completely, and turning over in the bunk I looked out into the barge's cabin. It was broad daylight and evidently not early, for a square patch of sunlight crept to and fro on the little table, once presently it slipped down to the floor and slithered about unsteadily, as if Phoebus had overdone his morning dram and could not drive his chariot straight. I watched it lazily for some

  time and then, become unconscious of a vacancy within, crept out from under the mountain of bedclothes and made my way to the ladder. As I put my head through the companion-hatch, a man who stood at the wheel regarded me stolidly. So you've woken up, have you? said he, thought he was going right round the clock. Abel, he's woken up. Tell young Ted to stand by with them hags and that they're at it. Here Abel looked

  round from behind the luff of the mainsail, and having verified the statement, conveyed the order to some invisible person in the forepeak. Then he came aft with an obvious air of business. The time for explanations had arrived. Accordingly I proceeded to pitch them my yarn as they expressed it, to which they listened with polite attention and manifest disappointment, clearly regarding the story as a fabrication from beginning to end. And no wonder! The whole affair was utterly

  incredible even to me. To them it must have seemed sheer nonsense. Their own verdict of suicide during very temporary insanity with sudden mental recovery under the influence of cold water was so much more rational. Not that they truded their views. They listened patiently and said nothing, and nothing that they could have said could have been more expressive. Meanwhile I looked about me with no little surprise. Some miles away to the south lay a stretch of low land, faint and grey, with a

  single salient object, apparently a church with two spires. In every other direction was the unbroken sea horizon. "'You seem to have made a pretty good passage,' I remarked. "'We have had sixteen hours to do it in,' replied the skipper. "'And spring tides and a nice bit of breeze. If it had only hold, which I'm afraid it won't,

  we'd be in Folkestone harbour this time to-morrow, or even sooner.' "'Folkestone'd be much out of your way.' I smiled at the artlessness of the question. It was undeniable that the route from Charing Cross to Hampstead by way of Folkestone was slightly indirect. But there was no need to insist on the fact. My hospitable friends had acted for the best, and their prudence was justified by the

  result. For here I was, not a whit the worst for my ducking, save that I badly wanted a bath. "'Folkestone will suit me quite well,' I replied, if there is enough money left in my pockets to pay my fare home. "'That's all right,' said the skipper. "'I cleared out your pockets myself. You'll find the things in a mug in the starboard locker.

  Better overhaul them when you go below and see if you've dropped anything. Here comes young Tet with your grub.' As he spoke the apprentice rose through the fore-hatch like a stage apparition. If one can imagine an apparition burdened with a tin teapot, two hags and an attic, and came grinning along the weather side deck, to vanish through the cabin hatchway. I followed gleefully, and almost before

  young Tet had finished the somewhat informal table arrangements, fell too on the food with voracious joy. "'If you want any more eggs or anything,' said the apprentice, "'all you've got to do is just to touch the electric bell, and the waitress will come and take your orders.'

  And having delivered this delicate shaft of irony, he presented me with an excellent back view of a pair of brown dragnards as he retired up the ladder. As I consumed the rough but excellent breakfast, I reflected on the strange events that had placed me in my present odd situation. For the first time I began fairly to realize that I was in some way involved in a nexus of circumstances that I did not in the least understand. I had an enemy, a vindictive enemy too,

  in whose eyes mere human life was a thing of no account. But who could he be? I knew of no one on whom I had ever inflicted the smallest injury. I bore no man any grudge, and had never to my knowledge had unfriendly dealings with any human creature. Was this inveterate enemy of mine anyone whom I knew? Or was he some stranger whose path I had crossed without knowing it, and whom I should not recognize even if I saw him? This last supposition was

  highly disquieting, especially as it seemed rather probable. For if my enemy was unknown to me, what precautions could I take? Then again there was the question, what was the occasion of this extraordinary vendetta? What had I done to this man that he should presume it with such deadly purpose? As to Jervis's suggestion that I had seen something at the same way's house that I was not wanted to see, there was nothing in it. For as a matter of fact I had seen nothing. There was

  nothing to see. The man Madoc was certainly dead. As to what he died of, that was Batson's affair, but even in that there was no sign of anything suspicious. The man himself had consulted Batson, and had thought so badly of himself that it made his will in Batson's presence. The patient himself was fully aware of a serious condition. It was only Batson, with his eternal hurrian bustle and his defective eyesight, who had missed observing it. The only circumstance that supported Jervis's

  view was that the acts of violence seemed to be connected with the locality of Batson's house. Of course there remained the mystery of the dead priest or lay brother, but with that these attempts seemed to have no connection. Nor was there any reason why the murderer should pursue me. I had seen the body, it is true, but nobody believed me, and no proceedings were being taken. Nor could I have identified the murderer if I had been confronted with him. Clearly he had nothing to

  fear from me. From the causes of my present predicament I passed to the immediate future. I should have to get back from Folkestone, and I ought to send a telegram to my landlady, Mrs. Blunt, who would probably be in adduce of a Twitter about me. I raised a lid of the locker, and, reaching out the big earthenware mug, emptied its contents on the table. All my portable property seemed to be there, including the little gold reliquary which I'd carelessly carried in my

  pocket ever since I'd shown it to Thorndyke. My available funds were some four or five pounds, amply sufficient to get me home and to discharge my liability to the skipper as well. I swept the things back into the mug, which I returned to the locker, and having cut myself another thick slice of bread, proceeded with the largest breakfast that I've ever eaten. The skipper's forebodings were justified by the course of events. When I came on deck the breeze had died down to a mere

  faint breath, hardly sufficient to keep the big red mainsail asleep, as the pretty old nautical phrase has it. The skipper was still at the wheel, and Abel was anxiously taking soundings with a hand-led. You won't do it, Bill, said the letter, coiling up the lead line with an air of finality. This ear-breeze is a petering ride out. The skipper said nothing, but stared gloomily at the land which

  was now right ahead and much nearer than when I'd last looked, and from the land his eye traveled to a sandbank from which rose a tall post at the top of which was an inverted cone. Ought to have gone about a bit sooner, Bill, pursued Abel, whereupon the skipper turned on him fiercely. What's the good of saying that now? he demanded. If you'd had told me the wind was going to drop,

  I'd have gone about sooner. What order is there? Five fathom here, replied Abel. That means one and a quarter on the wool pack. You'd best shove her nose round now, Bill. Oh, all right, retorted the skipper. Leo, this is going to be an all-night job, this is.

  And with this gloomy prediction he spun the wheel round viciously and once more headed away from the land. Prophecy appeared to be the skipper's specialty, and, like most prophets, he tended to view the future with an unfavorable eye. Gradually the breeze died away into a dead calm so that we'd presently to let go the anchor,

  to avoid drifting onto a great sandbank which now lay between us and the land. And here we remained, not only for the rest of the day and the succeeding night, as the skipper had promised, but throughout the whole of the next day and following night. I've already remarked on the incalculable chances by which the cause of a man's life is determined.

  Looking back now, I see that the skipper's little miscalculation, and his failure to cross the wool pack shoal into the inshore channel, was an antecedent determining the most momentous consequences for me. For had the barge been becalmed in the inshore channel I could, and should, have landed in the boat and returned home forthwith.

  And if I had, certain events would not have happened, and my life might have run a very different course. As it was, miles of sea and the great bank known as the Margate Sand lay between me and the shore, whence I was committed to the wanderings and dallyings of the barge as irrevocably as if we were crossing the Pacific.

  We lay then in the Queen's channel outside Margate Sand for two whole days and nights, during which time the skipper and Abel slept much and smoked more, and young Ted, having cleaned and dried my clothes, inducted me into the art of bottom fishing. On the third day, a faint breath of breeze enabled us to crawl round the North Foreland, and the skipper, having elected to pass outside the Goodwin, managed to get becalmed again in the

  neighborhood of the East Goodwin Lightship. A little breeze at night enabled us to move on a few miles farther, and so we continued to crawl along at intervals, mainly on the tide, until nine o'clock in the morning of the fifth day, when we finally crawled into Fogsten Harbor. As soon as the barge was brought up to Aboy, young Ted was detailed to put me ashore in the boat.

  The skipper and Abel had insisted on treating me as a guest, and I had perforced to accept the position, but young Ted had no such pride, and when I ran up the wooden steps by the old fish market I left him on the stage below, staring with an incredulous grin at a gold coin in his non-too-delicate palm. I was not sorry to be landed in this unfashionable quarter of the town, for, in spite of

  young Ted's efforts, my turnout left much to be desired, especially in the matter of shirt-cofs and collar, and I was moreover headless and somewhat imperfectly shaved. Accordingly, I slunk inconspicuously past the market and the groups of lounging fishermen, and when I saw a well-dressed, ladylike woman preceding me into the little narrow street known as the Stade, I slackened my pace so as not to overtake her.

  She sauntered along with a leisurely air as if she were waiting for something or somebody, and this and the fact that she carried a light canvas portmanteau and a rug suggested to me that she was probably travelling by the cross-channel boat which was due to start presently. Suddenly my attention was diverted from her by a loud chattering and a series of shouts.

  A small crowd of men and women ran excitedly past the end of the little street. The clattering rapidly drew nearer, and then a horse with a light van swept round the corner, and, passing under an archway, advanced at a furious gallop. Evidently the horse had bolted and now, mad with terror, dashed forward with trailing reins, zigzagging erratically and making the van sway to and fro so that it took up the whole of the narrow

  street. The few wayfares darted into doorways and sheltered corners, and I was about to secure my own safety in a similar manner when I noticed that the woman in front of me had apparently become petrified with terror, for she stood stock still, gazing helplessly at the approaching horse. It was no time for ceremony.

  The infuriated animal and the swaying van were thundering up the street like an insane juggernaut. With a hasty apology I seized the woman from behind and half-dragged, half-carried her to the opening of a little yard beside a sail-loft, and even then I was hardly quick enough, for as the van roared past some protecting object struck me between the shoulders and sent me flying face downwards onto a pile of tar driftnet.

  I had had the presence of mind to let go as I was struck so that my fair prodigy was not involved in my downfall, but in a moment she was stooping over me, and with many expressions of concern, endeavouring to help me to rise. Beyond the thump in the back, however, I was not heard in the least, but picked myself up, grinning and turned to reassure her.

  And then I really did get a shock, for as I turned the woman gave a shriek and fell back on the steps of the sail-loft, gasping and staring at me with an expression of the utmost astonishment and terror. I suppose the accident had upset her nerves, but to be sure my own received, as I have said, a pretty severe shock, for the woman was Mrs. Samway. We remained for a moment or two gazing at one another in mute astonishment.

  Then I recollected myself and advanced to shake hands, but to my discomfiture she shrank away from me and began to sob and laugh in an unmistakably hysterical fashion. I must confess that I was somewhat surprised at these manifestations in so robust a woman as Mrs. Samway. Unreasonably so, indeed, for all womankind are more or less prone to hysteria,

  but whereas the normal woman tends to laugh and cry, the weaker vessels develop inexplicable diseases with a tendency to social reform and emancipation. I put on my best bedside manner, at once matter of fact and persuasive. You seem quite upset, I said, at all about nothing, for the poor beggar of a horse must be half a mile away by now.

  Yes, she answered shakily. It's ridiculous of me, but it was so sudden and so— Here she laughed noisily, and as the laugh ended in a pretentious sniff, I hastened to continue the conversation. Yes, it was a bit of a phaser to see that beast coming up the street as if it was Tottenham

  Corner. Why on earth didn't you get out of the way? I'm sure I don't know, she answered. I seemed to be paralysed and idiotic and— Here the laughter began again.

  Well, I interrupted cheerfully. You didn't get rolled on those tart nets, so that's something to be thankful for. This was a rather unlucky shot, for the semblance of facetiousness started a most alarming train of giggles, interrupted by rather loud sobs. But at this point a new curative influence made itself manifest.

  Two smack boys halted outside the opening and surveyed her with frank interest and pleased surprise. Simultaneously an elderly mariner appeared at the door of the sail loft, grasping a black bottle and a tea cup, and rather shyly descending the steps, suggested that perhaps a drop of spirits might do the lady good.

  Mrs. Samway bounced off the steps, her hitherto pale cheeks aflame with anger. I'm making a fool of myself, she exclaimed. Let us go away from here. She walked out into the street, and I, having thanked the old gentleman for his most efficacious remedy, followed.

  As soon as I called her up, she turned on me quickly and held out her hand. Goodbye, Dr. Jardine, she said, and thank you so very much for risking your life for a ratchet, giggling woman. Oh, you're not going to send me packing like this, I protested, when we've hardly said good morning. Besides, you're not fit to be left.

  But you're not to begin laughing again, I added, threateningly, for an ominous twitching of her mouth seemed to herald a relapse. Or I shall go back and get that black bottle. She shook her head impatiently, but without looking at me. I would rather you went away, Dr. Jardine, she said in an agitated voice.

  I would, really. I wish to be alone. Don't think me ungracious. I'm really most grateful to you, but I would rather you left me now. Of course, there was nothing more to be said.

  She was not really ill or in need of assistance, and probably her instinct was right. Hysteria is not one of those affections which waste their sweetness on the desert air. I shook her hand cordially, and, advising her to keep out of the way of stray vans and horses, once more pursued my way towards the town, meditating as I went on the oddity of the whole affair.

  It was an astonishing coincidence that I should have run against this woman in this out of the way place. I had left her but a few days since, apparently firmly rooted in the Hampstead road, and now, behold, as I step ashore from the barge, she is almost the first person that I meet. And yet the coincidence, which had evidently hit her as hard as it had me,

  like most coincidences, tended to disappear on closer inspection. The only really odd feature was my own presence in Folkestone. As to Mrs. Samway, she had probably been sent for by her husband, and was crossing by the boat that was now due to start. Her anxiety to get rid of me was more puzzling.

  Until I suddenly remembered my bare head, my crumpled collar, and generally raffish and disreputable appearance. The letter was, in fact, at this moment brought to my notice by a man with whom in my preoccupation I collided, who first uttered an impatient exclamation, and then, bestowing on me a quick stare of astonishment, muttered a hasty apology, and hurried past.

  The incident emphasized the necessity for some reform, and I amended my pace towards the region of shops in a very ferment of uncomfortable self-consciousness. With the purchase of a new hat, a collar, a pair of cuffs, a necktie, a pair of gloves and a stick, some faint glimmer of self-respect revived in me. I was even conscious of a temptation to linger in Folkestone and spend a few hours by the sea.

  But a sense of duty, aided by a large muddy stain on my coat, finally decided me to return to town at once. Accordingly, having sent off a telegram to my landlady, and ascertained that a train left for London in about twenty minutes, I betook myself to the station. There were comparatively few people travelling by this particular train.

  In fact, when I had established myself with the morning paper in the off-site corner seat of a smoking compartment, I began with an Englishman's proverbial unsociability to congratulate myself on the prospect of having the compartment to myself. When my hopes were dashed by the entrance of an elderly clergyman, who not only broke up my solitude, but aggravated the offence by quite unnecessarily seating himself opposite

  to me, I was almost tempted to move to another corner, for my length of leg gives an added value to space. But it seemed a rude thing to do, and as the train moved off at this moment I resigned myself to the trifling discomfort. My clerical friend was a somewhat uncommon-looking man, with a countenance at once strong and

  secretive, a rectangular, masterful face, with a bull-like julep and a small and very sharp Roman nose. On further inspection I decided that he was either a high-church parson or a Roman Catholic priest. His proceedings seemed to favour the latter hypothesis, for the train was barely out of

  the station before he had whisked out of his pocket an ecclesiastical-looking volume, which he opened at a marked place, and instantly began to read. I watched him with inquisitive interest, for his manner of reading was very singular. There was something habitual, almost mechanical about it, suggesting an allotted and familiar task, and a lack of concentration that suggested a corresponding lack of novelty in the matter.

  As he read, his lips moved, and now and again I called a faint whisper by which I gathered that he was reading rapidly. But the most singular phenomenon was that when his eyes strayed out of the carriage window, as they did at frequent intervals, his lips went on sputtering with unabated rapidity.

  Quite suddenly he appeared to come to the end of a sort of literary measured mile, for even as his lips were still moving, he clapped in the bookmark, shut the volume, and returned it to his pocket with a curious air of business-like finality. As his eyes were no longer occupied with the book, my observations had to be suspended, and my attention was now turned to my own affairs.

  Putting my hand in my coat pocket for my pipe and pouch, I became aware of a state of confusion in the said pocket which I had already noticed when making my purchases. The fact is that I had nearly come away from the barge without my portable property. It was only at the last moment that the skipper, remembering the mug, had fetched it hurriedly from the locker and shot its contents bodily into my coat pocket.

  The present seemed a good opportunity for distributing the various articles among their proper receptacles. Accordingly, I turned out the whole pocketful on the seat by my side, and a remarkably miscellaneous collection they formed, comprising knives, pencils, matchbox, keys, the minor implements of my craft, and various other objects, useful and useless, including the

  little gold reliquary. My neighbour opposite was, I think, quite interested in my proceedings, though he kept up a dignified pretense of being entirely unaware of my existence. Only for a while, however. Suddenly he sat up, very wide awake, and slewing his head around, stared with undisguised

  intentness at my little collection. I guessed at once what it was that had attracted his attention. A cleric would not be thrilled by the sight of a clinical thermometer or an ophthalmoscope. It was the reliquary that had caught his eye. That was an article in his own line of business.

  With deliberate mischief, I left the little bauble exposed to view as I very slowly and methodically conveyed the other things one by one, each to its established pocket. Last of all, I picked up the reliquary and held it irresolutely, as if debating where I should stow it. And at this point his reverence intervened, unable any longer to contain his curiosity.

  That is a very remarkable little object, sir, he said in excellent Anglo-German. Might one presume to ask what this uses? I handed the reliquary to him, and he took it from me with ill-disguised eagerness. I understand, said I, that it is a reliquary. But you probably know more about such things than I do.

  I haven't opened it, so I can't say what is inside. He nodded gravely. So, I am glad to hear you say that. Probably there is inside some holy relic which ought not to be touched excepting by his hand. He turned the case over, and putting on a pair of spectacles, which he had not appeared to

  require for reading, closely scrutinized the inscriptions, and even the wisp of cord that remained attached to one of the rings. You say, he resumed without raising his eyes, that you understand that this is a reliquary. Do you not say no? The person who gave it to you, did he not tell you what it contained?

  It wasn't given to me at all, I replied. In fact, it isn't properly mine. I picked it up, and am merely keeping it until I find the owner. He pondered this statement with a degree of profundity that seemed rather out of proportion to its matter, and he continued to gaze at the reliquary, never once raising his eyes to mine.

  At length, after a considerable pause and a most unnecessary amount of reflection, he asked, Might one ask, if you shall pardon my curiosity, where you found this little object? I hesitated before replying. My first and natural impulse was to tell him exactly where and under what circumstances I had found the object.

  But the way in which my information had been received by the police had made me rather cheery of offering confidences, besides which I had half promised them not to talk about the affair. And after all, it was no business of these good gentlemen's where I found it. My answer was therefore not very explicit.

  I picked it up in a lane at Hampstead, near London. At Hampstead? he repeated. So, that would be a very good place to find such things. I mean, he added hastily, there are many people in that place, and some of them will be of the old religion.

  Now, this last remark was such palpable nonsense that it set me speculating on what he had intended to say, for it was obvious that he had altered his mind in the middle of the sentence and completed it with the first words that came to hand. However, as I could read no sense into it at all, I said that perhaps he was right, which seemed an eminently safe rejoinder to an unintelligible statement.

  When he had finished his minute examination of the reliquary, he handed it back to me with such evident reluctance that, if it had been mine, I should have been tempted to ask him to accept it. But it was not mine. I was only a trustee.

  So I made no remark, but watched him as he very deliberately took off his spectacles and returned them to their case, looking meanwhile at the floor with an air of deep abstraction. He appeared to be thinking hard, and I was quite curious as to what his next remark would be. A considerable interval elapsed before he spoke again.

  But at last the remark came, in the form of a question, and very disappointing it was. You are not, perhaps, very much interested in relics and reliquaries. As a matter of fact, I didn't care too straws for either the one or the other, but there was no need to put it as strongly as that. We are apt, I replied, to find the lack of interest in subjects of which we are ignorant.

  That was a fine sentence. It might have come straight out of Sanford and Merton. That is what I think too, he rejoined. We do not know. We do not care.

  But there is a very excellent little book which explains all the customs and ceremonies connected with the relics of the saints. I should like you to read that book. Will you permit me to send you a copy, which I have? Of course I said I should be delighted.

  It's an outrageous falsehood, but what else could I say? Then, said he, I shall have great pleasure in sending it to you, if you will kindly tell me how I shall address it. I presented him with my card, which he read very attentively before bestowing it in his pocketbook. I see, he remarked, that you are a doctor of medicine.

  It is a fine profession if one does not too much forget the spiritual life in caring for that of the body. In this I acquiesced vaguely, and the conversation drifted into detached common places, finally petering out as we approached Paddock Wood, where my reverend acquaintance bought a newspaper and underwent a total eclipse behind it.

  As soon as the train started again I took up my own paper, and the very first glance at it gave me a shock of surprise that sent all other matters clean out of my mind. It was an advertisement in the column headed personal that attracted my attention, an advertisement that commenced with the word missing in large type, and went on to offer two hundred pounds reward, thus missing two hundred pounds reward.

  Whereas on the fourteenth instant Dr Humphrey Jardine disappeared from his home and his usual places of resort, the above reward will be paid to any person who shall give information as to his whereabouts if alive, or the whereabouts of his body if he is dead. He was last seen at 12.20 pm on the above date in the Hampstead Road, and was then walking towards Euston Road.

  The missing man is about twenty-six years of age, is somewhat over six feet in height, of medium complexion, has brown hair, grey eyes, straight nose, and a rather thin face, which is clean shaved. He was wearing a dark tweed suit and a soft felt hat. Information should be given to Hector Brodrip, Esquire, 65, New Square, Lincoln's Inn,

  by whom the above reward will be paid. Here was a pretty state of affairs. It seemed that while I was placidly taking events as they came, smoking the skipper's tobacco and bottom fishing with young Ted, my escapade had been producing somewhere a most almighty splash.

  I read the advertisement again, with a self-conscious grin, and out of it there arose one or two rather curious questions. In the first place, who the deuce was Hector Brodrip, and what concern was I of his, and how came he to know that I was walking down Hampstead Road at 12.20 on the fourteenth instant? I felt very little doubt it was actually Thorndyke who was tweaking the strings of the

  Brodribrian puppet, but even this left the mystery unsolved. For how did Thorndyke know? This was only the fifth day after my disappearance, and it would seem that there had hardly been time for exhaustive inquiries. Then another highly interesting fact emerged.

  The only person who had seen me walk away down Hampstead Road was Sylvia Vine, whence it followed that Thorndyke, or the mysterious Brodrip, had in some way got into touch with her. And reflecting on this, the mechanism of the inquiry came into view. The connecting link was of course the sketch. Thorndyke had himself left the canvas with Mr. Robinson, the artist's color man,

  and he must have called to inquire if I had collected it. Then he would have been told of my meeting with Miss Vine, and as she was a regular customer, Mr. Robinson would have been able to give him her address. It was all perfectly simple, the only remarkable feature being the extraordinary promptitude with which the inquiry had been carried out,

  which went to show how much more clearly Thorndyke had realized the danger that surrounded me than I had myself. These various reflections gave me full occupation during the remainder of the journey, extending themselves into consideration of how I should act in the immediate future. My first duty was obviously to report myself to Thorndyke without delay,

  after which I persuaded myself it would be highly necessary for me personally to reassure the fair and perhaps anxious Sylvia. As to how this was to be managed, I was not quite clear, and in spite of the most profound cogitation, I had reached no conclusion when the train rumbled into Charing Cross Station.

  End of chapter 11

• 12 - Chapter XII - Miss Vyne

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  CHAPTER XII. MISS VINE. As I stepped out onto the platform with a valedictory bow to my reverend fellow-passenger, my irresolution came to an end, and my duty became clear. I must, in common decency, report myself at once to Thorndyke, seeing that he had been

  in so much trouble on my account. His card, which he had given me, I had unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, as it turned out, left on the mantelpiece at my lodgings, but I remembered that the address was King's Bench Walk, and assumed that I should have no difficulty in finding the house. Nor had I, for as I entered the temple by the Tudor street gate, having overshot my

  mark on the embankment, I was almost immediately confronted by a fine brick doorway surmounted by a handsome pediment, and bearing legibly painted on its jamb. First Pair, Dr. Thorndyke. I ascended the first pair of stairs, which brought me to an open oak door, massive and iron-bound, and a closed inner door, on the brass knocker of which I executed a flourish

  that would have done credit to a Belgravean footman, whereupon the door opened and a small man of sedate and clerical aspect regarded me with an air of mild enquiry. Is Dr. Thorndyke at home? I asked. No, sir, he is at the hospital. Dr. Jervis?

  Is watching a case in the probate court? Perhaps you would like to leave a message, or write a note? A message in writing would be preferable. I don't know that it is necessary, said I. My name is Jardine, and if you tell him that I called, that will probably be enough. The little man gave me a quick bird-like glance of obviously heightened interest.

  If you are Dr Humphrey Jardine, said he, I think a few explanatory words would be acceptable. The doctor has been extremely uneasy about you. A short note and an appointment, either here or at the hospital, would be desirable. With this he stepped back, holding the door invitingly open, and I entered, wondering who the deuce this primal cathedral dean might be, with his persuasive manners and

  his quaintly precise forms of speech. He placed a chair for me at the table, and, having furnished me with writing materials, stood a little way off, unobtrusively examining me as I wrote. I had finished the short letter, closed it up and addressed it, and was rising to go, when, almost automatically, I took out my watch and glanced at it. Of course it had stopped. Can you tell me the time? I asked. My acquaintance drew out his own watch and replied deliberately.

  Seventeen minutes and forty seconds past one. He paused for a moment and then added, I hope, sir, you have not got any water in your watch. I'm afraid I have, I replied, rather taken aback by the rapidity of his diagnosis. But I'll just wind it up to make sure. Oh, don't do that, sir, he exclaimed. Allow me to examine it before you disturb the movement.

  He whipped out of his pocket a watchmaker's eyeglass, which miraculously glued itself to his eye, and, having taken a brief glance at the opened watch, produced a minute pocket screwdriver and a sheet of paper, and, in the twinkling of an eye, as it seemed to me, the paper was covered with dismembered structures which had in their totality formed my timepiece. It's quite a small matter, sir, was his report, as he rose from his inspection and pocketed his

  eyeglass. Just a speck or two of rust, if you will take my watch for the present. I will have your own in going order by the next time you call. It seemed an odd transaction, but the little man's manner, though quiet, was so decisive that I took his proffered watch, and, affixing it to my chain, thanked him for his kindness and departed, wondering if it was possible that this prim clerical little person could possibly be the tame mechanic of whom Thorndyke had spoken.

  Travelling in London was comparatively slow in those days, which perhaps was none the worse for a near and pleasant suburb like Hampstead. It had turned half past two when I let myself into my lodgings with a rather rusty key, and almost literally fell into the arms of Mrs. Blunt. I feared for a moment that she was going to kiss me, but that was a false alarm. What she actually did was to seize both my hands and burst into tears at such violence as to cover me with

  confusion and cause the servant maid to rise like a domestic and highly inquisitive apparition from the kitchen stairs. I pacified Mrs. Blunt as well as I could and shook hands heartily with the maid, who thereupon retired, much gratified, to the underworld, whence presently issued an odour suggestive of sacrificial rites, not entirely unconnected with fried onions and accompanied by an agreeable hissing sound.

  But where ever have you been all this time? Mrs. Blunt asked as she proceeded me up the stairs, wiping her eyes. And why didn't you send us a line just to say that you were all right? To this question I made a somewhat guarded answer in so far as the cause of my immersion in the river was concerned. Otherwise I gave her a fairly correct account of my adventures. Well, well, was her comment. I suppose it was all for the best,

  but I do think those sailors might have put you on shore somewhere. Dear me, what a time it has been! I couldn't sleep at night for thinking of you, and what Susan and I have eaten between us wouldn't have kept a sparrow alive. And Dr. Thorn died too. I'm sure he was very anxious and worried about you, though he's such a quiet, self-contained man that you can't tell what he's thinking of.

  And Lord, what a lot of questions he do ask, to be sure. By the way, how did he come to know that I was missing? Why, I told him, of course, when you didn't come home that night, which Susan and me set up for you until three in the morning. I thought there must be something wrong, you being so regular in your habits.

  So next day, the very first thing, I took his card from your mental piece, and down I went to his office and told him what had happened. He came up here that evening to see if you'd come home, and he's been here every day since to inquire. Has he really?

  Yes, in a handsome cab, every single day. And so has the young lady. The young lady? I exclaimed. What young lady? Mrs. Blunt regarded me with something as nearly approaching a wink as can be imagined,

  in association with an elderly female of sedate aspect. Now, she protested slyly, as if you didn't know. What young lady, indeed? Why, Miss Vine, to be sure, and a very sweet young lady she is, and talk to me just as simple and friendly as if she'd been an ordinary young woman.

  How do you know that she isn't an ordinary young woman? I asked. Mrs. Blunt was shocked. Do you suppose, Mr. Jardine, sir, she demanded severely, that I, who've been a pet parlour maid in a county family where my poor husband was coachman,

  don't know a real gentlewoman when I meet one? You surprise me, sir. I apologized hastily, and suggested that, as so many kind inquiries had been made, the least I could do was to call and return thanks without delay. Certainly, sir, Mrs. Blunt agreed.

  But not until you've had your lunch. It's a small porterhouse steak, she added, alluringly, being evidently suspicious of my intentions. The announcement, seconded by an appetizing whiff from below, reminded me that I was prodigiously sharp-set, having tasted no food since I'd come ashore at

  Folkestone, and put the grosser physiological needs of the body for the moment in the ascendant. But even as I was devouring the steak with voracious gusto, my mind occupied itself with plans for a strategic descent on the abode of the fair Sylvia, and with speculations on the reception I should get. And the noise of water running into the bath formed a pleasing accompaniment to the final mouthfuls. When I'd bathed, shaved, and attired myself in carefully selected garments,

  I set forth, as smart and spruce as the frog that would a-wooing go, saving the opera head, which would have been inappropriate to the occasion. The distance to Sylvia's house was not great, and a pair of long and rapidly moving legs consumed it to such purpose that it was still quite reasonable calling-time when I opened the gate of the Hawthorns and gave a modest pull at the bell. My summons was answered by a rather foolish-looking

  maid, by whom I was informed that Miss Vine was at home, and when I'd given her my name, which she seemed disposed to confuse with that of a well-known edible fish, she ushered me down a passage to a room at the back of the house, and opening the door, announced me. Correctly, I was glad to note, whereupon I assumed an ingratiating smile and entered. Now, there is nothing more disconcerting than a total failure of agreement between anticipation and realization. Unconsciously,

  I pictured to myself the easy-managed genius Sylvia, seated perhaps at an easel or table, working on one of her pictures, and had prepared myself for a reception quite simple, friendly, and unembarrassing. Confidently and entirely at my ease, I walked in through the doorway, and there the pleasant vision faded, leaving me with a smile frozen on my face, staring in consternation at one of the most appalling old women that it has ever been my

  misfortune to encounter. I am, in general, rather afraid of old women. They are, to my mind, a rather alarming class of creature, but the present specimen exceeded my wildest nightmares. It was not merely that she was seated unnaturally in the exact center of the room, and that she sat with the unhuman immobility, moving no muscle and uttering no sound as I entered, though that was somewhat embarrassing. It was her strange, forbidding appearance that utterly

  shattered my self-possession, and seemed to disturb the very marrow in my bones. She was a most remarkable-looking person. An immense Roman nose, a mop of frizzy grey fringe, and a lofty surmounting cap or headdress of some kind, suggested that monstrous and unreal bird the helmeted hornbill, and the birdlike character was heightened by her eyes, which were small and glittering, and set in the midst of a multitude of radiating wrinkles.

  To this most alarming person I made a low bow, and dropped my stick, of which the maid had neglected to relieve me, and through which I had found no appointed receptacle. As I stooped hastily to pick it up, my hat slipped from my grasp, and, urged by the devil that possessed disengaged hats, instantly rolled under a deep ottoman, once I had to hook it out with the handle of my stick. I rose, perspiring with embarrassment, to confront that immovable figure,

  and found the glittering eyes fixed on me attentively, but without any sign of expression of human emotion. Haultingly I assayed to stammer out an explanation of my visit. Er, I have, erm, called. Here I paused to collect my ideas, and the old lady watched me stonily, without offering any remark. Indeed, no comment was needed on a statement so self-evidently true. After a brief and hideous silence, I began again. I, erm, thought it desirable,

  and in fact necessary, and, erm, proper, to call, erm, and, here my ideas again petered out, and a horrid silence ensued, amidst which I heard a still, emotionless voice murmur, Yes, and you have accordingly called. Exactly, I agreed, grasping eagerly at the slenderest straw of suggestion. I have called to, erm, well, the fact is that my, erm, very remarkable absence

  seemed to call for some explanation, especially as certain inquiries, erm, At this point I stopped suddenly with a horrible doubt as to whether I was not saying more than was discreet, and the misgiving was intensified by that chilly, calm voice framing the question, inquiries made personally. Now this was a face. I seemed to have put my foot in it at the first lead of, supposing Sylvie had said nothing about her little visits to Mrs. Blunt.

  It would never do to give her away to this inquisitorial old waxwork. I endeavoured to temporise. Well, I stammered, not exactly made personally to me. By letter, perhaps, the voice suggested in the same even, impassive tone. Erm, no, not by letter. There was a short, embarrassing pause, and then the old lady, as if summing up the case, said frigidly, not exactly personally, and not by letter. I was so utterly confounded by her

  judicial manner, her immovable, expressionless face, and the hypnotic quality of those glittering eyes, that for the moment I could think of nothing to say. Don't let me interrupt you, said she, after some seconds of agonised silence on my part, whereupon I pulled myself together and made a fresh start. I should perhaps have explained that I've been unavoidably absent from home for some time, and as I was unable to communicate

  with my friends, I have, I'm afraid, caused them some anxiety. It was this that seemed to make it necessary for me to call and give an account of myself. She pondered a while on this statement. If a graven image can be said to ponder, and at length inquired, you spoke of your friends. Are any of them known to me? Well, I replied, I was referring more particularly to your daughter. She continued to regard me

  fixedly, and after a brief interval rejoined, you are referring to my daughter. But I do not recall the existence of any such person. I think you must be mistaken. It seemed extremely probable, and I hastened to amend the description. I beg your pardon, I should have said Miss Vine, but perhaps she's not at home. You are evidently mistaken, was the paralysing reply. I am Miss Vine, and I need not add that I am at home. But, I demanded despairingly,

  is there not another Miss Vine? There is not, she answered. But it is possible that you are referring to Miss Sylvia Vine. Is that so? I replied so clearly that it was, and being somewhat nettled by this unnecessary and rather offensive hair splitting, offered no further remark. How the conversation would have proceeded after this I cannot even surmise, but it did not proceed at all, for the embarrassing silence was brought to an end

  by a very agreeable interruption. The door opened softly, and for one moment Sylvia herself stood framed in the portal. Then, with a little cry, she ran towards me with her hands held out impulsively, and the prettiest smile of welcome. So it is really you, she exclaimed. That silly little goose of a mate has only just told me you were here. I am glad to see you. When did you graciously please the descent from the clouds?

  I arrived home this afternoon, and as soon as I changed and had lunch I came here to report myself. How nice of you, said Sylvia. I suppose you guessed how anxious we should be. I didn't presume to think that you would actually be anxious about me, I replied, with a furtive eye on the waxwork, though I knew that you had been kind enough to express an interest in my fate. What a cold, bloodily polite way to put it, laughed Sylvia. Express an interest indeed.

  We were most dreadfully worried about you. To a somewhat friendless man like myself, this sympathetic warmth was very delightful, and my pleasure was not appreciably damned when a chill, emotionless voice affirmed. The use of the first person singular would, I think, be preferable. Sylvia turned on her aunt with mock ferocity. Well, really, she exclaimed. You are a dreadful imposter, Mopsy dear. Just listen to her,

  Dr. Jardine, and if you had only seen what a twitter she was in as the time went on and no news came. I gasped, and the hair seemed to stir on my scalp. Mopsy, the name was obviously not applied to me, but could it be? Was it possible that such a name could be associated with that terrific old lady? It was inconceivable. It was positively profane. It was almost as if one should presume to address the deity as old chap. I could hardly believe my ears. I glanced at her nervously

  and caught her glittering eye, but the grotesque face was as immovable as everlasting granite, though indeed by some ventriloquial magic the word rubbish managed to disengage itself from her person. It isn't rubbish, retorted Sylvia. It's the plain truth. We were both worried to death about you, and no wonder. Dr. Thorndyke was very quiet, a matter of fact, but there was no disguising his fear that something dreadful had happened to you. And then there was the advertisement

  in the papers. Did you see that? I was nothing to grin about. You've given us all a nice fright, and me especially, because of course I naturally thought of that ruffian from whom you had rescued me in the lane. But he never saw me. You don't know. He may have done. At any rate, he owes an explanation. So when the tea comes in, you shall give us the true story of your adventures. I hope you've let Dr. Thorndyke know about your resurrection. I reassured her on this point, and as the goose of

  a mate now brought in the tea, I proceeded to pitch my yarn, as the skipper had expressed it, without those reservations that I'd considered necessary in the case of Mrs. Blunt. The old lady, having been unmasked by Sylvia, developed a slight tendency to thaw. She even condescended, in a rigid and effigian fashion, to consume bread and butter, a proceeding that seemed to me weirdly incongruous, as though one should steal into the British Museum in off hours and find a seeded

  statue of Eminhotep III in the act of refreshing itself with a sandwich and a glass of beer. But I was less terrified of her now, since I'd gathered that a core of warm humanity was somewhere concealed within that grim exterior, and even though her little sparkling eyes were fixed on me immovably, I told my story to the end without flinching. Sylvia listened to my narration with a rapt attention that greatly flattered my vanity and made me feel like a very Othello,

  and when I had finished she regarded me for a while silently and with an air of speculation. It's a queer affair, she said at length, and there is a smack of mystery and romance about it that is rather refreshing in these commonplace days. But I don't like it. Adventure is all very well, but there seems to have been a deliberate attempt to make away with you, unless you think it may have been a piece of silly horse-play that went farther than it was meant to.

  That is quite possible, I replied untruthfully, for I didn't think anything of the sort and only made this evasive answer to avoid raising other and more delicate issues. I hope that is the explanation, said Sylvia, though it sounds rather a lame one. You would know if you had an enemy who might wish to get rid of you. I suppose you don't know of any such person? It was a rather awkward question. I didn't want to tell an untruth, but on the other hand I knew

  that Thulnaik would not wish to have my affairs discussed while his investigations were in progress, so I hedged once more, replying quite truthfully that I was not acquainted with anyone who bore me the slightest ill-will. My adventures done with, the talk drifted into other channels and presently came round to the little crucifix that had been the occasion of Sylvia's disagreeable experience in the lane. In spite of my confusion, I had noticed on first entering the room that the

  old lady was wearing suspended from her neck a small enameled crucifix and had instantly identified it and wondered not a little that she should be thus despoting herself in borrowed ornaments. But when Sylvia had arrived, behold, the original crucifix was hanging on its chain from her neck. From time to time during my recital my eyes had wandered from one to the other, seeking some difference or variation but finding none, and at length my inquisitive glances caught

  the younger lady's attention. I can see, Dr. Jardine, said she, that you're eaten up with curiosity about the crucifix that my aunt is wearing. Now confess, aren't you? I am, I admitted. When I first came in I naturally thought it was yours. Is it a copy? Certainly not, said Miss Vine, the elder. They are duplicates. Sylvia laughed. You'd better not talk about copies, said she. My aunt has only acquired her treasure lately,

  and she is as proud of it as a peacock. Aren't you, dear? The sensations of a peacock, replied Miss Vine, are unknown to me. I am very gratified at possessing the ornament. Gratified indeed, said Sylvia. I consider such vanity most unsuitable to a person of your age, but they are very charming. There is quite a little story attached to them.

  My father and a cousin of his. By marriage, interposed Miss Vine. You needn't insist on that, said Sylvia, as if poor old Vitalia were a person to be ashamed of. Well, my father and his cousin were at a Jesuit school in Belgium, at Leuven, in fact, and among the teachers in the school was an Italian Jesuit named Gicchiolli.

  Now the respected Gicchiolli, Olli, interposed Miss Vine in a severe voice. Olli, continued Sylvia, had formerly been a goldsmith, and the father superior, with that keen eye to the main chance which you may have noticed among professed religious, furnished him with a little workshop and employed him in making monstrances, theorables, and church plate in general. It was he who made these two crucifixes,

  and with the father superior's consent he gave one to my father and the other to the cousin as parting gifts on their leaving school. As the boys were inseparable friends, the two crucifixes were made absolute duplicates of one another, with the single exception that each had the owner's name engraved on the back. When my poor father died, his crucifix became mine, and a short time ago his cousin,

  who's now getting an old man, took a fancy that he would like the two crucifixes to be together once more, and gave his to my aunt. So here they are, after all these years, under one roof again. As she finished speaking, she detached the crucifix from her neck, and, having given it to me to examine, proceeded to remove its fellow from the neck of the elder lady, who not only submitted quite passively but seemed to be unaware of the transaction, and handed that to me also.

  I laid them side by side in my palm and compared them, but could not detect the slightest difference between them. They were complete duplicates. Each was a Latin cross with trifoiled extremities, wrought from a single piece of gold and enriched with Champlevay enamel. The body of the cross was filled with a ground of deep translucent blue, from which the figure stood out in rather low relief, and the space between each of the trefoils was occupied by a

  single Greek letter, Iota and Chi at the top and bottom respectively, and at the ends of the horizontal arm, Alpha and Omega. On turning them over, I saw that the back of each, borne engraved inscription, carried across the horizontal arm, that on Sylvia's reading A.M. Robertus, D.G., while that on the other read A.M. Vitalis, D.G. They are very charming little things, I said, as I returned them to Sylvia, and it was a pretty idea

  of the old jesuit to make them both alike for the two friends. I suppose he didn't make any more of them for his other pupils. What makes you ask that? demanded Sylvia. I am thinking of that man in the lane. He must have had some reason for claiming the crucifix as his, one would think, and as these are quite unlike any ordinary commercial jewellery, this suggestion is that the worthy Giglioli was tempted to repeat his successes. What do you think?

  I think, said Miss Vine, that the suggestion is inadmissible. Father Giglioli was an artist, and an artist does not repeat himself. I am inclined to agree with my aunt, said Sylvia. An artist does not care to repeat a design, excepting for a definite purpose, as in the case of these duplicates, especially when the thing designed is intended as a gift. To this I gave a somewhat qualified assent, though I found the argument far from convincing, and as I had made

  a very long visitation, especially for a first call, I now rose to the part. I hope I may be allowed to come and see you again, I vented to say, as Miss Vine raised a sort of semaphore arm to my extended hand. I see no reason why you should not, she replied judicially. You seem to be a well-disposed young man, though indiscreet. Good afternoon. I bowed differentially, and then, to my gratification, was escorted as far as the garden gate by Sylvia, who evidently wished to

  gather my impressions of her relative, for as she let me out, she asked with a mischievous smile, What do you think of my aunt, Dr. Jardine? She is rather a terrifying old lady, I replied. Sylvia giggled delightedly. She does look an awful old griffin, doesn't she? But it's all nonsense, you know. She's really a dear old thing, and as soft as butter. Well, I said, she conceals the fact most perfectly. She does. She's a most complete imposter.

  I'll tell you a secret, Dr. Jardine, Sylvia added in a mysterious whisper as we shook hands over the gate. She trades on her nose. I've told her so. Her nose is her fortune, and she plays it for all it's worth. Good-bye, or rather au revoir, for you've promised to come and see us again. With a bright little nod she turned and ran up the garden path, still chuckling softly at her joke, and I wended homewards, very well pleased with the circumstances of my

  visit, despite the soul-shaking incidents with which it had opened. End of chapter 12.

• 13 - Chapter XIII - A Mysterious Stranger

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  CHAPTER XIII. A MYSTERIOUS STRANGER. On the following morning I betook myself to the hospital, intending to call later in the day at Dr. Thorndyke's chambers. But that visit turned out to be unnecessary, for, as I ran my eye over the names on the attendance board in the entrance hall, I saw that Thorndyke was in the building, although it was not the day on which he lectured. I found him, as

  I had expected, in the museum, and was greeted with a hearty grip of the hand and a welcome, the warmth of which gratified me exceedingly. "'Well, Jardine,' he said, "'you've given us all a pretty fine shake-up. I've never more believed in my life than I was when my man Poulton gave me your note. But you seem to have had another fairly close shave. What a fellow you are, to be sure. You seem to

  be as tenacious of life as the proverbial cat.' "'So that little archbishop is your man Poulton, is he?' "'Yes, and a most remarkable man, Jardine, and simply invaluable to me, though he ought to be in a very different position. But I think he is quite happy with me, especially now that he has got your watch to experiment on. You will see that watch again some day,

  when he has rated it to half a second. And meanwhile, let us go into the curator's room and reconstitute your adventures.' The curator's room was empty at the moment. Empty, that is to say, so far as human denizens were concerned. Otherwise it was decidedly full. The usual wilderness of glass jars, sepulchral slate tanks, bones in all stages of preparation, and unfinished specimens being

  supplemented by that all-pervading, unforgettable odour peculiar to curator's rooms, compounded of alcohol and mortality, and suggesting a necropolis for deceased dypsomaniacs. Tholndyke seated himself on a well-polished stool by the workbench, and, motioning me to another, bade me speak on. Which I did in exhaustive detail, giving him a minute history of my experiences from the time of my parting from Sylvia to the present moment, not omitting

  my encounter with Mrs. Samway and the clerical gentleman that train. He listened to my narrative in his usual silent, attentive fashion, making no comments and asking no questions until I had finished, when he cross-examined me on one or two points of detail. With regard to Mrs. Samway, he asked, did you gather that she was crossing by the Boulogne boat? I inferred that she was, but she said nothing on the subject. He nodded, and then

  asked, do I understand that you never saw your assailant at all? I never got the slightest glimpse of him. In fact, I could not say whether the person who attacked me was a man or a woman, excepting that the obvious strength and the method of attack suggest a man. To this he made no reply, but sat awhile absorbed in thought. It was evident that he was deeply interested in the affair, not only on my account, but by reason of the curious problems that

  it offered for a solution. Indeed, his next remark was to this effect. It is a most singular case, Jardine, he said. So much of it is perfectly clear, and yet so much more is unfathomable mystery. But just now the speculative interest is overshadowed by the personal. I am rather doubtful as to what we ought to do. It almost looks as if you ought not to be at large. I hope so. You don't suggest shutting me up, I exclaimed

  with a grin. That was in my mind, he answered. You are evidently in considerable danger, and you are not as cautious as you ought to be. I shall be mighty cautious after this experience, I rejoined, and you have yourself implied that I have nine lives. Even so, he retorted, you have played away a third of them pretty rapidly. If you are not more careful of the other six, I shall have to put you somewhere out of harm's way. Do, for goodness

  sake, Jardine, keep away from unpopulated places, and see that no stranger gets near enough to have you at a disadvantage? I promised him to keep a constant watch for suspicious strangers and to avoid all solitary neighbourhoods and ill-lighted thoroughfares, and shortly after this we separated to go our respective ways, he back to the museum and I to the surgical wards. For some time after this, the record of my daily life furnishes nothing but a

  chronicle of small beer. I had resumed pretty regular attendance at the hospital, setting forth for my lodgings in the morning and returning thither as the late afternoon merged into evening, taking the necessary exercise in the form of the long walk to and from the hospital and keeping close indoors at night. It began to look as though my adventures were at an end and life were settling down to the old familiar drug-trot. And yet the beer was

  not quite so small as it looked. Coming events cast their shadows before them, but often enough those shadows were a shape ill-defined and vague and so creep on unnoticed. Thus it was in these days of apparent inaction, though even then there were certain little happenings at which I looked askance. Such an episode occurred within a few days of my return and gave me considerable food for thought. I had climbed on to the yellow bus in the

  Toffam Court Road and was seated on the top, smoking my pipe, when, as we passed up the Hampstead Road, I noticed a woman looking into the window of Mr. Robinson, the artist's color man. Something familiar or distinctive in the pose of the figure made me glance a second time. And then I think my eyes must have grown more and more round with astonishment as the bus gradually drew me out of range, for the woman was undoubtedly Mrs. Samway.

  It was really a most surprising affair. This good lady seemed to be ubiquitous, to fly hither and thither and drop from the clouds as if she were the possessor of a magic carpet. Apparently she had not gone to Bologna after all, or if she had her stay on the Continent must have been uncommonly short. But if she had not crossed on the boat, what was she doing in Folkestone? It was all very well to say that she had as much right to be in

  Folkestone as I had. That was true enough, but it was a lame conclusion and no explanation at all. It was my custom, as I've said, to walk from my lodgings to the hospital, a distance of some five miles, but this was practicable only in fine weather. On wet days I took the tram from the Duke of St. Albans and beguiled the slow journey by reading one of my textbooks and observing the manners and customs of my fellow passengers. Such a day was the one

  that followed the reappearance of Mrs. Samway. A persistent drizzle put my morning walk out of the question and sent me reluctant but resigned to seek the shelter of the tram, where having settled myself with a volume of gold surgical diagnosis, I began to read to the accompaniment of the monotonous rhythm of the horses' hoofs and the sleepy jingle of their bells. From time to time I looked up for my book to take a glance at the other

  occupants of the steamy interior, and on each occasion that I did so I caught the eye of my opposite neighbour, roving over my person as if taking an inventory of my apparel. Whenever he caught my eye he immediately looked away, but the next time I glanced up I was sure to find him once more engaged in a leisurely examination of me. There was nothing remarkable in this. People who sit opposite in a public vehicle unconsciously regard one another as

  I was doing myself, but when I had met my neighbour's eye a dozen times or more I began to grow annoyed at his persistent inspection and, finally shutting up my book, proceeded to retaliate in kind. This seemed to embarrass him considerably. Avoiding my steady gaze his eyes flitted to and fro, passing restlessly from one part of the vehicle to another, and then it was that my medical eye noted the fact that gave an intrinsic interest to the

  inspection. The man had what is called an nystagmus, that is, a peculiar oscillatory movement of the eyeball. As his eyes passed quickly from object to object they did not both counter-rest instantaneously, but the right eye stopped with a sort of vertical stagger as if the bearings were loose. The condition is not a very common one, and the one-sided variety is decidedly rare. It is usually associated with some defect of vision

  or habitual strain of the eye muscles, as in minor nystagmus. Whence my discovery naturally led to a further survey and speculation as to the cause of the condition in the present case. The man was obviously not a minor. His hands, with the cigarette-stain as I noticed on the left middle finger, were much too delicate, and yet not in any way the appearance of a labourer. Then the spasm must be due to some defect of eyesight, yet he was not near sighted

  for, as we passed a church at some distance, I saw him glance out through the doorway at the clock and compare it with his watch. And again I noticed that he took out his watch with his left hand. Then perhaps he had a blind eye or unequal vision in the two eyes. This seemed the most likely explanation, and I had hardly proposed it to myself when the chance was given to me to verify it. Confused by my persistent examination of him, my unwilling

  patient suddenly produced a newspaper from his pocket and, clapping a pair of pinsnay on his nose, began to read. Those pinsnay gave me the required information, for I could see that one glass was strongly convex while the other was nearly plain. The question of my friend's eyesight being disposed of, I began to debate the significance of that stain of the left middle finger. Was he left-handed? It did not follow, though it seemed likely.

  And then I found myself noting the manner in which he held his paper, until, becoming suddenly conscious of the absurdity of the whole affair, I impatiently picked up my book and reverted to the diagnosis of renal calculus. I was becoming, I reflected disparagingly, as inquisitive as Thorndyke himself, from whom I seemed to have caught some infection that impelled me thus to concern myself with the trifling peculiarities of total strangers.

  The trivial incident would probably have faded from my recollection but for another, equally trivial, which occurred a day or two later. I was returning home by way of Tottenham Court Road and had nearly reached the crossing at the north end, when I suddenly remembered that I had come to the last of my notebooks. The shop at which I obtained them was in Gowers Street, hard by, and as the thought of the books occurred to me, I turned abruptly and,

  running across the road, strode quickly down a by-street that led to the shop. As I came out into Gowers Street, I noticed a small but rapidly augmenting crowd on the pavement, and elbowing my way through, found at its centre a man lying on the ground, writhing in the convulsions of an epileptic fit. I proceeded to ward off the well-meant attentions of the usual excited bystanders who were pulling open his hands and trying to sit him up, and

  I set thrust the corner of a folded newspaper between his teeth to prevent him from biting his tongue when a constable arrived on the scene, upon which, as the officer bore on his sleeve the badge of the St John's Ambulance Society, I gave him a few directions and began to back out of the crowd. At this moment I became aware of a pressure behind me and a suspicious fumbling, strongly suggestive, of the presence of a pickpocket. Instantly

  I turned right about and directed a searching look at the people behind me, and especially at a bearded nondescript person who seemed also to be backing out of the crowd. He gave me a single quick glance as I followed him through the press and then averted his eyes, and as he did so I noticed, with something of a start, that his right eye came to rest with a peculiar rapid up-and-down shake. He had, in fact, a right-sided nystagmus. The

  coincidence naturally struck me with some force. A nystagmus is not, as I have said, a very common condition. One-sided nystagmus is actually a rare one, and of the one-sided instances only some fifty percent will affect the right eye. The coincidence was therefore quite a notable one, but had it any particular bearing. I had a half-formed inclination to follow the man, but he had not actually picked my pocket or done any other overt act, and

  one could hardly follow a person merely because he happened to suffer from an uncommon nervous affection. The man was now walking up the street briskly, but without manifest hurry, looking straight before him and swinging his stick with something of a flourish. I watched him speculatively as I walked in the same direction, and then suddenly realized that he was carrying his stick in his left hand, and carrying it too with the unmistakable

  ease borne of habit. Then he was left-handed, and here was another coincidence, not a remarkable one in itself, but when added to the other, so singular and striking that I insensibly quickened my pace. As my acquaintance reached the corner of the Euston road an omnibus stopped to put down a passenger. It was about to move on when he raised his stick and, following it, stepped on to the footboard and mounted to the roof. I was undecided what to do.

  Should I follow him? And, if so, to what purpose? He would certainly notice me if I did, and be on his guard, so that I should probably have my trouble for nothing, and possibly look like a fool into the bargain. And while I was thus standing irresolute at the corner, the omnibus rumbled away westward and decided the question for me. I am not, as the reader may have gathered, a particularly cautious man, or much given to the suspicion. But recent

  events had made me a good deal more wary and had taught me to look with less charity on chance fellow creatures. And this left-handed person with an nystagmus occupied my thoughts to no small extent during the next day or two. Was he the man who might seen in the tram? Apparently not. The latter had been clean-shaven and dressed neatly in the style of a clerk or ordinary city man, whereas the former wore a full beard and was shabby, almost

  beyond the verge of respectability. As to their respective stature, I could not judge, as I had seen the one man seated and the other standing. But superficially they were not at all alike, and in all probability they were different persons. But this conclusion was not at all inevitable. When I reflected on the matter I saw that the resemblances and differences did not balance. The two men resembled one another in qualities that were

  inherent and unalterable, but they differed in qualities that were superficial and subject to change. A man cannot assume or cast off a nystagmus, but he can put on a full beard. A left-handed man may endeavour to conceal his peculiarity, but the superior deftness of the habitually used hand will make itself apparent in spite of his efforts. Whereas he can make any alterations in his clothing that he pleases. And thus reflecting, the

  suspicion grew more and more strong that the two men might very well have been one and the same person, and that it would be discreet to keep a bright look-out for a left-handed man with a right-sided nystagmus. During all this time I had seen nothing of my new friend Miss Sylvia, but I had by no means forgotten her. Without wishing to exaggerate my feelings, I may say that I had taken a strong liking to that very engaging young lady. She was

  a pleasant, easy-mannered girl, evidently good-tempered and very frank and simple. A girl, as Mrs. Sparkler would have said, with no bigot nonsense about her. Her tastes ran along very similar lines to my own, and she was clever enough to be a quite interesting companion. Then it was evident that she liked me, which was in itself an attraction, to say nothing of the credit that it reflected on her taste, and in a perfectly modest way

  she had made no secret of the fact. And finally she was exceptionally good-looking. Now people may say, as they do, that beauty is only skin deep, which is perfectly untrue by the way, but even so one is more concerned with the skins of one's fellow creatures than with their livers or vermiform appendices. The contact of persons as of things occurs at their respective services, from which it will be guarded that I was only allowing a decent

  interval to elapse before repeating my visit to the Hawthorns. Indeed, I was beginning to think that a sufficient interval had already passed and to contemplate seriously my second call, when my intentions were forestalled by Sylvia herself. Returning home one Friday evening I found on my mental piece a short letter from her enclosing a ticket for an exhibition of paintings and sculpture at a gallery in Leicester Square, and mentioning,

  incidentally, that she proposed to visit the show on the following morning in order to see the works by a good light, which seemed such an eminently rational proceeding in these short winter days that I determined instantly to follow her example and get the advantage of the morning light myself. I acted on this decision with such thoroughness that, when I arrived at the gallery, I found the attendant in the act of opening the doors, and for nearly

  half an hour I was in sole possession of the premises. Then, by twos and threes, other visitors began to strangle in, and among them Sylvia, looking very fresh and dainty and obviously pleased to see me. "'I'm glad you're able to come,' she said, as we shook hands. "'I thought you would, somehow. It is so much nicer to have someone to talk over the

  pictures with, isn't it?' "'Much more interesting,' I agreed. I've been taking a preliminary look around, and have already accumulated quite a lot of profound observations to discharge at you as occasion offers. Shall we begin at number one?' We began at number one, and worked our way methodically, picture by picture, round the

  room, considering each work attentively, with earnest discussion and a wealth of comment. As the morning wore on, visitors arrived in increasing numbers, until the two large rooms began to be somewhat inconveniently crowded. We had made a complete circuit of the pictures, and were about to turn to the sculpture, which occupied the centre of floor space, when Sylvia touched me on the arm.

  "'Let us sit down for a minute,' said she. "'I want to speak to you.' I led her to one of the large settees that disputed the floor space with the busts and somewhat mystified by her serious tone, and by the rather agitated manner which I now noticed for the first time, seated myself by her side.

  "'What is it?' I asked. She looked anxiously round the room, and, leaning towards me, said in a low tone, "'Have you noticed a man who's been keeping near us and listening to our conversation?' "'No, I haven't,' I replied. If I had, I would have given him a hint to keep farther off. But there's nothing in it, you know. In picture galleries it is very usual for

  people to hang about and try to overhear criticisms. This man may be interested in the exhibits.' "'Yes, I know. But I don't think this person was so much interested in the exhibits. He didn't look at the pictures, he looked at us. I caught his eye several times reflected in the picture glasses, and once or twice I saw him looking most attentively at this crucifix of mine. That was what really disturbed me. I wish now that I hadn't unbuttoned my

  coat.' "'So do I. You'll have to leave that crucifix at home if it attracts so much undesirable attention. Which is the man? Is he in this room?' "'No, I don't see him now. I expect he has gone into the next room.' "'Then let us go there too, and if you'll point him out to me I will pay him back in

  his own coin.' We rose and made our way to the door of communication, and as we passed into the second room Sylvia grasped my arm nervously. There he is. Don't let him see us looking at him. He is sitting on the settee at the farther end of the room. It was impossible to make a mistake, since the settee held only a single person, a fairly well-dressed, ordinary-looking man, rather

  swarthy and foreign in appearance, with a small waxed moustache. He was sitting near the opposite the entrance door and seemed at the moment to be reading over the catalogue, which he held open on his knee. But as he looked up almost at the moment when we entered I turned my back to him and continued my inspection with the aid of the reflection in a picture glass.

  "'He's probably a journalist,' I said. "'You see, he's scribbling some notes on the blank leaves of his catalogue. Probably some of your profound criticisms, which will appear, perhaps, to more mourning, clothed in super-technical jargon in a daily paper.' Here I paused suddenly, for I had made a rather curious observation. The reflection in a mirror is, as everybody knows, reversed laterally, so that the right hand of a person appears

  to be the left and vice versa. But in the present case no reversal seemed to have taken place. The figure in the reflection was writing with its right hand. Obviously, then, the ill person was writing with his left. This put a rather different aspect on the affair. Up to the present I had been disposed to think that Sylvia had been unduly disturbed, for there are plenty of ill-bred bounders to be met in any public place who will stare a good-looking

  girl out of countenance. But now my suspicions were all awake. It is true that left-handed men are as common as blackberries, but still—' "'Can you tell me, Miss Vine?' I asked, as we worked our way towards the other end of the room. "'If this man is at all like the one who frightened you, so, in Millfield Lane?'

  "'No, he's not. I'm sure of that. The man in the lane was a good deal taller and thinner.' "'Well,' said I, "'whoever he is, I want to have a good look at him, and the best plan will be to turn our attention to the sculpture. Shall we go and look at that rather remarkable pink bust? That will give our friend a chance of another stare at you, and if he doesn't take it, I will go and inspect him where he sits.'

  The bust to which I had referred was executed in a curious rose-tinted marble, very crystalline and translucent, a material that suited the soft, girlish features of its subject admirably. It stood on an isolated pedestal quite near the settee on which the suspicious stranger was sitting, and I hoped that our presence might lure him from his retreat. "'I don't think,' I said, taking up a position with my back to the settee, that

  I've ever seen any marble quite like this. Have you?' "'No,' replied Sylvia. "'It looks like coarse lump sugar stained pink, and how very transparent it is! Too transparent for most subjects.' Here she gave a quick, nervous glance at me, and I was aware of a shadow thrown by some

  person standing behind me. Had our friend risen to the bait already?' I continued the conversation in good audible tones. Very awkward these isolated pedestals would be for slovenly artists who scammed the back of their work. With this remark I moved round the pedestal as if to examine the back of the bust, and Sylvia followed. The move brought us opposite the person who had been standing behind me, and sure enough

  it was the gentleman from the settee. I continued to talk, rather blatantly, I fear, commenting on the careful treatment of the hair and the backs of the ears, and meanwhile took an occasional swift glance at the man opposite. He appeared to be gazing in rapt admiration at the bust, but his glance too occasionally wondered, and when it did, the point of fixation, as the oculists would express it, was Sylvia's crucifix, which was still uncovered. Presently

  I ventured to take a good, steady look at him, and was for a few moments unobserved. His left eye moved, as I could see, quite smoothly and evenly from point to point, but the right, at each change of position, gave a little rapid vertical oscillation. Suddenly he became aware of my now undisguised inspection of him, and immediately the oscillation became much more marked, as is often the case with these spasmodic movements. Perhaps he was

  conscious of the fact. At any rate he turned his head away and then moved off to examine a statuette that stood near the middle of the room. I looked after him, wondering what I ought to do. That he was the man whom I had seen on the two previous occasions I had not the slightest doubt, although I was still unable to identify his features or anything about him, excepting the nystagmus and the left-handed condition. But there could be

  no question that he was the same man, and this very variability in his appearance only gave a more sinister significance to the affair, pointing clearly, as it did, to careful and efficient disguise. Evidently he had been, and still was, shadowing me, and, what was still worse, he seemed to be taking a most undesirable interest in Sylvia. And yet, what could I do? My small knowledge of the law suggested that shadowing was not a criminal

  act unless some unlawful intent could be proved. As to punching the fellow's head, which was what I felt most inclined to do, that would merely give rise to disagreeable and perhaps dangerous publicity. "'My lord is pleased to meditate,' Sylvia remarked at length, breaking in upon my brown study.

  "'I beg your pardon,' I exclaimed. The fact is I was wondering what we'd better do next. Do you want to see anything else?' "'I should rather like to see the outside of the building,' she answered. "'That man has made me quite nervous.' "'Then we will go at once. I won't sign the visitor's book.'

  I led her to the door, and as we rapidly descended the carpeted stairs I considered once more what it were best to do. Had I been alone I would have kept our watcher in view and learned a little shadowing on my own account, but Sylvia's presence made me uneasy. It was the first importance that this sinister stranger should not learn where she lived. The only reasonable course seemed to be to give him the slip, if possible.

  "'What did you make of that man?' Sylvia asked when we were outside in the square. "'Don't you think he was watching us?' "'Yes, I do, and I may say that I've seen him before.' She turned a terrified face to me and asked, "'You don't think he is the rat who pushed you into the river?' Now this was exactly what I did think, but it was not worth while to say so. Accordingly I temporised,

  "'It is impossible to say. I never saw that man, you know, but I have reason for thinking that this fellow is keeping a watch on me, and it occurs to me that if he appears still to be following us I had better put you into a hansom and keep my eye on him until you are out of sight.' "'Oh, I'm not going to agree to that,' she replied, great decision. I don't suppose

  that my presence is much protection to you, but still you are safer while we are together, and I'm not going to leave you.' This settled the matter. Of course she was quite right. I was much safer while she was with me, and if she refused to go off alone we must make our escape together. I looked up the square as we turned out of it towards the Charing Cross Road, but could see no sign of our follower, and as we walked on at a good pace I hoped

  that we might get clear away. But I was not going to take any chances. Before turning homewards I decided to walk sharply some distance in an easterly direction and then see if there was any sign of pursuit, for my previous experiences of this good gentleman led me to suspect that he was by no means without skill and experience in the shadowing art. We walked down to Charing Cross and turned eastward along the north side of the Strand. I'd chosen this thoroughfare

  as offering a good cover to a pursuer, who could easily keep out of sight among the crowd of wayfarers who thronged the pavement, for the first question to be settled was whether we were or were not being shadowed. Where are we going now? Sylvia asked. We are going up Bedford Street, I answered. There is a bookshop on the right-hand side

  where we can loiter unobtrusively and keep a lookout. If we see nobody we'll try one of the courts off Maiden Lane where we should be certain to catch anyone who is following. But we'll try the bookstall first because, if our friend is in attendance, I have a rather neat plan for getting rid of him. We accordingly made our way to the bookstall in Bedford Street and began systematically

  to look through the second-hand volumes, and as we poured over an open book we were able to keep an effective watch on the end of the street and the Strand beyond. Our vigil was We had been at the stall less than a minute when Sylvia whispered to me, Do you see that man looking in the shop on the farther side of the Strand? Yes, I replied. I've noticed him. He's only just arrived and I fancy he is our man. If

  he is he will probably go into the doorway so as not to have to keep his back to us. Almost as I spoke the man moved into the deep doorway as if to inspect the end of the shop window and Sylvia exclaimed, I'm sure that is the man. I can see his profile now. There could be no doubt of the man's identity and at this moment as it eclenched the matter

  he took out a cigarette and lighted it, striking the match with his left hand. Come along, said I. We will now try my little plan for getting rid of him. We mustn't seem to hurry. We sauntered up to the corner of Maiden Lane and there stood for a few moments looking about us. Then we strolled across to the farther side of Chandler Street and as soon

  as we were out of sight of our follower crossed the road and slipped in at the entrance to the Civil Service doors. Passing quickly through the Provision Department we halted at the glazed doors from which we could look out through the Bedford Street entrance. There he is! exclaimed Sylvia. And there he was, sure enough, walking rather quickly up the east side of Bedford Street.

  Now, said I, let us make a bolt for it. This way. We darted out through the China Furniture and Iron-Rongery Departments, across the whole width of the building and out of the Agar Street entrance, where we immediately crossed into King William Street, turned down Adelaide Street, shot through the alley by St. Martin's Church and came out opposite the Natural Portrait Gallery just as a yellow omnibus was about

  to start. We sprang into the moving vehicle and as it rumbled away into the Charing Cross Road we kept a sharp watch on the end of King William Street. But there was no sign of our pursuer. We had got rid of him for the present at any rate. Don't you think, said Sylvia, that he will suspect that we went into the stalls? I've no doubt he will, and that is where we have him. He can't come away and leave the building

  unsurged. Most probably he is at this very moment racing madly up and down the stairs and trying to watch the three entrances at the same time. Sylvia chuckled gleefully. It has been quite good fun, she said, but I'm glad we have shaken him off. I think I shall stay indoors for a day or two and paint, and I hope you'll stay indoors too. And that

  reminds me that I am out of Hales White. I must call in at Robinson's and get a pound tube. Do you mind? It won't delay us more than a few minutes. Now I would much rather have gone straight on to Hampstead, for our unknown attendant certainly knew the whereabouts of my lodgings and might follow us when he failed to find us in the stalls. Moreover, I had of late, given the neighborhood of the artist's colorman's

  shop a rather wide berth, having seen Mrs. Samway from afar once or twice, thereabouts, and having surmised that she tended to haunt that particular part of the Hampstead road. But the fresh supply of flake white seemed to be a necessity, so I made no objection, and we accordingly alighted opposite the shop and entered. Nevertheless, while Sylvia was making her purchase, I stood near the glass door and kept a watchful eye on the street.

  When a tram stopped a short distance away, I glanced quickly over its passengers as well as I could, though without observing anyone who might have been our absent friend. But just as it was about to move on, I saw a woman run out from the pavement and enter, and though I got but an indifferent view of her, I felt an uncomfortable suspicion that the woman was Mrs. Samway. Looking back, I do not quite understand why I had avoided this woman or

  why I now looked with distaste on the fact that she was traveling in our direction. She was a pleasant-spoken, intelligent person, and I had no dislike of her, nor any cause for dislike. Perhaps it was the recollection of the offence that she had given Sylvia in this very shop but a short time since that made me unwilling to encounter her now in Sylvia's company. At any rate, whatever the cause may have been, throughout the otherwise

  pleasant journey and in spite of an animated and interesting conversation, the thought of Mrs. Samway continually recurred, and this notwithstanding that I kept a constant unobtrusive look out for the mysterious spy who might even now be hovering in our rear. We alighted from the tram at the Duke of St. Albans and made our way to Northend by way of the Highgate Ponds. As we crossed the open fields and the heath, I turned at intervals to see if there

  was any sign of our being followed, but no suspicious-looking person appeared in sight, though on two separate occasions I noticed a woman ahead of us and walking in much the same direction turn round and look our way. There was no reason, however, to suppose that she was looking at us, and in any case she was too far ahead to be recognisable. At last, somewhere in the neighbourhood of the Spaniards Road, she finally disappeared, possibly into

  the hollow beyond, and I saw no more of her. At the gate of the Haunt Thorns I delivered up the heavy tube of paint and thus, as it were, formally brought our little outing to an end, and as we shook hands Sylvia treated me to a parting exhortation. "'Now do take care of yourself and keep out of harm's way,' she urged. "'You are so large, you see,' she added with a smile,

  "'and such a very conspicuous object that you ought to take special precautions. And you must come and see us again quite soon. I assure you my aunt is positively pining for another conversation with you. Why shouldn't you drop in tomorrow and have tea with us?' Now this very idea had already occurred to me, so I hastened to close with the invitation, and then, as she retired up the path with another goodbye and a wave of the hand,

  I turned away and walked back towards the heath. For some minutes I strode on, across fursy hollows or over little hills traversed by sunken sandy paths, occupying myself with thoughts of the pleasant friendly girl whom I'd just left and reflections on the strange events of the morning. Presently I mounted a larger hill, on which was purged a little old-fashioned house. Skirting the wooden fence that enclosed it, I turned the corner and saw before me,

  at a distance of some forty yards, a rough rustic seat. On that seat a woman was sitting, and somehow, when I looked at her and noted the graceful droop of the figure, it was without any feeling of surprise, almost that of realized expectation, that I recognized Mrs. Samway. End of chapter 13

• 14 - Chapter XIV - A Lonely Woman

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  CHAPTER XIV. A LONELY WOMAN. If I had had any intention of avoiding Mrs. Samway, that intention must inevitably have been frustrated, for her recognition was as instantaneous as my own. Almost as I turned she looked up and saw me, and a few moments later she rose and advanced in my direction, so that, to an onlooker, it would have appeared as if we had met by appointment. There was

  obviously nothing for it but to look as pleased as I could manage at such short notice, which I did, shaking her hand with hypocritical warmth. "'And I suppose, Dr. Jardine,' said she, "'you are thinking, what a very odd coincidence it is that we should happen to meet here.' "'Oh, I don't know that it is so very odd. I live about here, and understood you to say

  that you often come up to the Heath. At any rate, our last meeting was a good deal more odd.' "'Yes, indeed, but the truth is that this is not a coincidence at all. I may as well confess that I came here deliberately with the intention of waylaying you.' This very frank statement took me aback considerably, so much so that I could think of no appropriate

  remark beyond mumbling something to the effect that it was very flattering of her. "'I have been trying,' she continued, "'to get a few words with you for some time past, but although I have lurked in your line of march in the most shameless manner, I have always managed to miss you. I thought, from what you told me, that you passed Robinson's shop on your way to the hospital.'

  "'So I do,' I replied mendaciously, for I could hardly tell her that I had lately taken to shooting up by-streets with the express purpose of avoiding that particular stretch of pavement. It's rather curious that I never happened to meet you there. However, I didn't, so today I determined to take the bull by the horns and catch you here.' This last statement, like the former ones, gave me abundant matter for reflection. How

  did you such he managed to catch me here? I suppose that she'd seen Sylvia and me in the Hampstead Road and had guessed that we were coming on to this neighborhood. That was a case of feminine intuition, which, like the bonesheader's skill, is a wonderful thing — when it comes off. And when it doesn't, one isn't expected to notice the fact.' Then she had gone on ahead, still guessing at our final destination, and kept us in sight

  of you herself. It was not so very easy to understand, and not at all comfortable to think of, for there was a disagreeable suggestion that she'd somehow ascertained Sylvia's place of abode beforehand. And yet — well, the whole affair was rather mysterious — you don't ask why it was that I wanted to waylay you, she said at length, as I made no comment on her last statement.

  "'There is an old saying,' I replied, "'that one shouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth.' "'That is very diplomatic,' she retorted with a laugh. But I daresay your knowledge of women makes the question unnecessary.' "'My knowledge of women,' said I, "'might be put into a nutshell and still leave plenty of room for the nut and a good fat maggot besides.'

  "'Then I must beware of you. The man who professes to know nothing of women is the most deep and dangerous class of person. But there is one item of knowledge that you seem to have acquired. You seem to know that women like to have pretty things said to them.' "'If you call that knowledge,' said I, "'you must apply the same name to the mere blind impulse that leads a spider to spin a nice symmetrical web.'

  She laughed softly and looked up at me with an expression of amused reflection. "'I am thinking,' she said, "'what a very fine symmetrical web you would spin if you were a spider.' "'Possibly,' I replied, "'but it looks as if the role of blue-bottle were the one that is being marked out for me.'

  "'Oh, not a blue-bottle, Dr. Jardine. It doesn't suit you at all. If you must make a comparison, why not say a goliath beetle and have something really dignified and not so very inappropriate?' "'Well, then, a goliath beetle if you prefer it. Not that he would look very dignified, kicking his heels in the elegant web of this superlatively elegant feminine spider.' "'Oh, but that isn't pretty of you at all, Dr. Jardine. In fact, it is quite horrid and

  unfair, too, because you are trying to get the information without asking a direct question.' "'What question am I supposed to ask?' "'You needn't ask any. I will take pity on your masculine pride and tell you why I have been lying in wait for you, although I dare say you have guessed. The truth is, I am simply devoured by curiosity.'

  "'Concerning what?' "'Now, how can you ask? Just think. One day I meet you in the Hampstead Road, going about your ordinary business, apparently a fixture, at least for a month. A few days later, a hundred miles from London, I feel myself suddenly seized from behind. I turn round, and there are you with tragedy and adventure written large all over you.'

  "'I thought the tragedy was rather on your side, and so did the ancient mariner, with the black bottle and the tea cup. But I don't wish to discuss the views of that well-meaning old brute. I want an explanation. I want to know how you came to be in Folkestone and in that extraordinary condition. I am sure something strange must have happened to you.' "'Why? Haven't I as much right to be in Folkestone as you have?'

  "'That is mere evasion, when I see a man who is usually rather carefully and very neatly dressed, walking in the streets of a seaport town, without hat or a stick, and with a collar that looks as if it had been used to clean out a saucepan, and greyed stains on his clothes. I am justified in inferring that something unusual has happened to him.' "'I didn't think you had noticed my negligee getup.'

  "'At the time I did not. I was very upset and agitated. I just had a lot of worry, and was compelled to cross to France at a moment's notice. And then there was that horrible horse, and the sudden way that you seized me, and then got knocked down, and the—' "'The ancient mariner?' "'Yes, the ancient mariner, and the knowledge that I was behaving like an idiot and couldn't

  help it. No, you were so nice and kind to me. So, you see, I was hardly conscious of what was happening at the time. But afterwards, when I had recovered my wits a little, I recalled the astonishing figure that you made, and I've been wondering ever since what had happened to you. I assure you, Dr. Jardine, you looked as if you might have swum to Folkestone.' "'Did I, by Jove?' I exclaimed with a laugh. Well, appearances weren't so very deceptive.

  The fact is that I'd swum part of the way.' She looked at me incredulously. "'Whatever do you mean?' she asked. "'I mean that you are now looking on a modern and strictly up-to-date edition of Simbat the Sailor.'

  "'That isn't very explanatory. But I suppose it isn't meant to be. It is just a preliminary stimulant to whet my appetite for marvels, and a most unnecessary one I can insure you, for I am absolutely agape with curiosity. Do go on. Tell me exactly what had happened to you.' "'Now the truth is that I had already said rather more than was strictly discreet, and

  would gladly have drawn in my horns. But I'd evidently let myself in for some sort of plausible explanation, and a lack of that enviable faculty that enables its possessor to tell a really convincing and workmanlike lie, condemned me to a mere unimaginative adherence to the bold facts, though I did make one slight and amateurish effort at prevarication.' "'You want a detailed log of Simbat's voyages, do you?' said I.

  "'Then you shall have it. We will begin at the beginning.' The port of departure was the embankment somewhere near Cleopatra's Needle. I was leaning over the parapet, staring down at the water like a fool, when some practical joker came along, and apparently thinking it would be rather funny to give me a fright, suddenly lifted me off my feet. But my joker's friend hadn't allowed for the top heaviness of a person of

  my height, and before you could say knife I had slipped from his hold and taken the most stylish header into the water. Fortunately for me, a barge happened at the moment to be towing past, and when I'd managed to haul myself on board I fell into the arms of a marine species of Good Samaritan, who, not having a supply of the orthodox oil and wine, proceeded to fill me up with hot gin and water, which is distinctly preferable for internal application. Then the

  Samaritan of Forset clothed me in gorgeous marine raiment and stowed me in a cupboard to sleep off the oil and wine, which I did after some sixteen hours, and then awoke to find our good ship on the broad bosom of the ocean. And so, not to worry you with the incidence of the voyage, I came to Folkestone, where I found a beautiful lady endeavouring, very unsuccessfully, to hypnotise a runaway horse, and so to the adventure of the tarred nets and the ancient

  mariner with a black bottle. Mrs Samway smiled a little consciously, as I mentioned the last incidence, but the smile quickly faded and left a deeply thoughtful expression on her face. You take it all very calmly, said she, but it seems to me to have been a rather terrible experience. You really had a very narrow escape from death. Yes, quite near enough. I'm far from wanting any more from the same tab. And I don't quite see why you assume that it was a mere clumsy joke

  that sent you into the river by accident. Why, what else could it have been? It looks more like a deliberate attempt to drown you. Perhaps you have some enemy who might want to make away with you. I haven't. There isn't a soul in the world who owes me the slightest grudge. That seems rather a bold thing to say. But I suppose you know. Still, I should think you ought to bear this strange affair in mind and be a little careful when you go out at night,

  to avoid the riverside, for instance. Have you? Did you give any information to the police about this accident, as you call it? Good Lord, no. What would have been the use? I thought you might have given them some description of the man who pushed you over. But I never saw him. I don't even know for certain that it was a man. It might have been a woman, for all that I can tell. Mrs. Samway looked up at me with that strangely penetrating expression that I'd seen before in those singular, pale eyes

  of hers. You don't mean that, she said. You don't really think that it could have been a woman. I don't think very much about it. But as I never saw the person who did me the honor of hoisting me overboard, I'm clearly not in a position to pose as to the sex of that person. But if it was a woman, she must have been an uncommonly strong one. Mrs. Samway continued to look at me questioningly. I thought you seemed to hint at a suspicion that it actually was a woman. You would surely be able

  to tell. I suppose I should, if there were time to think about the matter. But you see, before I was fairly aware that anyone had hold of me, I was sticking my head into the mud at the bottom of the river, which is a process that does not tend very much to clarify one's thoughts. No, I suppose not, she agreed. But it is a most mysterious and dreadful affair. I can't think how you can take it so calmly. You don't seem to be in the least concerned by the fact that you've been within an hair's

  breadth of being murdered. What do your friends think about it? Well, you see, Mrs. Samway, I replied evasively. One doesn't talk much about incidents of this kind. It doesn't sound very credible, and one doesn't want to gain a reputation as a sort of modern Munchhausen. I shouldn't have told you but that you were already partly in the secret and that you cross-examined me in such a determined fashion. But, she exclaimed, do you mean to tell me that

  you said nothing to anyone about this extraordinary adventure of yours? No, I don't say that. Of course, I had to give some sort of explanation to my landlady, for instance, but I didn't tell her all that I've told you. And I would rather, she don't mind, that you didn't mention the affair to anyone. I should hate to be suspected of romancing. You shan't be through anything that I may say, she replied, though I should hardly think that anyone who knew you would be likely

  to suspect you of inventing imaginary adventures. For some minutes after this we walked on without speaking, and from time to time I stole a glance at my companion, and once again I found myself impressed by something distinctive and unusual in her appearance. Her unquestionable beauty was not like that of most pretty women, localized and unequal, having features of striking attractiveness set in an indifferent or even defective matrix. It was diffused and all-pervading, the product of

  sheer physical excellence. With most women one feels that the more attractive wares are judiciously pushed to the front of the window, while the discreet reticence is maintained respecting the unpresentable residue. Not so with Mrs. Samway. Her small shapely head, her symmetrical face, her fine supple figure, and her easy movements all spoke of a splendid physique. She was not merely a pretty woman, she was that infinitely rarer creature, a physically perfect human being,

  comely with a comeliness of faultless proportion, graceful with the grace of symmetry and strength. Suddenly she looked up at me with just a hint of shyness and a little heightening of the color in her cheek. Are you going to tell me again, Dr. Jardine, that a cat may look at a king? Or was it that a king may look at a cat? Whichever you please, I replied. We will put them on a footing of equality, accepting that the king might have the better claim if the cat happened to be an

  exceptionally good-looking cat. But I wasn't really staring at you this time. I was only giving you a sort of friendly look over. You weren't quite yourself, I think, when we met last. No, I certainly was not. So we are now making an inspection. May I ask if I am to be informed of the diagnosis, as I think you call it? Now, to tell the truth, I had thought her looking rather haggard and worn and decidedly thinner, and when her sprightliness subsided in the intervals of our

  somewhat flippant talk, it had seemed to me that her face took on an expression that was wary and even sad. But it would hardly do to say as much. It is quite irregular, I replied. The diagnosis is for the doctor. The patient is only concerned with the treatment. But I'll make an exception in your case, especially as my report is quite unsensational. I thought you looked as if you'd been doing rather too much and not greatly enjoying the occupation. Am I right? Yes, quite

  right. I've had a lot of worry and bother lately, and not enough rest and peace. I hope all that is at an end now. I don't know that it is, she replied, warily. Or, for that matter, that it will ever be. Fate or destiny, or whatever we may call it, starts us upon a certain road, and along that road we must need trudge, wherever it may lead. I was rather startled at the sudden despondency of her tone. Apparently the road that Mrs. Samway trot was not strewn with roses. Still, I said,

  it is a long road that has no turning. It is, she agreed, bitterly. But many have to travel such a road to find the turning at last barred by the churchyard gate. Oh, come, I protested, we don't talk of churchyards at your time of life. We think of the jolly wayside inns and the buttercups and daisies and the May blossom and the hetros. Churchyard indeed, we will leave that to the old folk and the village donkey, if you please. She smiled rather wendly. Her gaiety seemed to

  have deserted her for good. The wayside inns and the wayside flowers, said she, are your portion. At least, I hope so. They are not for me. And, after all, there are worse things to think of than a nice, quiet churchyard with the village donkey browsing among the graves, as you say. I quite agree with you. From the standpoint of the disinterested spectator, not contemplating freehold investments, nothing can be more delightfully rustic and peaceful.

  It is the personal application that I object to. Again she smiled, but very pensively, and for a while we walked on in silence. Presently she resumed, I used to think that the shortness of life was quite a tragedy. That was when I was young. But now— When you were young, I interrupted. Why, what are you now? I can tell you, Mrs. Samway, that there is many a girl of twenty who would be only too delighted to exchange personalities with you, and who would stand to

  make a mighty fine bargain if she could do it. If you talk like this, I shall have to refer you to the great Leonardo's advice to painters. What is that? she asked. He recommends the frequent use of a looking-glass. She gave me a quick glance, and then blushed so very deeply that I was quite alarmed lest I should have given offence. But her next words reassured me. It was nice of you to say that, and most kindly meant. I won't say that I don't care very much

  how I look, because that would be an ungracious return for your compliment, and it wouldn't be quite true. There are times when one is quite glad to feel that one looks presentable—the present moment, for instance. I acknowledged the compliment with a bow. Thank you, I said. That was more than I deserved. I only wish that your fortune was equal to your looks. But I'm afraid it isn't. I have an uncomfortable feeling that you are not very happy.

  I'm afraid I'm not, she replied. Life is rather a lottery, you know, and the worst of it is that you can only take a single ticket. So when you find that you've drawn the wrong number, and you realize that there is no second chance—well, it isn't very inspiriting, is it? I had to admit that it was not, and after a short pause she continued, Women are poor dependent creatures, Dr. Jardine. Dependent, I mean, for their happiness on the people who surround them.

  But that is true of us all. Not quite. A man, like yourself, for instance, has his work and his ambitions that make him independent of others. But for a woman, whatever pretenses she may make as to larger interests in life, a husband, a home, and one or two nice children form the real goal of her ambition. You are not a lone spinster, Mrs. Samway, I reminded her.

  No, I'm not. But I have no children, no proper home, and not a real friend in the world, unless I may think of you as one. I hope you always will, I exclaimed impulsively, for there was to me something very pathetic in the evident loneliness of this woman. She must, I felt, be friendless indeed if she must need so peel for friendship to a comparative stranger like myself.

  I am glad to hear you say that, she replied, for I am making you bear a friend's burden. I hope you will forgive me for pouring out my complaints to you in this way. It isn't difficult, said I, to bear other people's troubles with fortitude. But if sympathy is any good, believe me, Mrs. Samway, when I tell you that I am really deeply grieved to think that you are getting so much less out of life than you ought.

  I only wish that I could do something more than sympathize. I believe you do, she said. I felt, at Folkestone, how kind you were, as a good man is to a woman in her moments of weakness. That is why, I suppose, I was impelled to talk to you like this, and that is why, she added after a little pause, I felt a pang of envy when I saw you pass with your pretty companion. I started somewhat at this,

  where the Jews could she have seen us near enough to tell whether my companion was pretty or not. I turned the matter over rapidly in my mind, and meanwhile I said, I don't quite see why you envied me, Mrs. Samway. I didn't say that I envied you, she replied, with a faint smile and the suspicion of a blush. Or her, either, I retorted, were only the merest acquaintances.

  My conscience smote me somewhat as I made this outrageous statement, but Mrs. Samway took me up instantly. Then you've only known her quite a short time. The rapidity with which she had jumped to this conclusion fairly took my breath away, and I'd answered her question before I was aware of it.

  But, I added, I don't quite see how you arrived at your conclusion. I thought, she replied, that you seemed to like one another very well. So we do, I think. But can't acquaintances like one another? Oh, certainly. But if they are a young man and a maiden, they are not likely to remain mere acquaintances very long.

  That was how I argued. I see. Very acute of you. By the way, where did you see us? I didn't see you. Of course you didn't. Yet you passed quite close to me on the Spaniards' road, immersed in conversation, and little suspecting that the green eyes of envy were fixed on you.

  Oh, now, Mrs. Samway, I can't have that. They're not green, you know, although what their exact color is I shouldn't like to say offhand. What? Not after that careful inspection? That didn't include the eyes. Perhaps you wouldn't mind if I made another, just to satisfy my curiosity and settle the question for good.

  Oh, do, by all means, if it is such a weighty question. We both halted, and I stared into the clear depths of our singular, pale, hazel eyes, with an impertinent affectation of profound scrutiny, while she looked up smilingly into mine. Suddenly, to my utter confusion, her eyes filled and she turned away her head. Oh, please forgive me, she exclaimed. I beg your pardon. I do beg your pardon,

  most earnestly, for being such a wretched bundle of emotions. You would forgive me if you knew what I can't tell you. There is no need, dear Mrs. Samway, I said very gently, laying my hand on her arm. Are we not friends? And may I not give you my warmest sympathy, without asking too curiously what brings the tears to your eyes?

  I was, in truth, deeply moved, as a young man is apt to be by a pretty woman's tears. But more than this, something whispered to me that my playful impertinence had suddenly brought home to her the void that was in her life, the lack of intimate affection at which it seemed to hint. And instantly, old osmasculine in me had risen up with the immemorial instinct of the male in

  defense of the female. For whatever her faults may have been, Mrs. Samway was feminine to the fingertips. She pressed my hand for a moment and impatiently brushed the tears from her eyes. I do hope, Dr. Jardine, she said, looking up at me with a smile, that your wife will be a good woman. You'll be a dreadful victim if she isn't, with your quick sympathy and your endless patience with feminine silliness. And now I won't plague you any more with my tantrums. I hope I'm not

  bringing you a great deal out of your way. You do live in this direction, don't you? Yes, and I've been assuming that my direction was yours, too. Is that right? Are you going back to Hampstead Road? Not at once. I'm going to make a call at Highgate first. Then you'll want to go up Highgate Rise or Swains Lane, and I will walk up with you, if you'll let me. I think my nearest way will be up the little path that leads out of Swains Lane. You know it, I expect?

  Yes. It is locally known as Love Lane. It leads to the crest of the hill. That is right. You shall see me to the top of it, and then I'll take myself off and leave you in peace. We had by this time crossed Parliament Hill fields and passed the end of the Highgate Ponds. A few paces more brought us out at the top of the grove, and a few more to the entrance of the rather steep and very narrow lane. For some time Mrs. Samway walked by my side in silence,

  and by the reflective way in which she looked at the ground before her, seemed to be wrapped in meditation, which had not disturbed. As we entered the lane, however, she looked up at me thoughtfully and said, I wonder what you think of me, Dr. Jardine? It was a fine opening for a compliment, but somehow compliments seemed out of place after what had passed between us. I accordingly evaded the question with another. What do you suppose I think of you?

  I don't know. I hardly know what I think of myself. You would be quite justified in thinking me rather forward to allay you in this deliberate fashion. Well, I don't. Your curiosity about that Folkestone affair seems most natural and reasonable. I'm glad you don't think me forward, she said, but as to my curiosity I am beginning to doubt whether it was that alone that determined me of a sudden to come here and talk to you. I half suspect that I was feeling a little more

  solitary than usual, and that some instinct told me that you would be kind to me and say nice things and pet me just a little, as you have done. I was deeply touched by her pathetic little confession, so deeply that I could find nothing to say in return. You don't think any of the worse of me, she continued, for coming to you and begging a little sympathy and friendship. As she spoke, she looked up very wistfully and earnestly in my face and rested her hand for a moment on my arm.

  I took it in mine and drew her arm under my own as I replied, Of course I don't. Only I think it a wonder and a shame that my poor friendship and sympathy should be worth the consideration of a woman like you. She pressed my arm slightly and, after a little interval, said in a low voice with just the suspicion of a tremor in it, You've been very kind to me, Dr. Jardine, more kind than you know. I'm very, very grateful to you for taking what was

  really an intrusion so nicely. It was not in the least an intrusion, I protested, and as to gratitude, a good many man would be very delighted to earn it on the same terms. You don't seem to set much value on your own exceedingly agreeable society. She smiled very prettily at this, and again we walked on for a while up the slope without speaking. Once she turned her head as if listening for some sound from behind us, but our feet were making so much noise on the loose gravel and the sound

  reverberated so much in a narrow space between the wooden fences that I at least heard nothing. Presently we turned a slight bend and came inside at the opening at the top of the hill, guarded by a couple of posts. Within a few yards of the latter she halted and, withdrawing her hand from my arm, turned round and faced me. We must say good-bye here, said she. I wonder if I shall ever see you again. For a moment I felt a strong impulse to propose some future meeting at a definite

  date, but fortunately some glimmering of discretion, and perhaps some thought of Sylvia, restrained me. Why shouldn't you? I asked. I don't know, but mine is rather a vagabond existence, that I suppose you will be travelling about. I hope we shall meet again soon, but if we do not, I shall always think of you as my friend, and you will have a kind thought for me sometimes, won't you? I shall indeed. I shall think of you very often, and hope that your life is brighter

  than it seems to be now. Thank you, she said earnestly. And now, good-bye. She held out her hand, and as I grasped it she looked in my face with a wistful, yearning expression that I had noticed before, and which so touched me to the heart that, yielding to a sudden impulse, I drew her to me and kissed her. Dim as was the light of the fading winter's day, I could see that she had, in an instant, turned scarlet. But she was not angry, for as she drew away from me, shyly and

  almost reluctantly, she gave me one of her prettiest smiles, and whispered, good-bye again. Then she ran out between the posts, and turning once again, and still as red as a peony, waved me a last farewell. I stood in the narrow entrance looking out after her with a strange mixture of emotions, pity, wonder and admiration, and a little doubt as to my own part in a late transaction, for I had never before kissed a married woman, and cooling judgment did not

  altogether approve the new departure, for if Mr. Samway was not all that he might be, still he was Mr. Samway and I wasn't. Nevertheless, I stood and watched my late companion with very warm interest until she faded into the dusk, and even then I continued to stand by the posts, gazing out into the waning twilight and cogitating on a rather strange interview. Suddenly my ear caught a sound from behind me, down the lane, a sound which, while it set my suspicion on the alert, brought

  a broad grin to my face. It was what I suppose I must call a stealthy footstep, but the stealthiness might have stood for the very type and essence of futility, for, as I've said, the ground slowed pretty steeply and was covered with loose pebbles, whereby every movement of the foot was rendered as audible as a thunder clap. However, absurd as the situation seemed, if the unseen person was really trying to approach by stealth, it was necessary to be on my guard. Moreover, if this should chance to

  be the person with the nystagmus, the present seemed to be an excellent opportunity for coming to some sort of understanding with him. Accordingly I wheeled about and began to walk back down the lane. Instantly the steps, no longer stealthy, began to retire. I quickened my pace. The unknown and invisible eavesdropper quickened his. Then I broke into a run, and so did he, notwithstanding which I think I should have had him, but for an untoward accident. The ground was not only sloping,

  but under the loose gravel was as hard as stone. Consequently the foothold was not at the best, as I presently discovered, for as I raced down on the steepest slopes the pebbles suddenly rolled away under my foot and I lost my balance. But I did not fall instantly. Half recovering, I flew forward, clawing the air, stamping, staggering, kicking up the gravel, and making the most infernal hubbub and clatter before I finally subsided into a sitting posture on the

  pebbles. When I rose the footsteps were no longer audible, though the lower end of the lane was still some distance away. I resumed my progress at a more sedate pace and kept a sharp look out for a possible ambush, though the lane was too narrow, even in the darkness that now pervaded it, to furnish much cover to an enemy. Some distance down I came to an opening in the fence, where one or two boards had become loose and was half disposed to squeeze through and explore, but I

  did not, for on reflection it occurred to me that if the man was not there it would be useless for me to go, while if he should be hiding behind the fence it would be simply insane of me to put my head through the hole. When I emerged into the road at the bottom I looked about vaguely, but, of course, there was no sign of the fugitive, nor indeed could I have identified him if I had met him. I loitered about undecidedly for a minute or two, and then, realising the futility of keeping a

  watch on the entrance of the lane for a man whom I could not recognise, and becoming conscious of a ravenous desire for food, I made my way down the grove in the direction of my lodgings. End of chapter 14.

• 15 - Chapter XV - Exit Dr. Jardine

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  CHAPTER XV. EXIT DR. JARDINE. My second visit to the Hoardhorns, to which I had looked forward with some eagerness, had after all, to be postponed indefinitely. I say had, since, under the circumstances, it appeared to be so unsafe that I could not fairly take the risk that it involved. I had made the engagement thoughtlessly, and in my preoccupation with Mrs. Samway, had not realized

  the indiscretion to which I had committed myself until I was brought back sharply to the actual conditions by the incident in Lovelane which I have mentioned. But after that, I saw that it would be the wildest folly to show myself in the vicinity of Sylvia's house. Evidently, the spy, after we had given him the slip so neatly, had made direct from our lodgings and lurked in a neighborhood, and there it must have been that he had picked me up again as I passed with Mrs.

  Samway. Of course, it was possible that the unseen person in the lane was not really shadowing me at all, but his stealthy approach, his hasty retreat, and his mysterious disappearance left me in very little doubt on the subject. I was not very nervous about this enigmatic person on my own account. In spite of my alarming experiences, I found it difficult to take him as seriously as I should have done, and still felt a quite unjustifiable confidence in my capability of

  taking care of myself. But on Sylvia's account, I was exceedingly uneasy. The interest that this man had shown in the unlucky little ornament that she wore associated itself in my mind most disagreeably with a mysterious and terrifying adventure in Millfield Lane, and made me feel that it would be sheer insanity for me to go from my house to hers and so possibly give this unknown villain the clue to her whereabouts. This conclusion, at which I had arrived overnight,

  was confirmed on the following morning, for, having taken a brisk walk out in the direction of Harrow, and having kept a very sharp lookout, I was distinctly conscious of the fact that there always appeared to be a man in sight. I never got near him and was not able to recognize him, but at intervals throughout the morning he continually reappeared in the distance, even on the comparatively solitary country roads and the hedge-divided meadows. It was

  excessively irritating. Yet what could I do? Even if I could have identified him with the man who had apparently shadowed me before, I really had nothing against him. And cogitating on the matter, with no little annoyance, I determined to take counsel with Thorndyke, and meanwhile to avoid the neighborhood of the horned thorns. After lunch, I wrote a letter to Sylvia, briefly explaining the state of affairs, and, having given it to our maid to deliver, I took the precaution to go out and

  saunter to its cantish town with the object of engaging the spy's attention and preventing him from following my message at the north end. The rest of the day I spent at home and occupied my time in writing a long letter to Thorndyke, in which I gave a pretty detailed account of my recent experiences. Which letter was duly posted by Mrs. Blunt herself in time for the evening collection. I had barely seated myself at the breakfast table on the following morning when

  a telegram was brought to me. On opening it, I found that it was from Thorndyke, advising me that the letter had been dispatched by hand and asking me to stay at home until I had received it. Which I did. And within an hour it arrived and was delivered into my own hands by a messenger boy. It was curt and rather peremptory in tone, desiring me to meet him at one o'clock at Salters Club in a turning off St. James's Street and concluding with these somewhat remarkable instructions.

  I want you to wear an overcoat and hat of a distinctive and easily recognizable character and to take every means that you can of being seen and, if possible, followed to the club. You'd better put a few necessaries in a bag or suitcase and tell your landlady that you may not be home tonight. Follow these instructions to the letter and bring this note with you. At the latter part of these directions I was somewhat disposed to boggle, remembering my

  worthy teacher's threat to put me somewhere out of harm's way. But Thorndyke was a difficult man to disobey. Suave and persuasive as his manners were, he had a certain final and compelling way with him that silenced objections and produced a sort of frictionless obedience without any sense of compulsion. Hence, notwithstanding a slight tendency to bluster and tell myself that I would see him hang before I would submit to being mollycoddled like an idiot, I found myself

  presently walking down the grove in a buff overcoat and a grey felt hat, carrying a green canvas suitcase in which were packed the necessaries for a brief stay away from home and bearing in my pocket the incriminating letter. I walked slowly as far as the junction road in order to give any pursuer a fair opportunity to take up the chase and to make the necessary observations on my tasteful turnout. At the junction I waited for a tram and carefully abstained from staring about

  in a manner which would have embarrassed any person who might wish unobserved to share the conveyance with me. And from the terminus at Euston Road I proceeded in leisurely fashion on foot, still resisting the temptation to look about and see if I had picked up a companion by the way. Salters Club was domiciled in a typical West End house, situated in a quiet street of similar houses, graced at one end by a cab stand. I timed my arrival with such accuracy that a neighbouring

  church clock struck one as I ascended the steps, and on my entering the hall I was met by an elderly man in a quiet livery who seemed to expect me, for when I mentioned Thorndyke's name he asked, Dr. Jardine, sir? And, hardly waiting for my reply, showed me to the cloakroom. Dr. Thorndyke, said he, will be with you in a few minutes. When you have washed I will show you to the dining room, where he wished you to wait for him. I was just a little surprised at even this short delay,

  for Thorndyke was the soul of punctuality. However, I had not to wait long. I had been sitting less than three minutes at a small table laid for two in the deep bay window, scanning the street through the wire-gauze blinds when he arrived. I needn't apologize, I suppose, Jardine, he said, shaking my hand heartily. You will have guessed why I have kept you waiting. You flatter me, sir, I replied with a slight grin. I haven't your powers of

  instantaneous deduction. You hardly needed them, he retorted. Of course, I was watching your approach and observing the corner by which you entered the street to see who came after you. Did anyone come after me? Several persons. I examined them all very carefully, with a prism binocular that magnifies twelve times linear, and an assistant is now at the same window, the one over this, following the fortunes of those persons with the same excellent glass.

  Did you spot anyone in particular as looking a likely person? Yes, the second man who came after you seemed to be sauntering in a rather unpurposive fashion and looking a little obtrusively unconcerned. I noticed, too, that he was carrying an umbrella in his left hand, but we needn't concern ourselves. If anyone is shadowing you, we are certain to see him. He must expose himself to view from time to time, for he can't afford to lose sight of our doorway

  for more than a few seconds, and there is practically no cover in this street. He might hide in a doorway, I suggested. Ah, mighty! These are all clubs in this street. He'd very soon have the servants out wanting to know his business. No, he'll have to keep on the move, and he'll have to keep mostly in sight of this house. And meanwhile, we are going to take our lunch at our leisure and have a little talk to while away the time. The lunch was on a scale that my

  youthful appetite approved strongly, though the number of courses and irrelevant, time-consuming kick-shaws struck me as rather unusual, and I never saw a man eat so slowly and delay a meal so much as Thondike did on that occasion. I believe that it took him fully twenty minutes a fried soul, and even then he created a further delay by drawing my attention to the skeleton on his plate as an illustration of inherited deformity adjusted to special environmental conditions.

  But all the time, whether eating or talking, I noticed that his eye continually travelled up and down the stretch of street that was visible through the wire blinds. You haven't told me why you sent for me, sir, I said, after waiting patiently for him to open the subject. I dare say you have guessed, he replied, but we may as well thrash the matter out now.

  You realize that you are running an enormous and unnecessary risk by going abroad with this man at your heels. Well, I don't suppose he's following me about from sheer affection. No, I thought it possible that he might be a plain-clothed policeman, but I have a certain that he is not. Who he is, we don't know, but we have the strongest reasons for suspecting his intentions. There have been three very determined attempts on

  your life. They were all made with such remarkable caution and foresight that, though they failed, practically no traces have been left. Those attempts imply a strong motive, though to us an unknown one, and that motive presumably still exists. Your enemy may well be getting desperate and may be prepared to take greater risks to get rid of you, and if he is, the chances are that he will succeed sooner or later. Murder isn't very

  difficult to a cool-headed man who means business. Then what do you propose, sir? I propose that you disappear from your ordinary surroundings and come and stay for a time at my chambers in the temple. This was no more than I'd expected, but my jaw dropped considerably, notwithstanding. It's awfully good of you, sir, I stammered, and so to be sure it was. But don't you think it would be simpler to turn the tables on this Johnny and shadow him? An excellent idea,

  Jardine, and one I may say that I am acting on at this moment, but there isn't so much in it as you seem to think. Supposing we identify this man and even run him to earth? What then? We have nothing against him. We know of no crime that has been committed. We may suspect that the man whom you saw at Hampstead had been murdered, but we can't prove it. We can't produce the body, or even prove that the man was dead. And we couldn't connect this person with the affair,

  because nobody was known to be connected with it. I should like to know who this man is, but I don't want to put him on his guard. And above all, I can't agree to your going about as a sort of live bait to enable us to locate him. By the way, that man on the opposite side of the street is the one whom I selected as being probably your attendant. Apparently I was right, as this is the third time he has passed. Do you recognize him? I looked attentively at the

  uncharacteristic figure on the farther side of the street, but could find nothing familiar in his appearance. No, I replied, he doesn't look to me like the same man. He is dressed differently. That's nothing, as he has been dressed differently on each occasion, and that torpedo beard and full moustache are quite unlike, though there's nothing in that either. But a man looks different altogether, distinctly taller, for instance. Thondike chuckled.

  Good, said he. Now look at his feet, as he passes opposite. Did you ever see an instep set at that angle to the sole? And does not your anatomical conscience cry out at a foot of that thickness? Yes, by Jove! I exclaimed. There's room for a double row of midget hassles. It's a fake of some kind, I suppose. Quark razors inside high-heeled boots. Through the glasses I could see that the boots gaped considerably at the instep, as they will when there is a pad in sight,

  as well as a foot. But you notice also that the man is dressed for height. He has a tall hat, a long coat, and his shoulders are obviously raised by padding. I think there is very little doubt that he is our man. It must be a dull job, I remarked, hanging about by the hour to see a man come out of a house. Very, Thondike agreed. I am quite sorry for the worthy person, especially as we are going to play him a rather shabby trick presently. What are we going to do? I asked. We

  are going to let him in, for one of the longest waits he has ever had, I'm afraid. Perhaps I'd better give you the particulars of our modus operandi. First, I shall send down to the stand for a handsome, which will draw up opposite the club, and thereupon I have no doubt our friend will hurry down to the cab stand to be in readiness. At any rate, I shall let him get down to that end of the street before I do anything more. Then I shall take the liberty of putting on your coat

  and hat, and go out to the cab with your suitcase in my hand. I shall stand on the curb long enough to let our friend get a good view of my back. I shall get into the cab, give the driver the direction through the trap to drive to the hospital, and pay the fare in advance. Why in advance? I asked. So that I shall not have to turn round and show my face when I get out at the hospital entrance. I assume that your friend will follow me in another handsome. Also that he will alight at

  the outer gates, or as I shall drive into the courtyard right up to the main entrance, so that I will merely see your hat, coat, and suitcase disappear into the building. Then, as I say, he will be in for an interminable vigil. I have a lecture to give this afternoon, and when I have finished, I shall come away in a black overcoat and tall hat, which are at this moment hanging up in the curator's room, leaving your friend to wait for the reappearance of your

  coat, hat, and suitcase. I only hope he won't wait too long. Why? Because he may wear out the patience of my assistant. I have a plainclothes man keeping a watch from the window above. If your friend sets off in pursuit of your garments, as I anticipate, the plainclothes man will go straight to the hospital and take up his post in the porter's lodge, which, as you know, commands the whole street outside the gates. And what have I got to do? First of all, you'll put your toothbrush in

  your pocket, never mind about your razor, and let me try on your hat in case we have to pad the lining. Then, when you have seen your friend start off in pursuit and are sure the coast is clear, you will make straight for my chambers and wait there for me. And supposing the chap he doesn't start off in pursuit, supposing he twigs the imposture, then the plainclothes man will go out and threaten to arrest him for loitering with intent to commit a felony. That would soon

  move him on out of the neighborhood, and the officer might accompany him some distance and try to get his address. Meanwhile, you would be off to King's Bench Walk. But wouldn't it be simpler to run the Johnny in in any case? Then we should know all about him. No, it wouldn't do. The police wouldn't actually make an arrest without an information, and if they did proceed, they would want me to appear. That wouldn't suit me at all. Until we obtain some fresh evidence,

  I don't want this man to get any suspicion that the case is being investigated. And now I think the time has come for a move. Let us go to the cloakroom and see if your hat fits me sufficiently well. It was not a good fit, being just a shade small, but as it was a soft felt, this was not a vital defect. The overcoat fitted well enough, though a trifle long on the sleeves, and when Thorndyke was fully arrayed in this borrowed plumage, his back view,

  so far as I could judge, was indistinguishable from my own. If you will take out your toothbrush and hand me your suitcase, said he, I will send for a handsome, and then we will watch the progress of events from the dining-room window. I handed him the green canvas case, and we returned to the dining-room, and there, when he had ordered the cab, we took up a position at the window,

  screened from observation by the wire blinds. Our friend, said Thorndyke, was walking towards the right-hand end of the street when we saw him last. As the cab stand is at the left-hand end, we may hope to look upon his face once again. As he spoke, the air was rent by the shriek of the cab-whistle, and the leading handsome began immediately to bear down on the club. It had hardly come to rest at our door when

  a figure appeared from the opposite direction, advancing at a brisk walk on our side of the road. I recognized him instantly, as the man to whom Thorndyke had directed my attention, and watched him closely as he approached, to see if I could identify him with the man who had shadowed Sylvia and me at the picture gallery. But, though he passed within a few yards of the window, and I felt no doubt that he was the same man, I could trace no definite

  resemblance. It is true that while actually passing the club, he averted his face somewhat, but I had a good view of him within an easy distance, and the face that I then saw was certainly not the face of the man at the gallery. The skillfulness of the make-up, assuming it to be really a disguise, was incredible, and I remarked on it to Thorndyke. Yes, he agreed. A really artistic make-up is apt to surprise the uninitiated. And that reminds me

  that Poulton has instructions to make a few trifling alterations in your own appearance. I stared at him aghast. You don't mean to say, I exclaimed, that you contemplate making me up. We won't discuss the question now, he replied a little evasively. You talk it over with Poulton. It is time for me to go now, as our quarry has

  considerably acted up to our expectations. He little knows what confusion of our plans he would have occasioned by simply staying at the other end of the street. The spy had, in fact, now halted opposite the cab stand, and was apparently making some notes in a pocketbook, facing meanwhile in our direction. With a few parting instructions to me, Thorndyke picked up the suitcase and hurried out, and I saw him dart down the steps, with his face

  turned somewhat to the right, and stand for a few seconds at the edge of the pavement with his back to the cab stand, but in full view, looking at his watch as if considering some appointment. Suddenly he sprang into the cab, and, pushing up the trap, gave the driver his instructions, and handed up the fare. At the same moment I saw the unknown shadower, Hale Handsome, and, scrambling to the footboard, gave some brief directions to the driver.

  Then Thorndyke's cabman touched his horse with a whip, and away he went at a smart trot. But hardly had the cab turned the first corner when the second handsome rattled past the club in hot pursuit. I was about to turn away from the window when a tall, well-dressed man ran down the steps and immediately signalled to the cab stand with his stick. Thinking it probable that this was the plainclothes policeman, I stopped to watch, and when I had seen him enter the cab and drive

  off in the same direction as the other two, I decided that the show was over, and that it was time for me to take my departure. Which I did, after stuffing a couple of envelopes into the lining of Thorndyke's hat to prevent it from slipping down towards my ears. That my arrival at number 5A King's Bench Walk was not quite unexpected, I gathered not only from the fact that the oak stood wide open, revealing the innardole, but from the instantaneous way in

  which this latter opened in response to my knock. And something gleeful and triumphant in Mr. Bolton's manner as he invited me to enter, stirred my suspicions and aroused vague forebodings. He helped me out of my, or rather Thorndyke's, overcoat, and, having taken the hat from me, peered inquiringly into its interior and fished out the two envelopes which he politely offered to me. Then, having disposed of his employer's property, he returned to confront me, and,

  wrinkling his countenance into a most singular and highly corrugated smile, he opened his mouth and spoke. — So you've come, sir, the doctor tells me, to take sanctuary for a time with us from the malice of your enemies. — I don't know about that, I replied. But there is a cockeyed transformationist who seems to be dodging about after me, and Dr. Thorndyke thinks I'd better give him the go-by for the present. — And very proper, too, sir. Discretion is the better part

  of valour, as the proverb says, though I really could never see that it is any part at all. But no doubt our forefathers, who made the proverb, knew best. Did the doctor mention that he'd given me certain instructions about you? — He said that I was to talk over some question with you, but I didn't quite follow him. What were his instructions? Poulton rubbed his hands, and his face became more crinkly than ever.

  — The doctor instructed me, he replied, looking at me hungrily and obviously making a mental inventory of my features, to effect certain slight alterations in your outward personality. — Oh, did he? said I. — And what does he mean by that? Does he mean that you're to make me up as an old woman? Or a nigger minstrel? — Not at all, sir, replied Poulton. Neither of those characters would be at all suitable. They were an occasion remark, which it is our object to avoid,

  and as to a negro minstrel, his presence in chambers would undoubtedly be objected to by the benches. But I expostulated, why any disguise at all, if I am to be boxed up in these chambers? The chap he isn't likely to come and look through the keyhole. — He wouldn't see anything if he did, said Poulton. I fit at these locks. But, you see, sir, many strangers come to these chambers, and then, too, you might like to take a little exercise

  about the inn or the gardens. That would probably be quite safe if you were unrecognizable, but otherwise I should think inadmissible. — And really, sir, he continued persuasively. — If you do a thing at all, you may as well do it thoroughly. The doctor wishes you to disappear. Then disappear completely. Don't do it by halves. I could not but admit to myself that this was reasonable advice. Nevertheless, I grumbled a little sulkily. It seems to me that Dr. Thorndyke

  is making a lot of unnecessary fuss. It is absurd for an able-bodied man to be sneaking into a hiding place and disguising himself like a runaway thief. — I can offer no opinion on that, sir, said Poulton. But you're wrong about the doctor. He's a cautious man, but he's not nervous or fussy. You'd be wise to act as he thinks best, I'm sure. — Very well, I said. I won't be obstinate. When do you want to begin on me?

  — I should like, replied Poulton, brightening up wonderfully at my sudden submission, to have you ready for inspection by the time that the doctor returns. If agreeable to you, sir, I would proceed immediately. — Then in that case, said I, we'd better adjourn to the green room forthwith. — If you please, sir, replied Poulton. And with this, having opened the door and

  cautiously inspected the landing, he conducted me up the stairs to the floor above, the rooms of which appear to be fitted as workshops and laboratories. In one of the former, which appear to be Poulton's own special den, I saw my watch hanging from a nail, with a rating table pinned above it, and proceeded to claim it. — I suppose, sir, said Poulton, reluctantly taking it from its nail and surrendering it to me. As you're going to reside on the premises and I can

  keep it under observation, you may as well wear it. The present rate is plus 1.3 seconds daily. And I will trouble you to sit down on this stool and take off your collar. I did as he bade me, and meanwhile he turned up his cuffs and stood a little way off, surveying me as a sculptor might survey a bust on which he was at work. Then he fetched a large cardboard box, the contents of which I could not see,

  and fell to work. His first proceeding was to oil my hair thoroughly, part it in the middle, and brush it smoothly down either side of my forehead. Next he shaved off the outer third of each eyebrow, and having applied some sort of varnish or adhesive, he proceeded to build up, with a number of short hairs, a continuation of the eyebrows at a higher level. The result seemed to please him amazingly, for he stepped back and viewed me with an exceedingly self-satisfied

  smirk. It is really surprising, sir, said he, how much expression there is in the corner of an eyebrow. You look a completely different gentleman already. Then, said I, there is no need to do any more. We can leave it at this. Oh, no we can't, sir, Poulton replied hastily, making a frantic dive into the cardboard box. Begging your pardon, sir, it is necessary to attend to the lower part of the face in case you should wish to wear a hat, which would cover the

  hair and throw the eyebrows into shadow. He reproduced from the box an undeniable false beard of the torpedo type, and approached me, holding it out as if it were a poultice. You are not going to stick that beastly thing on my face, I exclaimed, gazing at it with profound disfavour. Now, sir, protested Poulton, pray be patient. We will just dry it on, and the doctor shall decide if it is necessary. With this he proceeded to affix the abomination to my

  jowl with the aid of the same sticky varnish that he had used previously, and, having attached a moustache to my upper lip, worked carefully round the edges of both, with a quantity of loose hair, which he stuck on the skin with the adhesive liquid, and afterwards trimmed off with scissors. The process was just completed, and he stepped back once more, to admire his work, when an electric bell rang softly in the adjoining room.

  There's the doctor, he remarked. I'm glad we're ready for him. Shall we go down and submit our work for his inspection? I ascended readily, having some hopes that Thorndyke would veto the beard, and we descended together to the sitting-room, where we found that Jervis and his principal had arrived together. As to the former, he greeted my entrance by staggering back several paces with an expression of terror, and then seated himself on the edge of the table, and laughed with an

  air of enjoyment that was almost offensive, particularly to Polton, who stood by my side, rubbing his hands and smiling with devilish satisfaction. I assume, Thorndyke said gravely, that this is our friend Jardine. It isn't, said Jervis. It's a shop-walker from Wallis's. I recognized him instantly. Look here, I said with some heat. It's all very well for you to make me up like Charlie's aunt,

  and then jeer at me. But what's the use of it? The 5th of November's past. My dear Jardine, Thorndyke said soothingly, you are confusing your sensations with your appearance. I dare say that make-up is rather uncomfortable, but that is completely successful, and I must congratulate Polton, for the highest aim of a disguise is the utterly commonplace, and I assure you that you are now a most ordinary-looking person. Fetch the looking

  glass from the office, Polton, and let him see for himself. I gazed into the mirror which Polton held up to me with profound surprise. There was nothing in the least grotesque or unusual in the face that looked out at me, only it was the face of an utter stranger, and, as Thorndyke had said, a perfectly commonplace stranger at whom no one would look twice in the street. Grudgingly, I acknowledged the fact, but still objected to the beard. Do you think it's really necessary, sir,

  in addition to the other disfigurements? Yes, I do, replied Thorndyke. It is only a temporary expedient, because in a fortnight your own beard will have grown enough to serve with a little artificial reinforcement, and, he continued, as Polton retired with a gratified smile, I am anxious that your disappearance shall be complete. It is not only a question of your safety, although that is very urgent, and I feel myself responsible for you, as we are not appealing to

  police. There are other issues. Assuming, as we do assume, that some crime has been committed, the lapse of time must inevitably cause some of the consequences of that crime to develop. If the man whose body you saw at Hampstead was really murdered, he must presently be missed and inquired for. Then we shall learn who he was, and perhaps we may gather what was the motive of the crime. Then your secret enemy will be left unemployed and may produce some fresh evidence,

  for he can't wait indefinitely for your reappearance. And finally, certain inquiries which I am making may set us on the right track, and, if they do, you must remember, Jardine, that you are probably the sole witness to certain important items of evidence, so you must be preserved in safety as a matter of public policy, apart from your own prejudices in favour of remaining alive. I didn't know that you were actually working at the case,

  I said. Have you been following up that man Gill of the mineral waterworks? I followed him up to the vanishing point. He has gone and left no trace, and I have been unable to get any description of him. Then, said I, if it is allowable to ask the question, in what direction have you been making inquiries? I have been interesting myself, Tholndyke replied. In the other case, that of your patient Mr. Maddock, as the attacks on you seem to be associated

  with his neighbourhood rather than with that of Hampstead, I have examined his will at Somerset House and am collecting information about the persons who benefited by its provisions. Especially, I am making some inquiries about a legatee who lives in New York, and concerning whom I am rather curious. I can't go into further details just now, but you will see that I am keeping the case in hand, and you must remember that, at any moment,

  fresh information may reach me from other sources. My practice is a very peculiar one, and there are few really obscure cases that are not, sooner or later, brought to me for an opinion. And meanwhile I am to eat the bread of idleness here and wait on events. You won't be entirely idle, Tholndyke replied. We shall find you some work to do, and you will extend your knowledge of medico-legal practice.

  You write shorthand fairly well, don't you? Yes, and I can draw a little, if that is of any use. Both accomplishments are of use, and even if they are not, we should have to exercise them for the sake of appearances. It will certainly become known that you are here, so it better make no secret of but find you such occupation as will account for your presence. And as you will have to meet strangers now and again, we must find you a name. What do you think

  of William Morgan Howard? It will do as well as any other, I replied. Very well then, William Morgan Howard, let it be. And in case you might forget your alias, as the crooks are constantly doing, we will drop the name of Jardine and call you Howard even when we are alone. It will save us all from an untimely slip. To this arrangement also I agreed with a sour smile, and so, with some physical discomfort in the neighborhood of the lower jaw,

  and a certain relish of the novelty and absurdity of my position, I placed myself as the name of Howard on the roster of Tholndyke's establishment. End of chapter 15.

• 16 - Chapter XVI - Enter Father Humperdinck

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  CHAPTER XVI. ENTER FATHER HUMPERDING. On the day following my and Thorndyke's masterly retreat from Salters Club, the plainclothes officer called to make his report, and even before he spoke I judged from his rather sheepish expression that he had failed.

  And so it turned out. He had waited in the port's lodge, he told us, until midnight, keeping a watch on the watcher, who, for his part, lurked in the street, always keeping in sight of the hospital, and whiling away the time by gazing into the shop windows. The spy had evidently failed to recognize Thorndyke, for when the latter left the hospital

  in company with one of the physicians, he had given only a passing glance at the open carriage in which the two men sat. Before the shop had shut, the persevering shadower had occupied himself with a sort of dismal sentry go up and down the street, disappearing into the darkness and reappearing at regular intervals.

  Once or twice the plainclothes man went out and followed his quarry in his perambulations, but not considering it prudent to expose himself too much to view, he remained mostly in the lodge. It was after one of these cellies that the mischance occurred. Coming to the lodge, he saw the spy pass the gates and disappear up the dark street.

  He looked, after the usual interval, for him to reappear, but the interval passed and there was no reappearance. Then the officer hurried out in search of his quarry, but found only an empty street. Even the apparently inexhaustible patience of the spy had given out at last. And so the quest had ended.

  I cannot say that Thorndyke impressed me as being deeply disappointed. In fact, I thought that he seemed, if anything, rather relieved at his emissary's failure. This was Jervis's opinion also, and he had no false delicacy about expressing it. Well, Thorndyke replied, as the fellow thrust himself right under my nose, I could hardly do less than make some sort of an attempt to find out who he is.

  But I don't particularly want to know. My investigations are proceeding from quite another direction. And you see, Jervis, how awkward it might have been to have this person on our hands. We could only charge him with loitering with Philonia's intent, and we couldn't prove the intent after all.

  For we can't produce any evidence connecting this man with the three attempted murders. He may not be the same man at all, and I certainly don't want to go into the witness box just now. And still less do I want my new clerk, Mr. Howard, put into that position. I don't want to take any action until I have the case quite complete and am in a position

  to make a decisive move. The truth is, said Jervis, addressing me confidentially in a stage whisper, Thorndyke hates the idea of spoiling a really juicy problem by merely arresting the criminal and pumping his friends. He looks on such a proceeding much as a master of foxhounds would look on the act of poisoning a fox.

  Thorndyke smiled indulgently at his junior. There is such a thing, said he, as failing to poison a fox and only making him too unwell to leave his residence. A premature prosecution is apt to fail, and then the prisoner has seen all the cards of his adversaries.

  At present I am playing against an unseen adversary, but I am hoping that I, in my turn, am unseen by him, and I am pretty certain that he has no idea what cards I hold. Gah! exclaimed Jervis. Then he's much the same position as I am. And with this the subject dropped.

  The first week of my residence in Thorndyke's chambers was quite uneventful and was mainly occupied in settling down to the new conditions. My letters were sent on by Mrs. Blunt to the hospital whence they were brought by my principal, as I may now call my quantum teacher, with the exception of Sylvia's, which we had agreed were to be sent to the chambers and closed in an envelope addressed to Thorndyke.

  At first I had feared that the confinement would be unendurable, but the reality proved to be much less worrisome than I had anticipated. A horizontal bar rigged up by Poulton in the laboratory gave me the means of abundant exercise of one kind, and in the early mornings, before the gates of the inn were opened, I made it my daily practice to trot round the precincts for an hour at a time, taking the circuit

  from our chambers, through Crown Office Road, to Fountain Court, and back by way of Pump Court and the Cloisters, to the great benefit of my health and the mild surprise of the porters and laundresses. Nor was I without occupation in the daytime. It's an exhaustively detailed account of all the remarkable experiences that had befallen

  me of late, which I wrote out at Thorndyke's request. I had a good deal of clerical work of one kind and another, and was frequently employed, when clients called, in exhibiting my skill as a stenographer, taking down oral statements, or making copies of depositions or other documents which were read over to me by Thorndyke or Jervis.

  It was the exercise of these latter activities that introduced me to a certain Mr. Marchment, and threw him to some new and rather startling experiences. Mr. Marchment was a solicitor, and, as I gathered, an old client of Thorndyke's, for when he called one evening, about ten days after my arrival, with a bag full of documents, he made sundry references to former cases, by which I understood that he and Thorndyke had

  been pretty frequently associated in their professional affairs. I've got a lot of papers here," he said, opening the bag, of which I suppose I ought to have had copies made, but there hasn't been time, and I am afraid there won't be, as I have to return them tomorrow, but perhaps if you run your eye over them you will see what it is necessary to remember and make a few notes.

  I think, said Thorndyke, that my friend, Mr. Howard, will be able to help us by taking down the essentials in shorthand. Let me introduce you. Mr. Howard is very kindly assisting me for a time by relieving me of some of the extra clerical work.

  Mr. Marchment bowed, and as we shook hands looked at me as I thought rather curiously. Then he extracted the papers from his bag, and, spreading them out on the table, briefly explained their nature. "'There is no need,' said he, "'to have copies of them all, but I thought you had better see them.

  Perhaps you will glance through them and see which you think ought to be copied for reference.' Thorndyke ran his eye over the documents, and, having made one or two brief notes of the contents of some, which he then laid aside, he collected the remainder and began to read them out to me, while I took down the matter verbatim, interpolating Marchment's comments and explanations on a separate sheet of paper.

  The reading and the discussion occupied a considerable time, and, before the business was concluded, the treasury clock had struck half past nine. "'It's getting late,' said Marchment, folding the papers and putting the bag in the bag. "'I must be going, or you'll wish me at Halifax, if you aren't doing so already.' He snapped the fastening of the bag, and, grasping the handle, was about to lift it

  from the table when he appeared to recollect something, for he let go the handle and once more faced my principle. "'By the way, Thorndyke,' said he, "'there is a matter on which I have wanted to consult you for some time past, but couldn't get my client to agree. It is a curious affair, quite in your line, I think, a case of disappearance—not in

  the legal sense as creating a presumption of death, but disappearance from ordinary places of resort with a very singular change of habits, so far as I can learn—possibly a case of commencing insanity. "'I've been wanting to lay the facts before you, but my client, who is a Jesuit and as suspicious as the devil, insisted on trying to ferret out the evidence for himself.

  I wouldn't hear of a consultation with you. Of course, he has failed completely, and now I think he's more amenable.' "'Are you in possession of the facts yourself?' asked Thorndyke. "'No, I'm hanged if I am,' replied Marchment. "'The case is concerned with a certain Mr. Reinhardt, who was a client of my late partner,

  Poor Winterhurst. I never had anything to do with him, and it unfortunately happens that our old clerk, Bell—you remember Bell?—who had charge of Mr. Reinhardt's business, left us soon after Poor Winterhurst's death. So there is nobody in the office who has any personal knowledge of the parties.'

  "'You say it is a case of disappearance?' said Thorndyke. "'Not exactly disappearance, but—well, it is a most singular case. I can make nothing of it, and neither can my worthy and reverent client, so as I say, he's now growing more amenable, and I think I shall be able to persuade him to come round with me and take your opinion on such facts as we have.

  Shall you be at home tomorrow evening?' "'Yes, I can make an appointment for tomorrow, after dinner, if you prefer that time.' "'We won't call it an appointment,' said Marchmond. "'If I can overcome his obstinacy, I will bring him round and take the chance of your being in.

  But I think he'll come, as he is on his beam ends, and if he does, I fancy you'll find a little problem exactly to your liking.' With this Mr. Marchmond took his departure, leaving Thorndyke and me to discuss the various legal aspects of disappearance and the changes of habit and temperament that usher in an attack of mental alienation.

  I could see that the solicitor's guarded references to an obscure and intricate case had aroused Thorndyke's curiosity to no small extent, for, though he said little on the subject, it evidently remained in his mind, as I judged by the care with which he planned the disposal of his time of the following day, and the little preparations that he made for the reception of his visitors.

  Nor was Thorndyke the only expectant member of our little establishment. Jervis also, having caught the scent of an interesting case, made it his business to keep the evening free, and so it happened that when eight o'clock struck on the temple bell it found his guard at round the fire, chatting on indifferent subjects, but all three listening for the expected tread on the stairs.

  "'It is to be hoped,' said Jervis, "'that our reverend friend won't dip at the last moment. I always expect something good from Marchmond. He doesn't get flummoxed by anything simple or commonplace. I think we've had most of our really thrilling cases through him, and seeing that Jardine

  has laid in two whole quarto note-blocks and put those delightful extra touches to his already alluring get-up—' "'There is no such person here as Jardine,' Thorndyke interrupted. "'I beg his pardon, Mr. Howard,' I should have said. But listen, there are two persons coming up the stairs.

  You'd better take your place at the table, Jard—'Howard,' and look beastly business-like, with a reverend gentleman who'll want you chucked out, and then you'll lose the entertainment.' I hurried across to the table, and had just seated myself and taken up a pen, when the brass knocker on her inner door rattled out its announcement. Thorndyke strode across and threw the door open, and as Mr. Marchmond entered with his

  client I looked at the letter inquisitively, but only for a single instant. Then I looked down and tried to efface myself utterly, for a Mr. Marchmond client was none other than the cleric with whom I travelled from Folkestone to London. The solicitor ushered in his client with an air of but half-concealed triumph, and proceeded with exaggerated geniality to do the honours of introduction.

  "'Let me make you known to one another, gentlemen,' said he. "'This is the very reverend Father Humperdinck. These gentlemen are Dr. Thorndyke, Dr. Jervis, and Mr. Howard, who will act on this occasion as the recording angel to take down in writing the particulars of your very remarkable story.' Father Humperdinck bowed stiffly. He was evidently a little disconcerted at finding so large an

  assembly, and glanced at me in particular with undisguised disfavour, while I, my oiled hair, deformed eyebrows and full spirit notwithstanding, perspired with anxiety lest he should recognise me. But however unfavourably the reverend father may have viewed our little conclave, Mr. Marchmond, who had been watching him anxiously, gave him no chance of raising objections, but proceeded to open the matter forthwith.

  "'I have not brought any digest or precy of the case,' said he, "'because I know you prefer to hear the facts from the actual parties, but I had better give you a brief outline of the matter of our inquiry. The cases concerned were the Mr. Vitellis Rinehart, who has been closely associated with Father Humperdinck for very many years past, and who has now, without notice or explanation,

  disappeared from his ordinary places of resort, seized from a communication with his friends, and adopted a mode of life quite alien from, and inconsistent with, his previous habits. Those are the main facts, stated in general terms, and the inquiry to which you referred,' said Thorndyke. "'Concerns itself with three questions,' replied Marchmond, and he proceeded to check them off on

  his fingers. First, is Vitellis Rinehart alive or dead? Second, if he is alive, where is he? Third, having regard to the singular change in his habits, is his conduct such as might render it possible to place him under restraint, or to prove him unfit to control his own affairs?' "'To certify him as insane, if I may put it bluntly,' said Thorndyke. "'That question could be decided only on a full knowledge of the nature of the changes

  in this person's habits, with which, no doubt, you are prepared to furnish us. But what instantly strikes me in your epitome of the proposed inquiry is this. You raise the question whether Mr. Rinehart is alive or dead, and then you refer to certain changes in his habits. But since a man must be alive to have any habits at all, the two questions seem to be mutually irreconcilable in relation to the same group of facts.' Father Humperdinck nodded approvenly.

  "'That is just our great difficulty,' said he. "'Some things make me suspect that my friend Rinehart is dead. Some other things make me feel certain that he is alive. I do not know which to think. I am completely puzzled.' "'Perhaps,' said Thorndyke, "'the best plan would be for Father Humperdinck to give us a detailed account of his relations with Mr. Rinehart, and of the latter gentleman's habits as they are known

  to him, after which we could discuss any question that suggests themselves and clear up any points that seem to be obscure.' "'What do you say, Marchmond?' "'It will be a long story,' Marchmond replied doubtfully. "'So much the better,' rejoined Thorndyke. "'It will give us the more matter for consideration. I would suggest that Father Humperdinck tells us the story in his own way, and that Mr. Howard

  takes down the statement. Then we shall have the principled data and can pursue any issue that seems to invite further investigation.' To this proposal, Marchmond agreed a little reluctantly, fortifying himself for the ordeal by lighting a cigar. And Father Humperdinck, having cast a somewhat disparaging glance at me, began his account of his missing friend which I took down verbatim, and which I now reproduce, shorn of the speaker's picturesque but rather tiresome

  peculiarities of pronunciation. My acquaintance with Votelus Rinehart began more than forty years ago when we were both schoolboys in the Jesuits' house at Louvre. But I did not see much of him then, as I was preparing for the novitiate while he was on the secular side. In spite of his German name, Votelus was looked upon as an English boy, for his father had married a rich English lady and was settled in England, and Votelus, being the only child, had very great expectations.

  When he left school I lost sight of him for some years, and it was only after the war had broken out between Germany and France that we met again. I had then just been ordained and was attached as chaplain to a Bavarian regiment. He had come out from England as a volunteer to attend the sick and wounded, and so we met soon after the Battle of Saarbruck in the wards of a temporary hospital. But our career in the field was not a long one. Less than a month after Saarbruck our little force

  met a French division and had to retreat, leaving a number of men and guns and all the wounded in the hands of the enemy. Both of us were among the prisoners, and Votelus was one of the wounded, for just as the retreat began a French bullet struck him in the right hip. We were both taken to Paris with the rest of the prisoners, and there, in the hospital for wounded prisoners, I was allowed to visit him. His wound was a severe one. The bullet had entered deeply and lodged

  behind the bone of the hip, so that the repeated efforts of the surgeons to extract it not only failed but caused great pain and made the wound worse. From day to day poor Votelus grew thinner and more yellow, and we could see plainly that if no change occurred the end must come quite soon. So the doctor said, and so Votelus himself felt. Then it came to me that if the skill of man failed us we should ask for help from above. It happened that I possessed a relic of the Blessed Saint

  Vincent de Paul, who was contained in a small gold reliquary, and which I had been permitted by the Father General to keep. I proposed to Votelus that we should apply the relic and make a special appeal to the Saint for help, and also that he should promise to dedicate some part of his great possessions to the service of God. He agreed readily, for he had always been a deeply pious man. Accordingly he made the promises as I suggested. We offered up special prayers to the

  Saint, and with the permission of the surgeons I attached the reliquary to the dressings of the wound, praying that it should avail to draw out the bullet. And did it? asked Martment, in a tone which evidently did not escape the observant Jesuit, for that noble-witted gentleman turned sharply on the lawyer and replied with severe emphasis. No, sir, it did not. And why? Because there was no need. The very next day after the reliquary was

  applied, when the dressings were changed, a small shred of filthy cloth came out of the wound. That was the cause of the trouble, not the clean metal bullet. The Saint, you see, sir, knew better than the surgeon. Evidently, said Martment, glancing quickly at me, and the expression that I caught in the eye of that elderly heathen suggested that he had actually contemplated a wink and then thought better of it. As soon as the piece of cloth was out of the

  wound, Father Humpredink resumed, all the trouble ceased. The fever abated, the wound healed, and very soon Vitellus was able to get about, none the worse for his mishap. It was natural that he should be grateful to the Saint who had saved his life, for though we look forward to the hereafter we do not wish to die. Also was it natural that he should feel a devotion to the holy relic which had been the appointed instrument of his recovery. He did, and to gratify him I obtained the Father

  General's permission to bestow it on him, which gave him great joy, and thenceforth he always carried the reliquary on his person. I hope he kept his promise to the Saint, said Martment. He did, faithfully and indeed handsomely. No sooner was he recovered of his wound than he proposed to me the founding of a new society of brothers of charity to attend the sick and wounded. I consulted the Father General of my society, the Society of Jesus, and received a sanction to act

  as director of the new society or fraternity which was to be affiliated to the Society of Jesus under the title of the Poor Brothers of Saint Joseph of Arimathea. Why not Saint Vincent de Paul? asked Martment. Because there was already a society named after that Saint, and because Saint Joseph was a man of eminent charity. But I shall not wear you with a history of our society. It was founded and blessed by his holiness, the Pope. It prospered, and it

  still prospers to the glory of God and to the benefit and relief of the sick, the poor, and the suffering. At first Vitaillus paid all the costs, and he has been a generous benefactor ever since. This is all extremely interesting, said Martment, but you will excuse my asking. Has it any bearing on your friend's disappearance? Yes, sir, it has, replied Father Humperding, as you shall perceive when I my narrative

  continue. Mr. Martment bowed, and Father Humperding, quite undisturbed by the interruption, continued his narrative. Our first house was established in Belgium, near Brussels, and Vitaillus came to live with us in community. He did not regularly join the society or take any vows, but he lived with us as one of ourselves, and wore the habit of a lay brother when in the house, and the dress of one when he went abroad. This he has continued to do ever since. Though

  bound by no vows, he has lived the life of a professed religious by choice, occupying an ordinary cell for sleeping, and taking his meals at the refectory table. But not always. From time to time he has taken little holidays, to travel about and mix with the outer world. Sometimes he would come to England to visit his relatives, and sometimes he would spend a few weeks in one of the great cities of the continent, looking over the museums and picture galleries. He was greatly

  interested in art, and liked to frequent the society of painters and sculptors, of whom he knew several. And one in particular, an English painter named Burton, whose acquaintance he made quite recently, he seemed very much attached to, for he stayed with him at Bruges for more than a month. When he came back from Bruges he told me that he proposed going to England to see his relatives and to make certain arrangements with his lawyers for securing a part of his property to

  our society. I had often urged him to do this, but hitherto he had retained complete control of his property and only paid the expenses of the society as they occurred. He was most generous, but of course this was a bad arrangement, because in the event of his death we should have been left without the support that he had promised. It seemed that while he was at Bruges he had discussed this matter with Mr. Burton, who was a Catholic, and that the Englishman also had advised him to make a permanent

  provision for the society. It seemed that he had decided to divide his property between our community and a cousin of his who lives in England, a project of which I strongly approved. After staying with us for a month or two he left for England with the purpose of making this arrangement. That was in the middle of last September, and I have not seen him since. Did he complete the arrangements that he had mentioned? Thulnaik asked. No, he did not.

  He made certain arrangements as to his property, but they were very different ones from those he had proposed. But we shall come to that presently. Let me finish my story. A few days after Vytalus left us our oldest lay brother was taken very seriously ill. I wrote to Vytalus, who was deeply attached to brother Bartholomew, telling him of this, and as I did not know where he was staying I sent a letter to his cousin's house at Hampstead. He replied on the 18th of September that he should

  return immediately. He said that he was then booking his luggage and paying his hotel bill, that he had to see his cousin again, but that he would try to come by the night train, or if he missed that he would sleep at the Seishun Hotel and start as early as possible on the following day, the 19th. That was the last I ever heard from him. He never came and has never communicated with me since. You have made inquiries, of course, said Thulnaik. Yes, when he did not

  come I wrote to his lawyer, Mr. Windhurst, whom I knew slightly. But Mr. Windhurst was dead, and my letter was answered by Mr. Marchmond. From him I learned that Vytalus had called on him on the morning of the 19th and made certain arrangements of which he, perhaps, will tell you. Mr. Marchmond ascertained that, on the same day, Vytalus's luggage was taken from the cloakroom in time to catch the boat train. I've made inquiries and find that he arrived at Calais, and I've succeeded in

  tracing him to Paris, but there I've lost him. Where he is now I'm unable to discover. And now, before I finish my story, you'd better hear what Mr. Marchmond has to tell. He's been very close with me, but you are a lawyer and perhaps know better how to deal with lawyers. Thulnaik glanced inquiringly at the solicitor, who in his turn looked dubiously at the end of his waning cigar. The fact is, said he, I am in a rather difficult position. Mr. Rinehart has employed me as his

  solicitor, and I don't quite see my way to discussing his private affairs without his authority. That is a perfectly correct attitude, said Thulnaik, and yet I am going to urge you to tell us what passed at your interview with your client. I can't go into particulars at present, but I will ask you to take it from me that there are sound reasons why you should, and I will undertake to hold you immune from any blame for having done so.

  Marchmond looked sharply and with evidently awakened interest at Thulnaik. I think I know what that means, he said, and I will take you at your word, having learned by experience what your word is worth. But before describing the interview, I'd better let you know how Rinehart had previously disposed of his property. About twelve years ago, he got Windhurst to draft a will for him by which a life interest

  in the entire property was vested in his cousin, a Miss Augusta Vine, with reversion to her niece Sylvia Vine, the only child of his cousin Robert. This will was duly executed in our office. After that, our firm had, until quite recently, no special business to transact for Mr. Rinehart beyond the management of his investments. The whole of his property, which was all personal, was in our hands to invest, and our relations with him were confined to the transfer of sums

  of money to his bank when we received instructions from him to effect such transfer. He never called at the office, and letterly there has been no one there who knew him excepting Windhurst himself and a clerk, Bell. The next development occurred last September. On the seventeenth, I received a letter from him, written at Miss Vine's house at Hampstead, saying that he had been discussing his affairs with her, and that he should like to call on me and make some slight alterations in the

  disposal of the property. I replied on the eighteenth, addressing my letter to him at Miss Vine's house, making an appointment for eleven o'clock in the morning of the nineteenth. He kept the appointment punctually, and we had a short interview at which he explained the new arrangements which he wished to make. He began by saying that he had found it somewhat inconvenient, living as he did on the continent, to have his account at an English bank. He proposed, therefore, to transfer it to a private

  bank at Paris, conducted by a certain Monsieur Désir, or rather to open an account there, for he did not suggest closing his account at his English bank. Do you know anything about this Monsieur Désir? asked Zollendijk. I did not, but I have since ascertained that he is a person of credit, quite a substantial man in fact, and that his business is chiefly that of private banker and agent to the officers of the army. Well, Mr. Reinhardt went on

  to say that he'd become rather tired of the monotonous life of a lay brother, which he, after all, was not, and wished for a little freedom and change. Accordingly, he intended to travel for a time, which was his reason for employing Monsieur Désir, and did not propose necessarily to keep anyone informed of his whereabouts. He was a rich man, and he had decided to get some advantage from his wealth, which really did not seem to me at all an unreasonable decision. He added that he

  had no intention of withdrawing his support from the Society of the Poor Brothers. He merely intended to dissociate himself personally from it, and he suggested that any occasions that might arise from cuniery assistance should be addressed to him under cover of Monsieur Désir. Finally, he desired me to transfer one thousand pounds stock to his new agent seven days from the date of our interview, and gave me an authority in writing to that effect in which he instructed me to accept

  Monsieur Désir's receipt as a valid discharge. And you did so? asked Thorndyke. Certainly I did, and I hold Monsieur Désir's receipt for the amount. Did you think it necessary to raise the question of your client's identity, seeing that no one in the office knew him personally? No, I did not. The question did not arise. There could not possibly be any doubt on the subject. He was an old client of the firm, and our correspondence had been carried on under cover

  of his cousin Miss Vine, who had known him all his life. You remember that I wrote to him at Miss Vine's address, making the appointment for the interview. And what happened next? The next development was a letter from Father Humperdinck, asking if I could give him Mr. Reinhard's address. Of course I could not, but I wrote to Monsieur Désir, asking him if he could give it to me. Désir replied that he did not at the moment know where Mr. Reinhard was, but would, if desired,

  take charge of any communications and forward them at the first opportunity. This statement may or may not have been true, but I don't think we shall get any more information out of Désir. He is Reinhard's agent and will act on his instructions. If Reinhard has told him not to give anyone his address, naturally he won't give it. So there the matter ends, so far as I am concerned. Did Vytalus make no suggestion as to altering his will?

  Father Humperdinck inquired. None whatever. Nothing was said about the will. But, Mr. Marchmont added, after a cogitative pause, we must remember that he has another man of business now. There is no saying what he may have done through Monsieur Désir. Father Humperdinck nodded gloomily, and Thorndyke, addressing the solicitor, asked, And that is all you have to tell us?

  Yes. And I am not sure that it is not a good deal more than I ought to have told you. It is Father Humperdinck's turn now. The Jesuit acknowledged the invitation to resume his narrative by a stiff bow, and then proceeded, is alive or dead. As a matter of fact, the good brother passed away to his reward the day after Vytalus should have arrived, without even a message from his old friend. But now I return

  to my story. When Vytalus failed to appear, and I could get no news of him, I became very anxious, and as it happened that the business of our society called me to England, I determined to inquire into the matter. Circumstances compelled me to travel by way of Boulogne, and cross to Folkestone. I say circumstances, but I should rather say that I was guided that way by the hand of Providence, for in the train that brought me from Folkestone to London I had a most

  astonishing experience. In the carriage, alone with me, there travelled a young man, a very strange young man indeed. He was a very large man, or I should say very high, and in appearance rather fierce and wild. His clothes were good, but they were disordered and stained with mud, as if he had been drunk at night and had rolled in the gutter. And this, I think, was the case, for soon after we'd started he began to turn out his pockets on the seat of the carriage,

  as if to see whether he had lost anything during his debauches. And then it was that I saw a most astonishing thing. Among the objects that this man took from his pockets and laid on the seat was the reliquary that I'd given so many years ago to Vitaeus. I could not mistake it. Once it had been mine and I'd been accustomed to see it almost daily since. Moreover, the young man at the effrontery took pass it to me that I might examine it, and I found on it the very letters which I

  myself had caused to be engraved on it. When I asked him where he had obtained it, he told me that he had picked it up at Hampstead, and he professed not to know what it was, but his answers were very evasive, and I did not believe him. Nevertheless, said Mr. Marchmond, there was nothing improbable in his statement. Mr. Reinhardt had been at Hampstead and might have dropped it. Possibly, but he would have taken measures to recover it. He would not have left England until

  he had found it. He was a rich man and he would have offered a large reward for this, his most prized possession. of devotional beads, but this was not the way in which Vitaeus carried it. He possessed a small and very beautiful crucifix, which he set great store by, because it was given to him by one of the fathers when he left school, and which he used to wear suspended from his neck by a green silk

  cord. Now, when I gave him the reliquary, he caused the goldsmith to link one of its rings to the ring of the crucifix, and he fastened the silk cord to the other ring, and so he suspended both the reliquary and the crucifix from his neck. Did he wear them outside his clothing, so that they were visible? Sondike asked. Yes, outside his waistcoat, so that they were not only visible, but very conspicuous when his coat was unbuttoned. It was, of course, very unsuitable to the dress of a lay

  brother, and I spoke to him about it several times, but he was sometimes rather self-willed, as you may judge by his refusal to settle an endowment on the society, and naturally, as he was not professed, I had no authority over him. But I shall return presently to the reliquary. Now I continue about this young man. When I had heard his explanation and decided that he was telling me lies, I made a simple pretext to discover his name and place of abode. With the

  same effrontery, he gave me his card, which I have here, and which you will see is stained with mud, owing no doubt to those wallowings in the mire of which I have spoken. He drew the card from his pocketbook and handed it to Sondike, who read it gravely, and, pushing it across the table to me, said, without moving a muscle of his face, You had better copy it into your notes, Mr. Howard, so that we may have the record complete. I accordingly copied out my own name and address,

  with due solemnity and a growing enjoyment of the situation, and then returned the card to Father Humperdinck, who pocketed it carefully and resumed, Having the name and address of this young man, I telegraphed immediately to a private detective bureau in Paris, asking to have sent to me, if possible, a certain M. Foucault, who makes a specialty of following and watching suspected persons. This Foucault is a man of extraordinary talent. His power of disguising

  himself is beyond belief, and his patience is inexhaustible. Fortunately he was disengaged and came to me without delay, and when I had given him the name and address of this young man, Jardine, and described him for my recollection of him, he set a watch on the house, and found that the man was really living there, as he had said, and that he made a daily journey to the hospital of St. Margaret's, where he seemed to have some business, as he usually stayed there until

  evening. St. Margaret's? exclaimed Marchmond. Why, that is your hospital, Sollendijk. Do you happen to know this man, Jardine? There is, or was, a student of that name, who qualified some little time ago, and who is probably the man Father Humperdinck is referring to. A tall man, quite as tall, I should say, as my friend here, Mr. Howitt. I should say, said Father Humperdinck, that the man Jardine is taller, decidedly taller. I watched him as I walked behind him up the platform at

  Chiron Cross, and M. Foucault has shown him to me since. But that matters not. Have you seen the man Jardine lately at the hospital? Not very lately, Sollendijk replied. I saw him there nearly a fortnight ago, but that, I think, was the last time. Ah! exclaimed Humperdinck. Exactly. But I shall continue my story. For some time M. Foucault kept a close watch on this man, but discovered nothing fresh. He went to the hospital daily. He came home when he stayed indoors the whole evening.

  But at last there came a new discovery. One morning M. Foucault saw the man Jardine come out of his house, dressed more carefully than usual. From his house Foucault followed him to a picture gallery in Leicester Square, and went in after him. And there he saw him meet a female, evidently by previous assignation. And, Father Humperdinck continued, slapping the table to emphasize the climax of his story, from the neck of that female was hanging Vitellus Reinhard's Crucifix. Having

  made this thrilling communication, our reverend client leant back to watch its effect on his audience. I am afraid he must have been a little disappointed, for Thorndyke was habitually impassive in his exterior, and, as for Dervis and me, we were fully occupied in maintaining a decent and befitting gravity. But Marchmont, the only person present who was not already acquainted with the incident, saved the situation by exclaiming, Very remarkable! Very remarkable indeed!

  It is more than remarkable, said Father Humperdinck. It is highly suspicious. You observed that the reliquary and the crucifix have been linked together. Now they are separated, and since both the rings of the reliquary were unbroken, it follows that the ring of the crucifix must have been cut through, and a new one made, by which to suspend it. I don't see anything particularly suspicious in that, said Marchmont. If Jardine found the two articles fixed together, and, having failed to discover the

  owner, wished to give the crucifix to his friend, it is not unnatural that he should have separated them. I do not believe that he found them, Father Humperdinck replied doggedly. But I shall continue my story, and you will see. There is not much more to tell. It seems that the man Jardine suspected Foucault of watching him, for presently he left the gallery in company with the female, and after being followed for some distance he managed to escape. As soon as Foucault found that

  he'd lost him, he went to Jardine's house and waited about the neighborhood, and an hour or two later he had the good fortune to see him coming from Hampstead towards Highgate, in company with another female. He followed them until they entered a narrow passage or lane that leads up the hill, and when they'd gone up this some distance he followed but could not get near enough to hear what they were saying, and now he had a most strange and terrible experience. For some time

  past he had felt a suspicion that some person, some accomplice of Jardine's perhaps, was following and watching him, and now he had proof of it. At the top of the lane Jardine stopped to talk to the female, and Foucault crept on tiptoe towards him, and while he was doing so he heard someone approaching stealthily up the lane, behind him. Suddenly Jardine began to return down the lane, as it was not convenient for Foucault to meet him there, he also turned and walked back,

  and then he heard a sound as if someone were climbing the high wooden fence that enclosed the lane. Then Jardine began to run, and Foucault was compelled also to run, but he would have been overtaken if it had not happened that Jardine fell down. Now just as he heard Jardine fall he came to a broken place in the fence and it occurred to him to creep through the hole and hide while Jardine passed. He accordingly began to do so, but no sooner had he thrust his head through the hole

  than some unseen ruffian dealt him a violent blow, which rendered him instantly insensible. When he recovered his senses he found himself lying in a churchyard which adjoins the lane, but Jardine and the other ruffian were of course nowhere to be seen. And now I come to the last incident that I have to relate. The assault took place on a Saturday. On the Sunday M. Foucault was somewhat indisposed and unable to go out, but early on Monday he

  resumed his watch on Jardine's house. It was nearly noon when Jardine came out, dressed as if for travelling and carrying a valise. He went first to a house near Piccadilly, and from then to the hospital in a cab. Foucault followed in another cab and saw him go into the hospital and waited for him to come out. But he never came. Foucault waited until midnight, but he did not come out. He had vanished. He had probably come out by a back exit and gone home, said Marchman.

  Not so, replied Humpadink. The next day Foucault watched Jardine's house, but he did not come there. Then he made inquiries, but Jardine is not there, and the landlady does not know where he is. Also the porter at the hospital knows nothing, and is not at all polite. The man Jardine has disappeared as if he had never been. That really is rather queer, said Marchman. It is a pity that you did not give me all these

  particulars at first. However, that can't be helped now. Is this all that you have to tell us? It is all, unless there is anything that you wish to ask me. I think, said Zolndijk, that it would be well for us to have a description of Mr. Reinhard, and as we have to trace him, if possible, a photograph would be exceedingly useful. I have not a photograph with me, said Father Humpadink, but I will obtain one and send it to

  you. Meanwhile I will tell you what my friend Vitalis is like. He is sixty-two years of age, spare, upright, rather tall. His height is a hundred and seventy-three centimeters, roughly five feet nine, interposed Zolndijk. His hair is nearly white. He is, of course, clean shaven. He has grey eyes, a straight nose, not very prominent, and remarkably good teeth for his age, which he shows somewhat when he talks. I think he is a little vain about his teeth,

  and he well may be, for there are not many men of sixty-two who have not a single false tooth, nor even one that has been stopped by the dentist. As to his clothing, he wears the ordinary dress of a lay brother, which you are probably familiar with, and he nearly always wears gloves, even indoors. Is there any reason for his wearing gloves? Zolndijk asked. Not now. The habit began when he had some affliction of the skin, which made it necessary for him to keep his hands covered with

  gloves which contained some ointment or dressing, and afterwards for a time to conceal the disagreeable appearance of the skin. The habit having been once formed, he continued it, saying that his hands were more comfortable covered up than when exposed to the air. Was he dressed in this fashion when he called at your office, Marchmund? asked Zolndijk. Yes, even to the gloves. I noticed with some surprise that he did not take them off,

  even when he wrote and signed the note of which I told you. Was he then wearing the reliquary and crucifix, as Father Humperdinck has described, on the front of his waistcoat? He may have been, but I didn't notice them, as I fancy I should have done if they had been there. And you have nothing more to tell us, Father Humperdinck, as to your friend's personal appearance? No. I will send you the photograph and write to you if I think of anything that I have

  forgotten. And now perhaps you can tell me if you think that you will be able to answer those questions that Mr. Marchmund put to you. I cannot, of course, answer them now, replied Zolndijk. The facts that you have given us will have to be considered and compared, and certain inquiries will have to be made. Are you staying long in England? I shall be here for at least a month, and I may as well leave you my address, although Mr. Marchmund has it.

  In the course of a month, Zolndijk said, as he took the Prophet card, I think I may promise you that we shall have settled definitely whether your friend is alive or dead, and if we find that he is alive, we shall no doubt be able to assert on his whereabouts. That is very satisfactory, said Father Humperdinck. I hope you shall be able to make good your promise. With this he rose, and having shaken hands stiffly with Zolndijk, bestowed on Dervis and me a ceremonious bow

  and moved towards the door. I thought that Marchmund looked at it a wistful, as if he would have liked to stay and have a few words with us alone. Indeed, he lingered for a moment or two after the door was open, but then, apparently altering his mind, he wished us good night and followed his client. End of chapter 16

• 17 - Chapter XVII - The Palimpsest

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  CHAPTER XVII. THE PELAMPCIST. It was getting late when our friends left us, but nevertheless, as soon as they were gone, we all drew our chairs up to the fire with the obvious intention of discussing the situation, and began with one accord to fill our pipes. Jervis was the first to get his tobacco alight, and having emitted a voluminous preliminary puff, he proceeded to open the

  debate. That man Jardine seems to be a pretty desperate character. Just think of his actually wallowing in the mire—not merely rolling, mind you, but wallowing—and of his repulsive habit of consulting with females, one after the other, too, in rapid succession. It's a shocking instance of depravity.

  Our reverend friend, said Thorndyke, reaches his conclusions by a rather short route, in some cases at least. In others, his methods seem a little indirect and roundabout. Yes, agreed Jervis, he's a devil at guessing, but he didn't get much food for the imagination out of the man Thorndyke. Why were he so extraordinarily secretive? With what he told you and what you knew before, you could surely have suggested a line of inquiry. Why didn't you? Principally

  because of the man's personality. I could not have answered his questions. I could only have suggested one or two highly probable solutions of the problem that he offered, and partial solutions at that. But I am not much addicted to giving partial solutions, to handing over the raw material of a promising inquiry. Certainly not to a man like this, who seems incapable of a straightforward action.

  The reverend father, said Jervis, does certainly seem to be a rather unnecessarily downy bird, and doesn't seem to have got much by his excessive artfulness after all. No, agreed Thorndyke, nothing whatever. Quite the contrary, in fact. Look at his ridiculous conduct in respect of the man Jardine. I don't complain of his having taken the precaution to obtain that malefactors address. But when he had got it, if he had not been torturous,

  so eager to be cunning, if, in short, he had behaved like an ordinary sensible man, he would have got, at once, all the information that Jardine had to give. He could have called on Jardine, written to him, employed a lawyer, or applied to the police. Either of these simple and obvious plans would have been successful, instead of which he must needs go to the trouble and expense of engaging this absurd spy, who found a mare's nest and got his head thumped,

  remarked Jervis. Then, continued Thorndyke, looked at his behavior to Marjmand. Evidently he put the case into Marjmand's hands, but equally evident he withheld material facts and secretly tinkered that the case himself. No, Jervis, I give no information to Father Humperdinck until I have this case complete to the last rivet. But all the same, I am greatly obliged to him, and especially

  to Marjmand, for bringing him here. He has given us a connected story to collate with our rather loose collection of facts, and, what is perhaps more important, he has put our investigation on a business footing. That is a great advantage. If I should want to invoke the aid of the powers that be, I can do so now with a definite locus standi as the legal representative of interested parties.

  I can't imagine, said I, in what direction you are going to push your inquiries. Father Humperdinck has given us, as you say, a connected story, but it is a very unexpected one, to me at least, and does not fall into line at all with what we know. That is, if you are assuming, as I have been, that the man whom I saw lying in Millfield Lane was Vitalis Reinhardt.

  It is difficult, replied Thorndyke, to avoid that assumption, though we must be on our guard against coincidences. But the man whom you saw agreed with the description that has been given to us. We know that Reinhardt was in the neighborhood on that day, and you found the reliquary on the following morning in the immediate vicinity. We seem to be committed to the hypothesis that the man was Reinhardt, unless we can prove that he was someone else,

  or that Reinhardt was in some other place at the time, which at present we cannot. Then, said I, in that case the bobby must have been right after all. The man couldn't have been dead, seeing that he called on Marchmont the following day and was afterwards traced to Paris. But I must say that he looked as dead as Queen Anne. It just shows how careful one ought to be in giving opinions.

  Some authority has said, remarked Jervis, that the only conclusive proof of death is decomposition. I believe it was old Taylor who said so, and I am inclined to think that he wasn't far wrong. But, said Thorndyke, assuming that the man whom you saw was Reinhardt, and that he was not dead, how do you explain the other circumstances? Was he insensible from the effects of injury

  or drugs? Or was he deliberately shamming insensibility? Was it he who passed over the fence? And if so, did he climb over unassisted, or was he helped over? And what answers do you suggest to the questions that Marchmont propounded? You answer his first question. Is Reinhardt alive in the affirmative? What about the others? As to where he is, I replied, I can only say the Lord knows, probably skulking somewhere on the continent. As to his state

  of mind, the facts seem to suggest that, in vulgar parlance, he's gone off his onion. He must be as mad as a hatter to have behaved in the way that he has. For, even assuming that he wanted to get clear of the poor brothers of St. Jeremiah Diddle, without explicitly saying so, he adopted the fool's plan. There's no sense in masquerading as a corpse one day and turning up smiling at your lawyer's office the next. If he meant to be dead, he should

  have stuck to it and remained dead. The objection to that, said Jarvis, is that Marchmont would have proceeded to get permission to presume death and administer the will. I see. Then I can only suppose that he'd got infected by Father Humperdinck and resolved to be artful at all costs and hang the consequences. Then, said Zolndike, I understand your view to be that Reinhard is at present hiding somewhere on the continent, and that his mind is more or less

  affected. Yes, though as to his being unfit to control his own affairs, I'm not so clear. I fancy there was more evidence in that direction when he was forking out the bulk of his income to maintain the poverty of the poor brothers. But the truth is I haven't any opinions on the case at all. I'm in a complete fog about the whole affair. And no wonder, said Jarvis. One set of facts seems to suggest most strongly that Reinhard must certainly be dead. Another set of facts seems to prove beyond

  doubt that he was alive, at least after that affair in Millfield Lane. He may be perpetrating an elephantine practical joke on the poor brothers, but that doesn't seem to be particularly probable. The whole case is a tangle of contradictions which one might regard as beyond unravelment if it were not for a single clear and intelligible fact. What is that? I asked. That my revered senior has undertaken to found a solution in the course of a month, from which I gather that my revered senior

  has something up his sleeve. There is nothing up my sleeve, said Zolndike, that might not equally well be up yours. I have made no separate investigations. The actual data which I possess were acquired in the presence of one or both of you, and are now the common property of us all. I am referring, of course, to the original data, not to fresh matter obtained by inference from or further examination of those data. Jarvis smiled sardonically. It's the old story,

  said he. The magician offers you his hat to inspect. You observe, ladies and gentlemen, that there is no deception. You can look inside it and examine the lining, and you can also inspect the top of my head. I now put on my hat. I now take it off again, and you notice that there is a guinea pig sitting in it. There was no deception, ladies and gentlemen. You had all the data. Zolndike laughed and shook his head. That's all nonsense, Jarvis, he said. It is a false

  analogy. I've done nothing to divert your attention. The guinea pig has been staring you in the face all the time. Very rude of him, murmured Jarvis. I've even drawn your attention to him once or twice. But seriously, I don't think that this case is so very obscure. Though, mind you, it is a mere hypothesis so far as I am concerned, and may break down completely when I come to apply the tests that I have in view. But what I mean is that the facts known to us suggested a very

  obvious hypothesis, and that the suggestion was offered equally to us all. The verification may fail, but that is another matter. Are you going to work at the case immediately, I asked. No, Zolndike replied. Jarvis and I have to attend at the Maidstone Assizes for the next few days. We are retained on a case which involves some very important issues in relation to life assurance, and that will take up most of our time. So this other affair will have to wait. And meanwhile,

  said Jarvis, you will stay at home like a good boy and mind the shop, and I suppose we shall have to find you something to do to keep you out of mischief. What do you say to making a longhand transcript of Father Humperdinck's statement? Yes, you had better do that, said Zolndike, and attach it to the original shorthand copy. And now we must really turn in, or we shall never be ready for our start in the morning. The transcription of Father Humperdinck's statement gave me

  abundant occupation for the whole of the following morning, but when that was finished I was without any definite employment, and though I was not in the least dull, for I was accustomed to a solitary life, I suppose I was in that state of susceptibility to mischief that is proverbially associated with unemployment, and in these untoward circumstances I was suddenly exposed to a great temptation, and after some feeble efforts at resistance, succumbed ignominiously. I shall offer no excuses

  for my conduct, nor seek in any way to mitigate the judgment that all discreet persons will pass upon my folly. I make no claims to discretion or to the caution and foresight of a man like Zolndike. At this time I was an impulsive and rather heedless young man, and my actions were pretty much those which might have been expected from a person of such temperament. The voice of the tempter issued in the first place from our letter-box and assumed the sound of the falling of letters

  therein to. I hastened to extract the catch, and sorting out the envelopes, selected one, the superscription of which was in Sylvia's now familiar handwriting. It was actually addressed to Dr. Zolndike, but a private mark on which we had agreed, exposed that naively pious fraud, and gave me the right to open it, which I did, and seated myself in the armchair to enjoy its perusal at my ease. It was a delightful letter, bright, gossipy, and full of frank and intimate

  friendliness. As I read it, the trim, graceful figure and pretty face of the writer rose before me and made me wonder a little discontentedly how long it would be before I should look on her and hear her voice again. It was now getting into the third week since I had last seen her, and as the time passed I was feeling more and more how great a blank in my life the separation from her had caused. Our friendship had grown up in a quiet and unsensational fashion, and I suppose I had not

  realized all that it meant. But I was realizing it now, and as I conned over her letter with its little personal notes and familiar turns of expression, I began to be consumed with a desire to see her, to hear her speak, to tell her that she was not as other women to me, and to claim a like special place in her thoughts. It was towards the end of the letter that the tempter spoke out in clear and unmistakable language, and these were the words that he used through the medium of the

  innocent and unconscious Sylvia. You remember those sketches that you stole from me, pinched, I think was your own expression? Well, I've cleaned off the dobs of paint with which they had been disfigured and put them in rough frames in my studio. All but one, and I began on that yesterday with a scraper and a rag dipped in chloroform, but I took off not only the defacing marks but part of the surface as well. And then I got such a surprise! I shan't tell you what the

  surprise was because you'll see when you come out of the house of bondage. I'm going to work on it again tomorrow, and perhaps I shall get the transformation finished. Ah, I wish you could come and see it done. It takes away more than half the joy of exploration not to be able to share the discovery with you. In fact, I have a good mind to leave it unfinished so that we can complete the transformation together. Now, I need not say that, as with the precious sketches, I cared not a fig

  what was under the top coat of paint. What I did care for was that this dear maid was missing me as I missed her, was wanting my sympathy with her little interests and pleasures, and was telling me, half unconsciously perhaps, that my absence had created a blank in our life, as her absence had in mine. And forthwith I began to ask myself whether there was really any good reason why I should not, just for this once, break out of my prison and snatch a few brief hours of sunshine.

  The spy had been exploded. He was not likely to pick up my tracks after all this time, and now that my appearance was so altered, and I did not care much, if he did, seeing that he had been shown to be perfectly harmless, the only circumstance that tended to restrain me from this folly was the one that mitigated its rashness, the change in my appearance. And even that, now that I was used to it, and knew that my aspect was neither grotesque nor ridiculous,

  had little weight, for Sylvia would be prepared for the change and we could enjoy the joke together. I was aware even at the time that I was not being quite candid with myself, for if I had been, I should obviously have consulted Thorndyke, instead of which I answered the letter by return, announcing my intention of coming to tea on the following day, and having sent Poulton out to post it, spent the remainder of the afternoon in gleeful anticipation of my little holiday,

  tempered by some nervousness as to what Thorndyke would have to say on the matter, and as to what my pretty friend, as Mrs. Samway had very appropriately called her, would think of my having begun my letter with the words, My Dear Sylvia. Nothing happened to interfere with my nefarious plans. On the following morning, Thorndyke and Jervis went off after an early breakfast,

  leaving me in possession of the premises, a master of my actions. I elected to anticipate the usual luncheon time by half an hour, and when this meal was disposed of, I crept to my room, and thoroughly cleansed my hair of the grease which Poulton still persisted in applying to it, for since my head would conceal it while I was out of doors, the added disfigurement was unnecessary. I was even tempted to tamper slightly with my eyebrows, but this impulse I nobly resisted,

  and having dried my hair and combed it in its normal fashion, I descended on tiptoe to the sitting room and wrote a short explanatory note to Poulton, which I left conspicuously on the table. Then I switched the doorbell on to the laboratory and let out myself out like a retreating burglar, closed the door silently, and sneaked away down the dark staircase. Once fairly outside, I went off like a lamp lighter, and shooting out through the Tudor Street gate made my way

  eastward to Broad Street Station, where I was fortunate enough to catch a train that was just on the point of starting. At Hampstead Heath Station I got out, and, sniffing the air joyfully, set forth at my best pace up the slope that leads to the summit, and in little over twenty minutes found myself at the gate of the Hawthorns. There was no need to knock or ring. My approach had been observed from the window, and as I strode up the garden path the door opened and Sylvia ran out

  to meet me. It was nice of you to come, she exclaimed, as I took her hand and held it in mine. I don't believe you ought to have ventured out, but I'm most delighted all the same. Don't make a noise, Mopsy is having a little doze in the drawing room. Come into the morning room and let me have a good look at you. I followed her meekly into the front room, where, in the large bay window, she inspected me critically, her cheeks dimpling with a mischievous smile.

  There's something radically wrong about your eyebrows, she said, but really you're not in the least afraid that you made out. As to the beard and moustache, I'm not sure that I don't rather like them. I hope you don't, I replied, because of they come at the first opportunity, unless, of course, you forbid it. Does my opinion of your appearance matter so much then? It matters entirely. I don't care what I look like to anyone else.

  Oh, what a fib! exclaimed Sylvia. Don't I remember how very neatly turned out you always were when you used to pass me in the lane before we knew one another. Exactly, Ari told her. We didn't know one another then. That makes all the difference in the world, to me at any rate. Does it, she said, colouring a little and looking at me thoughtfully. It's very, very flattering of you to say so, Dr. Jardine. I hope you didn't mean that as a snub, I said, rather uneasy at the form of her reply

  and thinking of my letter. A snub? she exclaimed. No, I certainly don't. What did I say? You called me Dr. Jardine. I addressed you in my letter as Sylvia, my dear Sylvia. And what ought I to have said? she asked, blushing warmly and casting down her eyes. Well, Sylvia, if you like me as well as I like you, I don't see why you shouldn't call me Humphrey. We're quite old friends now. So we are, she agreed. And perhaps it would be less formal. So Humphrey shall be in

  future, since that is your royal command. But tell me, how did you prevail on Dr. Thorndyke to let you come here? Is there any change in the situation? There is a change in my situation, and a mighty agreeable change, too. I'm here. Now don't be silly. How did you persuade Dr. Thorndyke to let you come? Ha! That, my dear Sylvia, is a rather embarrassing question. Shall we change the subject? No, we won't. She looked at me suspiciously for a moment,

  and then exclaimed in low, tragical tones, Humphrey, you don't mean to tell me that you came away without his knowledge. I'm afraid that is what it amounts to. I saw a loophole, and I popped through it. And here I am, as I remarked before. But how dreadful of you! Perfectly shocking! And whatever will he say to you when you go back? That is a question that I'm not proposing to present vividly to my consciousness until I arrive on the doorstep. I've broken out of

  Chokie, and I'm going to have a good time. To go on having a good time, I should say. Then you consider that you're having a good time now? I don't consider. I'm sure of it. Am I not, at this very moment, looking at you? What more could a man desire? She tried to look severe, though the attempt was not strikingly successful, and retorted in an astonishing tone, even didn't try to wean on me with compliments. You are a very wicked person, and most indiscreet.

  But it seems to me that some sort of change has come over you since you retired from the world. Don't you think I'm right? You're perfectly right. I've improved. That's what it is. Matured and mellowed, you know, like a bottle of claret that has been left in its cellar and forgotten. Say you think I've improved, Sylvia. I won't, she replied, and then, changing her mind, she added,

  Yes, I will. I'll say that you are more insinuating than ever, if that will do. And now, as you are clearly quite incorrigible, I won't scold you any more, especially as you broke out of Chokey to come and see me. You should tell me all about your adventures. I didn't come here to talk about myself, Sylvia. I came to tell you something, well,

  about myself perhaps, but not my adventures, you know, or that sort of thing, but I've been thinking a good deal, since I've been alone so much. About you, I mean, Sylvia, and—oh, the juice! The latter exclamation was evoked by the warning voice of the gong, evidently announcing tea, and the subsequent appearance of the housemaid,

  who was certainly not such a goose as she was supposed to be, for she tapped discreetly at the door and waited three full seconds before entering, and even then she appeared demurely unconscious of my existence. If you please, Miss Sylvia, Miss Finas woke up, and I've taken in the tea. Such was the paltry interruption that arrested the flow of my eloquence and scattered my flowers of rhetoric to the winds. I murmured inwardly, blow the tea, for the opportunity was gone,

  but I comforted myself with the reflection that it didn't matter very much, since Sylvia and I seemed to have arrived at a pretty clear understanding, which understanding was further clarified by a momentary contact of her hands as we followed the maid to the drawing room. Miss Vine was on this occasion, as on the last, seated in the exact centre of the room, and with the same monumental effect, so that my thoughts were borne irresistibly to the

  ethnographical section of the British Museum, and especially to that part of it wherein the deities of Polynesia look out from their cases in perennial surprise at the degenerate European visitors. If she had been asleep previously, she was wide enough awake now, but the glittering eyes were not directed at me. From the moment of our entering the room they focused themselves on Sylvia's face and there remained riveted, whereby the heightening of that young lady's complexion,

  which our interview had produced, became markedly accentuated. It was to no purpose that I placed myself before the rigid figure and offered my hand. A paw was lifted automatically to mine, but the eyes remained fixed on Sylvia. What did you say this gentleman's name was? The waxwork asked frigidly.

  This is Dr. Jardine, was the reply. Oh, indeed. And who was the gentleman who called some three weeks ago? Why, that was Dr. Jardine. You know it was. So I thought. But my memory is not very reliable. And this is a Dr. Jardine too.

  Very interesting. A medical family, apparently. But not much alike. I was beginning to explain my identity and the cause of my altered appearance when Sylvia approached with a cup of tea and a carefully dissected muffin, which letter she thrust under the nose of the elder lady, who regarded it attentively and with a slight squint owing to its nearness.

  It's of no use, you know, said Sylvia, for you to pretend that you don't know him, because I've told you all about the transformation. That is, all I know myself. Don't you think it's rather clever makeup? If, said Miss Vine, by makeup you mean a disguise, I think it is highly successful. The beard is a most admirable imitation.

  Oh, the beard is his own. At least, I think it is. I confirmed this statement, ignoring Poulton's slight additions. Indeed, said Miss Vine. Then the wig. It is a wig, I suppose. No, of course it isn't, Sylvia replied.

  Then, said Miss Vine, majestically, perhaps you will explain to me what the disguise consists of. Well, said Sylvia, there are the eyebrows. You can see that they have been completely altered in shape. If I'd committed the former shape of the eyebrows to memory, as you appear to have done, said Miss Vine, I should no doubt observe the change.

  But I did not. It seems to me that the disguise which you told me about with such a flourish of trumpets just amounts to this, that Dr. Jardine has allowed his beard to grow. I find the reality quite disappointing. Do you, said Sylvia. But at any rate, you didn't recognize him, so your disappointment doesn't count for much. The old lady, being thus hoist with her own petard, relapsed into majestic

  silence, and Sylvia then renewed her demand for an account of my adventures. We want to hear all about that objectionable person who has been shadowing you, and how you finally got rid of him. Your letters were rather sketchy and wanting in detail. You've got to make up the deficiency now. Thus commanded, I plunged into an exhaustive account of those events which I've already chronicled at length, and which I need not refer to again, nor need I record the cross-examination

  to which I was subjected, since it elicited nothing that is not set forth in the preceding pages. When I'd finished my recital, however, Miss Vine, who had listened to it in silence hitherto, put a question which I had some doubts about answering. Have you, or Dr. Thorndyke, been able to discover who this inquisitive person is, and what is this object in following you about?

  I hesitated. As to my own experiences, I had no secrets from these friends of mine, excepting those that related to the subject of Thorndyke's investigations, but I must not come here and babble about what took place in the sacred precincts of my principal's chambers. I think I may tell you, said I, that Dr. Thorndyke has discovered the identity of this man, and that he is not the person whom we suspected him to be. But I

  mustn't say any more, as the information came through professional channels, and consequently is not mine to give. Of course you mustn't, said Sylvia, though I don't mind admitting that you have put me on tenterhooks of curiosity. But I dare say you'll be able to tell us everything later. I agreed that I probably should, and the talk then turned into fresh channels. The short winter day was running out of pace, the daylight had long since gone,

  and I began, with infinite reluctance, to think of returning to my cage. Indeed, when I looked at my watch, I was horrified to see how the time had fled. My word, I exclaimed, I must be off, or Thorndyke will be putting the sleuthhounds of the law on my track, and I don't know what you will think of me for having stayed such an unconscionable time. It isn't a ceremonial visit, said Sylvia, as I rose and made my adieu to her aunt.

  We should have liked you to stay much longer. Here she paused suddenly, and, clasping her hands, gazed at me with an expression of dismay. Good heavens! Humphrey! she exclaimed. Ah? said Miss Vine. I was addressing Dr. Jardine, Sylvia explained in some confusion.

  I didn't suppose you were addressing me, was the withering reply. Do you know, said Sylvia, that I haven't shown you those sketches after all? You must see them. They were the special object of your visit. This was perfectly untrue, and she knew it, but I did not think it worth while to contest a statement in Miss Vine's presence. Accordingly, I expressed the utmost eagerness to see the

  Trumpery sketches, and the more so since I had understood that they were on view in the studio, which turned out to be the case. It won't take a minute for you to see them, said Sylvia. I'll just run up and light the gas, and you're not to come in until I tell you. She proceeded me up the stairs to the little room on the first floor in which she worked,

  and when I'd waited a few moments on the landing she summoned me to enter. These are the sketches, said she, that I'd finished. You see, they are quite presentable now. I cleaned off the rough dobs of paint with a scraper and finished up with a soft rag dipped in chloroform. I ran my eye over the framed sketches, which, now that the canvases were strained on stretches and the disfiguring brush strokes removed were, as she'd said,

  quite presentable, though too rough and unfinished to be attractive. I daresay they are very interesting, said I, but they are only bare beginnings. I shouldn't have thought them worth framing. Not as pictures, she agreed, but as examples of a very curious technique I find the most instructive. However, you haven't seen the real gem of the collection. This is it on the easel.

  Sit down on the chair and say when you're ready. I'm going to give you a surprise. I seated myself on the chair opposite the easel, on which was a canvas with its back towards me. Now, said Sylvia, are you ready? One, two, three. She picked up the canvas and, turning it round quickly, presented its face to me. I don't know what I'd expected, if I'd expected anything, but certainly I was not in the least

  prepared for what I saw. The sketch had originally represented, very roughly, the dark mass of trees which occupied nearly the whole of the canvas, but of this the middle had been cleaned away, exposing an underpainting, and this it was that filled me with such amazement that, after a first startled exclamation, I couldn't do nothing but stare open-mouth at the canvas. For, from the opening in the dark mass of foliage, they looked out at me,

  distinct and unmistakable, the face of Mrs. Samway. It was no illusion nor chance resemblance, rough as the painting was, the likeness was excellent. All the well-known features which made her so different from other women were there, though expressed by a mere dexterous turn of the knife. The jet-black, formerly parted hair, the clear, bright complexion, the pale, inscrutable eyes, all were there, even to the steady, penetrating expression that looked out at me from the canvas

  as if in silent recognition. As I sat staring at the picture with a surprise that almost amounted to awe, Sylvia looked at me a little blankly. Well, she exclaimed at length, I meant to give you a surprise, but what is it, Humphrey? Do you know her? Yes, I replied, and so do you. Don't you remember a woman who looked in at you through the glass door of Robinson's shop? Do you mean that black and scarlet creature? I didn't recognize

  her. I had no idea she was so handsome, for this is really a very beautiful face, though there is something about it that I don't understand. Something, well, eerie, rather uncanny and almost sinister. Don't you think so? I've always thought her a rather weird woman, but this is the weirdest appearance she has made. How on earth came her face on that canvas? It is an odd coincidence, and yet I don't know that it is. She may have been some relative of that rather eccentric artist,

  or even his wife. I don't know why it shouldn't be so. Neither did I, but the coincidence remained a very striking one to me at least, much more so than Sylvia realized, though what its significance might be if it had any, I could not guess. Nor was there any opportunity to discuss it at the moment, for it was high time for me to be gone. You'll send me a telegram when you get back to say that you've arrived home safely, won't you? said Sylvia, as we descended the stairs with our arms linked

  together. Of course nothing's going to happen to you, but I can't help feeling a little nervous, and you'll go down to the station by the high street and keep to the main roads. That is a promise, isn't it? I made the promise readily, having decided previously to take every possible precaution, and when I'd wished Sylvia goodbye at some length I proceeded to execute it, making my way down the well-populated high street and keeping a bright lookout both there and at the

  station. Once more I was fortunate in the matter of trains, and having taken a hansom from Broad Street to the temple, was set down in Kingsbench Walk soon after half past six. As I approached our building I looked up with some anxiety at the sitting-room windows, and when I saw them brightly lighted, a suspicion that Thorndyke had returned earlier than usual filled me with foreboding. I'd had my dance, and now I was going to pay the piper, and I did not much enjoy the

  prospect. In fact, as I ascended the stairs and took my latchkey from my pocket, I was as nervous as a schoolboy who has been playing truant. However, there was no escape unless I sneaked up to my bedroom, so inserting the key into the lock, I turned it as boldly as I could, and entered. End of chapter 17

• 18 - Chapter XVIII - A Visitor from the States

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  Chapter 18 of A Silent Witness by R. Austin Freeman. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, recording by Anna Simon. Chapter 18. A Visitor from the States. As I pushed open the inn at all and entered the room, I conceived the momentary hope of a reprieve from the wrath to come, for I found my two friends in what was evidently a business consultation with a stranger, and was on the point of backing out when Thorndyke stopped me. Don't run away, Howard," said he. There are no secrets being disclosed, at least I think not. We have finished with your affairs, Mr. O'Donnell, haven't we?

  Yes, Doctor, was the answer. You ran me dry with the exception of your own little business. Then come in and sit down, Howard, and let me present you to Mr. O'Donnell, who is a famous American detective and has been telling us all sorts of wonderful things. Mr. O'Donnell paused in the act of returning a quantity of papers to a large attache case and offered his hand. The Doctor, he remarked, is blowing his trumpet at the wrong end. I haven't come here to give information, but to get advice. But I guess I didn't tell you that. I hope that isn't quite true, said Thorndyke. You spoke just now of my little business. Haven't you anything to tell me?

  I have, but I fancy it isn't what you wanted to hear. However, we'll just have a look at your letter to Curtis and take your questions one by one. By the way, what made your ride to Curtis? I saw, when I inspected Maddox Will at Somerset House, that he had left a small legacy to Curtis. Naturally, I inferred that Curtis knew him and could give me some account of him. It struck you as a bit queer, I reckon, that he should be leaving a legacy to the head of an American detective agency.

  The circumstance suggests that possibilities, Thorndyke admitted. O'Donnell laughed. I can guess what possibilities suggested themselves to you, if you knew Maddox. Your letter and the lawyers' announcing the legacy came within a mail or two of one another. Curtis showed them both to me and we grinned. We took it for granted that the worthy testator was Foxing. We were wrong.

  So were you, if that's what you thought. You assumed that the Will was not a genuine one. Yeah, we thought it was a fake, put up with the aid of some shyster to bluff us into giving up Mr. Maddox's deceased. So, as I had to come across about these other affairs, Curtis suggested that I should look into the matter. And a considerable surprise I got when I did, for the Will is perfectly regular and so is everything else.

  That legacy was a sort of posthumous joke, I guess. Then do I understand that Mr. Curtis was not really a friend of Maddox? O'Donnell chuckled. Not exactly a friend, Doctor, said he. He felt the warmest interest in Maddox's welfare, but they weren't what you might call bosom friends.

  The position was this. Curtis was the chief of our detective agency. Maddox was a gentleman whom we'd been looking for and not finding for a matter of ten years. At last he found him, and they lost him again. And this legacy, I take it, was a sort of playful hint to show which hole he'd gone down. Was Maddox in hiding all that time? asked Thorndyke.

  In hiding? repeated O'Donnell. Bless your innocent heart, Doctor. He had a nice, convenient studio and one of the best blocks in New York, a couple of doors from our agency, and he used to send us cards for his private views. No, sir, our departed friend wasn't the kind that lurks out of sight in cellars or garrets. It was Maddox, sure enough, that Curtis wanted, only he didn't know it.

  But I guess I'm fogging you. I'd best answer the questions that you put to Curtis. First, do we know anything about Maddox? Yes, we do. But we didn't know that his name was Maddox until a few months ago. Isaac Van Damme was the name we knew him by, and it seems that he had one or two other names that he used on occasion. We now know that the gay Isaac was a particularly versatile kind of crook, and a mighty uncommon kind, too.

  The Lord be praised. For if there were many more like him, we should have to raise our prices some. He wasn't the kind of fool that'd make a million-dollar coup and then goes on the razzle and drops it all. That sort of man is easy enough to deal with. When it's loaded up with dollars, everybody knows it, and he should be back in a week or two with empty pockets, ready for another scoop. Isaac wasn't that sort. When he made a little pile, he invested his winnings like a sensible man,

  and didn't live beyond his means. And the only mystery to me is that, when he died, he didn't leave more pickings. I see from his will, which I've had a look at, that the whole estate couldn't have been above $5,000. He had a lot more than that at one time. He may have disposed of the bulk of his property by gift just before his death, Jervis suggested. That's possible, agreed Old Honour. He'd escaped the death dues that way.

  However, to return to his engaging little ways, his leading line was penmanship, forgery, and he did it to an absolute finish. It was the most expert penman that I've ever known. But where he had us all was that he didn't only know how to write another man's name, he knew when to write it. I reckon that the great bulk of his forgeries were never spotted at all, and of the remainder, very few got beyond the bare suspicion that they were forgeries.

  In the case of the few that were actually spotted as forgeries, his tracks were covered up so cleverly that no one could guess who the forger was. And how did you come to suspect him, eventually, Thorndyke asked. Ah, said Old Honour, there you are. Every crook, even the cleverest, has a strain of the fool in him. Isaac's folly took the form of suspicion. He suspected us of suspecting him. We didn't. But he thought we did, and then he started to dodge and make some false clues for us.

  That drew our attention to him. We looked into his record, traced his little wanderings, and then we began to find things out. A nice collection there was, too, by the time we'd worked a month or two at his biography. Forgeries, false notes, and at least two murders that had been a complete mystery to us all. We made ready to drop on Isaac, but at that psychological moment he disappeared. It looked as if he had left the States, and as we have no great affection for extradition cases, we let the matter rest, more or less,

  expecting that he would turn up again sooner or later. And then came his lawyer's letter, and yours, announcing his decease. Of course, Curtis and I thought he was at the old game, that it was a bit of that sort of extra caution that won't let well alone. So as I was coming over, I thought I'd just look into the affair as I told you. And to my astonishment, I found everything perfectly regular. The will probably proved, the death certificate made out correctly, and a second certificate signed by two doctors.

  Did you go into the question of identity? asked Thorndyke. Oh yes, I called on one of the doctors, a man named Batson, and ascertained that it was all correct. Batson's eyesight seemed to be none of the best, but he made it quite clear to me that his late patient was certainly our friend Isaac, or a madic. So that's the end of the case. And if you want to go into it any further, you've got to deal with a little pile of bone ash, for our friend is not only dead, he's cremated. That's enough for us. We don't follow our clients to the next world. We're not so thorough as you seem to be.

  You are flattering me unduly, said Thorndyke. I'm not so thorough as that. But our clients, when they betake themselves to the happy hunting ground, usually leave a few of their friends behind to continue their activities. Do you happen to know what Madoc's original occupation was? Had he any profession? He was originally an engraver, and a very skillful engraver too, I understand. That was what made him so handy in working the flashnote racket. Then he went on the stage for a time. I didn't do badly at that.

  But I fancy he was more clever at making up and mimicry than at acting in a dramatic sense. For the last ten years or so, he was practicing as a painter, chiefly of landscape, though he could do a figure subject or a portrait at a pinch. I don't fancy he sold much, or made any great efforts to sell his work. He liked painting, and the art covered his real industries, for he used to tour about in search of subjects, and so open up fresh ground for the little operations that actually produced his income. Was his work of any considerable merit? Thorndyke asked.

  Well, in a way, yes. It was rather in the American taste, though Madoc was really an Englishman. Art taste, as you know, runs through technical smartness and novelty of handling, and Madoc's work was very peculiar, and remarkably smart and slick in handling. He used a knife more than the brush, and he used it uncommonly cleverly. In fact, he was unusually skillful in many ways. And that's the really surprising thing about him, when one considers his extraordinary-looking paws. What was there peculiar about his hands? asked Thorndyke.

  Were they noticeably clumsy in appearance? Clumsy? exclaimed Derdonel. They were more than that. They were positively deformed. A monkey's hands would be delicate compared with Madoc's. They were short and thick, like the paws of an animal. There's some jaw-twisting name for the deformity that he suffered from. Bronchodotilius, or something like that.

  Brachydactylus, suggested Thorndyke. That's the word, and I dare say you know the sort of paw I mean. It didn't look a very likely hand for a first-class penman and engraver of flash notes, but you can't always judge by appearances. Now as for your other questions, you ask what Madoc was like in appearance. I can only give you the description which I gave to Batson, and which he recognized at once. Had he noticed the peculiarity of the hands? inquired Thorndyke.

  Yeah, I asked him about it, and he remembered having observed it when he was attending Madoc. Well then, our friend was about five feet nine in height, fairly broad and decidedly strong, of a medium complexion with grey eyes and darkish brown hair. That's all I can tell you about him. You haven't got his fingerprints, I suppose. No, he was never in prison, so we had no chance of getting them.

  Was he married? He had been, but some years ago his wife divorced him, or he divorced her. That's all he has lived as a bachelor. There is nothing else that you can think of as throwing light on his personality or explaining his actions? Nothing at all, Doctor. I've told you all I know about him, and I only hope the information may be more useful than it looks to me.

  Thank you, said Thorndyke. Your information is not only useful, I expect to find it quite valuable. Reasoning, you know, Mr. O'Donnell, he continued, is somewhat like building an arch. On a supporting mold, the builder lays a number of shaped stones or fussoirs, but until all the fussoirs are there, it is a mere collection of stones, incapable of bearing its own weight. Then you drop the last fussoir, the keystone, into its place, and the arch is complete. And now you may take away the supports, for it will not only bear its own weight, but carry a heavy superstructure.

  That's so, Doctor, said O'Donnell. But if I may ask, is this all gratuitous wisdom, or is any particular bearing? It has this bearing, replied Thorndyke. I have myself been, for some time past, engaged, metaphorically, in the building of an arch. When you came here tonight, it was but a collection of shaped and adjusted stones, supported from without. With your kind aid, I have just dropped the keystone into its place.

  That is what I mean. The American thoughtfully arranged the papers in his case, casting an occasional speculative glance at Thorndyke. I'd like to know, he said presently, what was that I told you? It doesn't seem to me that I've produced any startling novelties. However, I know it's no use trying to squeeze you, so I'll get back to my hotel and have a chew at what you've told me. He shook hands with us all round, and when Thorndyke had let him out, we heard him bustling downstairs in a way-up King's Bench walk towards Mitre Court.

  For a minute or more after his departure, none of us spoke. Thorndyke was apparently ruminating on his newly acquired information, and Jervis and I on the statement that had so naturally aroused the detective's curiosity. At length, Jervis opened the inevitable debate. I begin to see a glimmer of daylight through the case of Septimus Maddock, deceased, said he. But it is only a glimmer. Whereas, from what you said to O'Donnell, I gather that you have the case quite complete.

  Hardly that, Jervis, was the reply. I spoke metaphorically, and metaphors are sometimes misleading. Perhaps I overstated the case. So we will drop metaphor and state the position literally in terms of good, plain, schoolboy logic. It is this. We had certain facts presented to us in connection with Maddock's death.

  For instance, we observed that the cause of death was obscure, that the body was utterly destroyed by cremation, and that Jardine, who was an unofficial witness to some of the formalities, was subsequently pursued by some unknown person with the unmistakable purpose of murdering him. Those were some of the observed facts, and the explanation of those facts was the problem submitted to us. That is to say, we had to connect those facts and supply others by deduction and research, so that they should form a coherent and intelligible sequence, of which the motive for murdering Jardine should form a part.

  Having observed and examined our facts, we next propose a hypothesis which shall explain them. In this case, it would naturally take the form of a hypothetical reconstruction of the circumstances of Maddock's death. That hypothesis must, of course, be in complete agreement with all the facts known to us, including the attempts to murder Jardine. Then, having invented a hypothesis which fits our facts completely, the next stage is to verify it. If the circumstances of Maddock's death were such as we have assumed, certain antecedent events must have occurred,

  and certain conditions must have existed. We make the necessary inquiries and investigations, and we find that those events had actually occurred, and those conditions had actually existed. Then it is probable that our hypothesis is correct, particularly if our researchers have brought to light nothing that disagrees with it. With our new facts, we can probably amplify our hypothesis, reconstruct it in greater detail, and then we have to test and verify it afresh in its amplified and detailed form.

  And if such new tests still yield an affirmative result, the confirmation of the hypothesis becomes overwhelmingly strong. It is, however, still only hypothesis, but perhaps we light on some final test which is capable of yielding a definite answer, yes or no. If we apply that test, a crucial experiment of the logicians, and obtain an affirmative result, our inquiry is at an end. It has passed out of the region of hypothesis into that of demonstrative proof. And are we to understand, asked Jervis, that you have brought Maddux's case to the stage of complete demonstration?

  No, answered Thorndyke, I am still in the stage of hypothesis, and when O'Donnell came here tonight, there were two points which I had been unable to verify. But with his aid, I have been able to verify them both, and I now have a complete hypothesis of the case which has been tested exhaustively and has answered to every test. All that remains to be done is to apply the touchstone of the final experiment. I suppose, said Jervis, you have obtained a good many new facts in the course of your investigations. Not a great many, replied Thorndyke, and what new data I have obtained I have, for the most part, communicated to you and Jardine.

  I assure you, Jervis, that if you would only concentrate your attention on the case, you have ample material for a most convincing and complete elucidation of it. Jervis looked at me with a wry smile. Now, Jardine, Howard, said he, why don't you brush up your rids and tell us exactly what happened to the late Mr. Maddock and why some person unknown is so keen on your vile body? You have all the facts, you know. So you tell me, I retorted, but this case of yours reminds me of those elaborate picture puzzles that I used to wear in my juvenile brain.

  You had a hat full of irregular shaped pieces which, if you fitted them together, made a picture. Only the beggars wouldn't fit together. A very apt comparison, said Thorndyke. You put the pieces together, and if they made no intelligible part of a picture, you knew you were wrong, no matter how well they seemed to fit. On the other hand, if they seemed to make parts of a picture, you had to verify the result by finding pieces of the exact shape and size of the empty spaces.

  That is what I have been doing in this case, trying the data together and watching to see if they made the expected picture. As I have told you, O'Donnell's visit found me with the picture entire, save for two empty spaces of a particular shape and size. And from him I obtained two pieces that dropped neatly into those spaces and made the picture complete. All I have to do now is to see if the picture is a true representation or only a consistent work of imagination. I take it that you've worked the case out in pretty full detail, said Jervis.

  Yes. If the final verification is successful, I shall be able to tell you exactly what happened in Maddox's house. What was the cause of death? And I may say that it was not that given in the certificates. Who the person is who has been pursuing Jardine and what is his motive, together with a number of other very curious items of information. And the mention of that person reminds me that our friend has been despoting himself in public, contrary to advice and to what I thought was a definite understanding. But surely, I said, it doesn't matter now. We've given that spy Chappie the slip.

  And even if he hasn't given up the chase as hopeless, we know that he's quite harmless. Harmless? exclaimed Zorndyke. Why, my dear fellow, he was your guardian angel. Didn't you realize that from Father Humperding's statement? He shadowed you so closely that no attack on you was possible. In fact, he actually caught a rap on the head that was apparently meant for you.

  You were infinitely safer with him at your heels than alone. But we've given the other fellow the slip, too, I urged. We mustn't take that for granted, said Zorndyke. The French detective, you remember, came on the scene quite recently, whereas the other man has been with us from the beginning. He probably saw Jervis and me enter the mineral waterworks on the night of the fire, for he was certainly there, and he may even have followed us home to ascertain who we were.

  There are several ways in which he could have connected you with us and traced you here. So I must urge you most strongly not to venture out of the precincts of the temple for the next few days. In fact, it will be much wiser to keep indoors altogether. It will be only a matter of days, unless I get a quite unexpected setback, for I hope to have the case finally completed in less than a week. And when I do, I shall take such action as will give your friend some occupation other than shadowing you.

  Very well, I said. I will promise not to attempt again to escape from custody. But all the same, my little jaunt today has not been entirely without result. I've picked up a new fact, and a rather curious one, I think. What should you say if I suggested that Mrs. Samway was the wife of that eccentric artist who used to paint on the heath?

  The man, I mean, who always worked in gloves. I have assumed that she was in some such relation to him, replied Thorndyke, but I should like to hear the evidence. Mrs. Samway, Jervis said in a reflective tone, isn't that the handsome, uncanny-looking lady with the mongoose eyes who reminded me of Lucretia Borgia? That's the lady? Well, I met with a portrait of her today, which was evidently the work of the man with the gloves.

  And here I gave them a description of the portrait and an account of the odd way in which it had been disinterred from the landscape that had been painted over it, to which they both listened with close attention. It's a queer incident, said Thorndyke, and quite dramatic. If one were inclined to be superstitious, one might imagine some invisible agency uncovering the tracks that have been so carefully hidden and working unseen in the interests of justice. But haven't you rather jumped to your conclusion? The existence of the portrait establishes a connection, but not necessarily that of husband and wife.

  I only suggested the relationship, but it seemed a likely one, as the portrait had been painted over and thrown into the rubbish box. Jervis laughed sardonically, and even Thorndyke's impassive face relaxed into his smile. Our young friend, said the former, doesn't take as favorable a view of the married state as one might expect from a gay lethario who breaks out of his cage to go a philandering. But we'll overlook that in consideration of the very interesting information that he's brought back with him. Not that it conveys very much to me.

  It is obviously a new piece to fit into our puzzle, but I'm hanged if I see at the moment any suitable space to drop it into. I think, said Thorndyke, that if you consider the picture as a whole you'll soon find a vacant space. And while you are considering it I will just send off a letter, and then we'd better adjourn this discussion. We have to catch the early train to Maidstone tomorrow, and that, I hope, will be the last time. Our case ought to be disposed of by the afternoon.

  He seated himself at the writing table and wrote his letter, while Jervis stared into the fire with a cogitative frown. When the letter was sealed and addressed, Thorndyke laid it on the table while he went to the lobby to put on his hat and coat, and glancing at it almost unconsciously, I noted that the envelope was a full-scab size and was addressed to the home of his white hall. The name of the adder C escaped me, for, suddenly realizing the impropriety of thus inspecting another man's letter, I looked away hastily. But even then, when Thorndyke had taken it away to the post, I found myself speculating vaguely on the nature of the communication, and wondering if it had any relation to the mysterious and intricate case of Septimus Matic. End of chapter 18

• 19 - Chapter XIX - Tenebrae

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  Chapter 19 of A Silent Witness by R. Austin Freeman. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, recording by Anna Simon. Chapter 19. Tenebrae. The resigned composure with which I accepted Tholnur's sentence of confinement within doors was not entirely attributable to discretion or a native virtue.

  My resolution to follow scrupulously my principal's very pointed advice was somewhat like the ascetic resolutions formed by the gourmet as he rises replete from the banquet table. For, just as a letter is in a peculiarly favorable condition for the unmoved contemplation of a temporary abstinence from food,

  so I, having enjoyed my little dissipation, could now contemplate with fortitude a brief period of retirement. Moreover, the weather was in my favor, being, as Poulton reported when he returned, blue-nosed and powdered with snow, with a fresh supply of tobacco from me, bitterly cold, with the threatening of smoky fog from the east.

  Under these circumstances it was no great hardship to sit in a roomy armchair with my slippered feet on the curb and read and meditate as I basked in the warmth of a glowing fire, though, to be sure, my reading was perfunctory enough, for the treatise of the surface markings of the human body, admirable as it was, competed on very unfavorable terms with other claimants to my attention.

  In truth, I had plenty to think about, even if I went no farther for matter than to the events of the previous day. There was my visit to Sylvia, for instance. I had not said much to her, but what I had said had pledged me to a lifelong companionship, which was a solemn thing to reflect upon, even though I looked forward to the fulfillment of that pledge

  with nothing but hopeful pleasure. The dice were thrown. Of course they would turn up sixes, every one. But still, the dice were thrown. From my own strictly personal affairs, my thoughts rambled by an easy transition

  to the singular episode of the buried portrait, and thence to the subject of that strange polympsest. Viewed by the light of Mr. O'Donnell's revelations, Mrs. Samway's position was not all that could have been desired. She and her husband had unquestionably been closely associated with Maddock, but Maddock was, it seemed, a habitual criminal. Could this fact have been known to the Samways,

  or was it that the cunning forger and swindler had sheltered himself behind their respectability? It was impossible for me to say. Then there was the strange and perplexing case of the man Maddock himself. I could make nothing of that, had not indeed been aware that there had been a case, until Thulndyke's investigations had put me in possession of the fact.

  And even now I could see nothing on which to base any suspicion, apart from the attempts on my life, which we were assuming to be in some way connected with events that had occurred in Maddock's house. The cause of death was apparently not Morbus Cordis, which might easily enough be, seeing that the diagnosis of heart disease was a mere guess on Batson's part. But if not Morbus Cordis, what was it?

  Thulndyke apparently knew, and seemed to hint that it was something other than ordinary disease. Could there have been foul play? And if so, were the Samways involved in it in any way? It seemed incredible, for had not Maddock himself suspected that he was in a dangerous state of health? There was certainly one possibility which I considered with a good deal of distaste,

  namely that Maddock had been in a hypochondriacal state, and that the Samways had taken advantage of these gloomy views as to his health to administer poison. The thing was actually possible, but I did not entertain it, for even if one assumed that poison had been administered, at any rate the cremation of the body was not designed to hide the traces of the crime.

  The Samways had nothing to do with that. The cremation had been adopted, in preference to burial, by Maddock's own wish. So my thoughts flittered from topic to topic, with occasional interludes of surface markings through the lazy forenoon, until Poulton came to lay my solitary luncheon.

  And after this little break in the comfortable monotony, another spell of meditative idleness set in. Poulton was busy upstairs in a laboratory with some photographic copying operations, and I was disposed to wander up and look on, but my small friend politely but very firmly vetoed any such proceeding.

  On some other occasion he would be delighted to show me the working of the great copying camera, but just now he had a big job in hand, and as he was working against time he would prefer to be alone. He even suggested that I might attend to any stray callers, and make my own tea on the gas ring, so as to avoid interrupting his work.

  And when I had agreed to relieve him to this extent, he thanked me profusely and retired, and I saw no more of him. For some time after his departure I stood at the window, looking out across the wide space at paper buildings and the end of crown of his bow. It was a wretched afternoon.

  The yellow, turbid sky brooded close down upon the house roofs, and grew darker and more brown moment by moment, as if the invisible sun had given the day up in despair and gone home early. A comfortless powdering of snow filtered down at intervals and melted on the pavements, along which depressed wayfarers hurried with their coat collars turned up

  and their hands thrust deep into their pockets. I watched them commiseratingly, reflecting the superior advantages of being within doors and forbidden to go out. And then, having flung another scoopful of coal on the fire, I betook myself once more to the armchair, the surface markings, and idle meditation.

  It was some time past four when my reflective browsings had begun to proceed in the direction of the tea kettle, that I heard a light footstep on the landing as of someone wearing galoshes. Then a letter dropped softly into the box, and as I instantly pushed back my chair to rise the footsteps retreated. I crossed the room quickly and opened the door,

  but the messenger had already disappeared down the dark staircase and had gone so silently on his rubber soles that, though I listened attentively, I could hear no sound from below. Having closed the door, I extracted the letter from the box and took it over to the window to examine it,

  when I was not a little surprised to find that it was addressed to W. M. Howard Esquire. This was the first communication that I had received in my borrowed name and my surprise at its arrival was not unreasonable, for of the few persons who knew me by that name, none, with the exception perhaps of Mr. Margement,

  was in the least likely to write to me. But if the address on the envelope had surprised me, the letter itself surprised me a good deal more, for though the writer was quite unknown to me even by name, he seemed to be in possession of certain information concerning me,

  which had supposed to be the exclusive property of Tholndike, Jervis, Poulton and myself. It bore the address 29 Victory Court, Inner Temple, and ran thus. Dear sir, I am taking the liberty of writing to you to ask for your assistance, as I happen to know that my friends, doctors Tholndike and Jervis, are away at Maidstone and not available at the moment,

  and I understand that you have some acquaintance with medical technicalities. The circumstances are these. At half past five today, I shall be meeting a solicitor to advise as to action in respect of a case in which I am retained, and the decision as to our action will be vitally affected

  by a certain issue on which I am not competent to form an opinion for a lack of medical knowledge. If Dr. Tholndike had been within reach, I should have taken his opinion. As he is not, it occurred to me to ask if you would fill his place on this occasion, it being of course understood that the usual fee of five guineas

  will be paid by the solicitor. If you should be unable to come to the consultation, do not trouble to reply, as I am now going out and shall not be returning until five-thirty, the time of the appointment. I am yours faithfully, Arthur Courtland.

  The contents of this letter, as I have said, surprised me more than a little. How in the name of all that was wonderful had this stranger, whose very name was unknown to me, come to be aware that I had any knowledge of medicine? Not from Tholndike, I felt perfectly sure, nor from Jervis, who, notwithstanding a certain flippant facetiousness of manner,

  was really an extremely cautious and judicious man. Could it be that my principal was overseen in his trusted laboratory assistant? Was it conceivable that the suave and discreet Poulton had moments of leakiness, when, in unofficial talk outside, he let drop the secrets of which his employer's unbounded confidence had made him the repository?

  I could not believe it. Not only did Poulton appear to be the very soul of discretion, there was Tholndike himself. He was not the man to give his confidence to anyone until after the most exhaustive proof of the safety of so giving it.

  Nor was he a man who was likely to be deceived, for nothing escaped his observation, and nothing that he observed was passed over without careful consideration. My lethargy, having been shaken off, I addressed myself to the task of preparing tea,

  and as I listened to the homely crescendo of the kettle's song I turned the matter over in all its bearings. By some means this Mr. Courtland had become aware that I was either a doctor or a medical student. By what means?

  Was it possible that he had merely inferred from the circumstance of my being associated with Tholndike that I was of the same profession? That was just barely conceivable, but if he had, then, as Dervis had said to Father Humperdinck, he must be a devil at guessing.

  As I made the tea and subsequently consumed it, I continued to ruminate on the contents of that singular letter. No answer to it was required. Then what was Mr. Courtland going to do if I did not turn up? He admitted that the issue, which seemed to be an important one,

  was beyond him, and yet he had to give an answer to the solicitor, and he was prepared to pay five guineas for the advice of a man of whom he, presumably, knew nothing. That was odd. In fact, the whole tone of the letter,

  with its inconsistent mixture of urgency and casual trusting to chance, seemed irreconcilable with the care and method that one expects from a professional man. And there was another point. The time of the consultation was half past five.

  Now, within an hour of that time, Tholndike would be back, or even sooner if he came by the earlier train as he had done on the previous day. Since he knew whether my principal had gone, and he must have often attended the sizes himself,

  could he not have waited an hour? And again, had this business been sprung upon him so suddenly that he had had no time to get Tholndike's opinion? And yet again, why had he written at all instead of dropping in at our chambers with the solicitor

  as was so commonly done by Tholndike's clients? All of which were curious and puzzling questions that I had to answer one by one, and had to dismiss unanswered. And then I came to the practical question, to which I had to find an answer, and which was,

  could I, under the existing circumstances, accede to Mr. Cortland's request? To go outside the precincts of the inn was, I recognized, absolutely forbidden, but I had given no actual promise to remain in our chambers, nor had I been positively forbidden

  to leave them. Tholndike had advised me to remain indoors and his advice had been given so pointedly, and with so evident a desire that it should be followed, that I had not hitherto even thought of leaving our premises. But this was an unforeseen contingency,

  and the question was, did it alter my position in regard to Tholndike's advice? I think I have never been so undecided in my life. On the one hand, I was strongly tempted to keep the appointment. The prospect of triumphantly handing to Tholndike

  the five-guinea fee which I had earned as his deputy appealed to me with almost irresistible force. On the other hand, my knowledge of Tholndike did not support this appeal. I knew him to be a man to whom a principle was much more important than any chance benefit

  gained by its abandonment, and my inner consciousness told me that he would be better pleased by a strict adherence to our understanding than by the increment of five guineas. So my thoughts oscillated to and fro, now impelling me to risk it and earn the fee,

  and now urging me to keep to the letter of my instructions. And meanwhile, the time ran on, and the hour of the consultation approached. What decision I should have reached in the end it is impossible to say. As matters turned out,

  I never reached any decision at all, for, just as the treasury clock struck a quarter past five, I heard a light, quick step on our landing, and immediately after a soft but hurried knock at the door. I strode quickly across the room

  and threw the door open, and then I started back with an exclamation of astonishment, for the visitor, who stood full in the light of the landing lamp, was a woman, and the woman was Mrs. Samway. As I stood gazing at her

  in amazement, she slipped past me into the room and softly shut the door, and then I saw very plainly that there was something amiss, for she was as pale as death, and had a dreadful, frightened, haunted look which haunts me even now as I write.

  She was somewhat disheveled, too, and, though it was a bitter evening, her plumb, shapely hands were ungloved and cold as ice, as I noted when I took them in mind. Are you alone? she asked, peering uneasily at the door

  of the little office. Yes, quite alone, I replied. She gazed at me with those strange, penetrating eyes of hers, and said in a half whisper, How strange you look with that beard! I should hardly have known you if I had not expected...

  She stopped short, and, casting a strange, scared glance over her shoulder at the dark windows, whispered, Can they see in? Can anyone see us from outside? I shouldn't think so, I replied, but nevertheless I stepped over

  the windows and drew the curtains. That looks more comfortable at any rate, said I, and now tell me how in the name of wonder you knew I was here. She grasped both my wrists, and looked earnestly, almost fiercely, into my eyes.

  Ask me no questions, she exclaimed. Ask me nothing, but listen, I've come here for a purpose. Has Letta been left here for you? Yes, I replied. Asking you to go to a place in victory court?

  Good God! I exclaimed. How on earth? She shook my wrists impatiently in her strong grasp. Answer me! She exclaimed. Answer me! Yes, I replied. I was to go there at half past five.

  Again her strong grasp tightened on my wrists. Humphrey, she said in a low, earnest voice, You are not to go. Do you hear me? You are not to go. And then, as I seemed to hesitate,

  she continued more urgently, I ask you, I beg you to promise me that you won't. I gazed at her in sheer amazement, but some instinct, some faint glimmer of understanding restrained me from asking for any explanation.

  Very well, I said. I won't go if you say I'm not to. That is a promise? Yes, it's a promise. Besides, it's nearly half-past already,

  and now the appointment falls through. And you won't go outside these rooms tonight? Promise me that, too. If I don't go to this lawyer, I shan't go out at all. And tomorrow, too. Give me a word that you won't

  let any sort of pretext draw you out of these rooms tomorrow, or the next day, or in fact until Dr. Thorndyke says you may. For a few moments I was literally struck dumb with astonishment at her last words, and could do nothing but gaze at her in astounded silence.

  At length, recovering myself a little, I exclaimed, My dear Mrs. Samway! But she interrupted me. Don't call me by that horrible name.

  Give me my own name, Leticia. Or, she added a little shyly and in a soft coaxing tone, call me Letty. Won't you, Humphrey, just for this once? You needn't mind.

  And if you knew, I should like, when I think of my friend, the only friend that I care for, to remember that he called me by my own name when he said good-bye. You'll think me silly and sentimental,

  but you needn't mind indulging me just once. It's the last time. The last time? I repeated. What do you mean by that, Letty, and by speaking of our saying good-bye?

  Are you going away? Yes, I am going away. I don't suppose you will ever see me again. I'm going out of your life. Not out of my life, Letty.

  We're always friends, even if we never see one another. Are we? she said, looking up at me earnestly. Perhaps it is so, but still,

  this is good-bye. I ought to see it and go, but, oh God! she exclaimed with sudden passion. I don't want to go, away from you, Humphrey,

  out into the cold and the dark. She buried her face against my shoulder, and I could feel that she was sobbing, though she uttered no sound. It was a dreadful situation.

  Instinctively certain, though I was, that her grief had a real and tragic basis, I could offer no word of comfort. For what was there to say? She was going, clearly, to a life of wretchedness,

  without hope of any relief or change, and without a single friend to cheer her loneliness. That much I could guess, vaguely and dimly. But it was enough. I was not going to see her again.

  I was going to see her again, but it was enough. And it rung my heart to witness her passion of grief and to be able to offer no more than a pressure of the hand. After a few seconds,

  she raised her head and looked in my face, with her tears still clinging to her lashes. Humphrey, she said, laying her hands on my shoulders, I have a few last words to say to you,

  and then I must go. Listen to me, dearest friend, and remember what I say. When I am gone, people will tell you things,

  and you will come to know others. People will say that I am a wicked woman, which is true enough, God knows. But if they say that I have done or connived at wickedness against you,

  try to believe that it was not as it seemed, and to forgive me for what I have done amiss. And say to yourself, this wicked woman would have willingly given her heart's blood for me.

  Say that, Humphrey. It is true. I would gladly give my life to you. I would gladly give my life to make you safe and happy, and try to think kindly of me

  in the evil report that will reach you sooner or later. Will you try, Humphrey? My dear Letty, I said, we are friends, now and always.

  Nothing that I hear shall alter that. I believe you, she said, and I thank you from my heart. And now I must go.

  I must go, and it's good-bye. Good-bye, Humphrey, for the very last time. She passed her arms around my neck and pressed her wet cheek to mine. Then she kissed me,

  and turning away abruptly, walked across to the door and opened it. On the landing, in the light of the lamp, she turned once more,

  and I saw that the hot blush that had risen to her cheek as she kissed me had faded already into a deathly pallor, and that the dreadful, frightened, haunted look had come back into her face.

  She stood for a moment with her finger raised warningly and whispered, Good-bye, dear, good-bye. Shut the door now, and shut it quietly.

  And then she passed into the opening of the dark staircase. I closed the door softly and turned away towards the window, and as I did so,

  I heard her stumble slightly on the stair, a short way down, and utter a little startled cry. I was nearly going out to her, and did, in fact, stand a moment or two listening,

  but as I heard nothing more, I moved over to the window, and, drawing back the curtain, looked down on our doorstep to see her go out.

  My mind was in a whirl of confused emotions, profound pity for this lonely, unhappy, warm-hearted woman, contented with amazement at the revelation of her manifest connection

  with the mystery that surrounded me, and I stood bewildered by the tumult of incoherent thought grasping the curtain, and looking down on the great square stone

  that I might at least catch a farewell glance at this poor soul who was passing so unwillingly out of my life. The seconds passed.

  A man came out of our entry, and, turning to the left, walked at a rapid pace towards the Tudor street gate. Still she did not appear.

  Perhaps she had heard him on the stairs I was waiting to pass out unnoticed, but yet it was strange. Nearly a minute had elapsed since she started to descend the stairs.

  Could I have missed her? It seemed impossible, since I had come to the window almost immediately. A vague uneasiness began to take possession of me.

  I recalled her white face and frightened eyes, and as I stared down at the doorstep with growing anxiety I found myself listening. Listening nervously, for I knew not what.

  Suddenly I caught a sound, faint and vague, but suddenly a sound, and it seemed to come from the staircase. In a moment I had the door open

  and was stealing on tiptoe out on the landing. The house was profoundly silent. No murmur even penetrated from the distant streets. I crept across the landing,

  breathing softly and listening. And then, from the stillness below, but near at hand, came a faint, whispering sigh or moan. Instantly I sprang forward,

  all over tremble, and darted down the stairs. At the first turn I saw, projecting round the angle, a hand, a woman's hand,

  plump and shapely and white as marble. With a gasp of terror I flew round the turn of the staircase and, God in heaven, she was there,

  hurled limply in the angle, her head resting against the baluster, and one hand spread out on her bosom. She lay so still that she might have been dead, her eyes and full of her breast,

  and the wide staring eyes that turned to me with such dreadful appeal. I stooped over her and spoke her name, and it seemed to me that a pitiful little smile trembled for a moment on the bloodless lips,

  but she made no answer beyond the faint, broken sigh. And it was only when she moved her hand slightly that the overwhelming horror of the reality burst upon me. Then, when I saw the crimson stain upon her fingers and upon the bosom of her dress,

  the meaning of that horrible palanquin and the light of her hand and the light of her hand the meaning of that horrible pallor, the sharpening features and strange,

  pinched expression flashed upon me with a shock that seemed to arrest the very blood at my heart. Yet, stunned as I was, I realized instantly

  that human skill could avail her nothing, that I could do naught for her but raise her from the sharp edge of the stair and rest her head on my arm. And so I held her,

  whispering in dear man's brokenly and looking as well as I might through the blinding tears into those inscrutable eyes that gazed up at me,

  no longer with that stare of horror but with a vague and childlike wonder. And, even as I looked, the change came in an instant. The wide eyelids relaxed and drooped,

  the eyes grew filmy and sightless, the hand slipped from her breast and dropped with a thud on the stair, and the supple body in my arms shrank of a sudden

  with the horrible limpness of death. Up to this point my recollection is clear, even vivid, but of what followed I have only a dim and confused impression.

  The awfulness, the unbelievable horror of this frightful thing that had happened, left me so dazed and numb that I recall but vaguely the passage of time

  of what went on around me in this terrible dream from which there was to be no waking. Dimly I recollect kneeling by her side on the silent staircase,

  but how long I know not, holding her poor body in my arms and gazing incredulously at the marble-white face, now with drowsy lids and parted lips

  grown suddenly girlish and fragile while the hot tears dropped down on her dress, choking with grief and horror and the fury of hate

  for the foul wretch who had done this appalling thing and who was now far away out of reach. I see, dimly still, the faint marks of her cursed fingers

  lingering yet on the whiteness around the mouth to tell me why no cry from her had reached me and the dreadful red-edged cut in the bodice

  mutely demanding vengeance from God and man. And then of a sudden the silence is shattered by rushing feet and the clamour of voices. Someone, it is Jervis,

  leads me forcibly away to our room and places me in a chair by the table. Presently I see her lying on our sofa, drowsy-eyed, peaceful, like a marble figure on a tomb,

  and I see Thorndyke with a strange, coppery flush and something grim and terrible in the sad calm of his face showing the letter which I'd left on the table to a tall stranger

  who hurries from the room. A nun come to constables with heads uncovered carrying a stretcher. I see her laid on the sordid beer and reverently covered.

  The dread procession moves out through the doorway, the door is shut after it, and so, in dreadful fulfillment of her words, she passed out of my life.

  End of chapter 19

• 20 - Chapter XX - The Hue and Cry

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  CHAPTER XX. THE HUE AND CRY The silence of the room remained unbroken for a quite considerable time after the two bearers had passed out with their dreadful burden. My two friends set apart, and, with a tact of which I was gratefully sensible, left me quietly undisturbed by banal words of consolation, to sustain the first shock of grief and horror and get my emotion under

  control. Still dazed and half incredulous, I sat with my elbows on the table and my teeth clenched hard, looking dreamily across the room, half unconsciously observing my two friends as they silently examined the fatal letter. I saw Solndyke rise softly and take a small bottle from a cabinet, and watched him incuriously as he sprinkled on the paper some of the dark-colored powder that it contained. Then I saw him blow the powder from the surface of the paper into

  the fire, and scan the letter closely through a lens, and still no word was spoken. Only once, when Jervis, in crossing the room, let his hand rest for a moment on my shoulder, did any communication pass between us, and that silent touch told me unobtrusively, if it were needful to tell me, how well he understood my grief for the woman who had walked open-eyed into the valley of the shadow, had offered her heart's blood that I might pass unscathed. In about a quarter of an

  hour the tall stranger returned, bringing with him an atmosphere of puzzling activity that at once dispelled the gloomy silence. His busy presence and brisk matter-of-fact speech, though distressing to me at the moment, served as a distraction and brought me out of my painful to the grim realities of this appalling catastrophe. You're quite right, sir, said he. The chambers were an empty set. Mr.

  Courtland left them about six weeks ago, so they tell me at the office. I've looked them over carefully, and I think it is pretty clear what this man meant to do. Did you go in? asked Thorndyke. Yes. Mr. Poulton went with me and picked the lock, so I was able to go right through the rooms, and it is evident that this villain was not acting on the spur of the moment. He'd made a very neat

  plan, and I should say that it was pretty near to coming off. He'd selected his chambers with remarkable judgment, and uncommonly well-suited they were to his purpose. In the first place, they were the top set, nothing above them, no chance strangers passing up or down, and they were the only set on that landing. Then some previous tenant had made a little trap or grill in the outer door, a little hole about six inches square, with a sliding cover on the inside.

  That was the attraction, I fancy. The landing lamp was alight. He must have lighted it himself, as the landing was out of use, and I fancy he meant to watch through the grill for your friend to come and shoot him as he knocked at the door. That would be taking more risk than he usually did, said Thorndyke. You mean that the report of the shot would have been heard? Perhaps it might, but these modern, small-bore, repeating pistols make very little noise, though they are uncommonly

  deadly, especially if you open the nose of the bullets. But, objected Thorndyke, if he had been heard, there he would have been, boxed up in the chambers with no means of escape. Our acquaintance shook his head. No, said he, that's just what he wouldn't have been, and there is where he had so neatly. These chambers are a double set. They have a second entrance that opens on the staircase of the next house. You see the idea. When he's fired his shot and made sure that it was all right,

  or all wrong, if you prefer it, he would just have slipped through to the other entrance, let himself out, shut the door quietly, and walked down the stairs. Then, if the shot had been heard, there was he, coming out of the next house to join the crowd and see what was the matter. It was a clever scheme, and, as I say, it might very well have come off if this poor young lady hadn't given it away. So that's all about the chambers. And now, here he cast a glance in my direction,

  I must ask for a few particulars. He produced a large, black-covered notebook, and opening it on the table, looked at me inquiringly. This, said Thorndyke, is Mr. Superintendent Miller of the Criminal Investigation Department. He has charge of this case, so you must tell him exactly what happened, and try Jardine to be as clear and circumstantial as possible. The Superintendent looked up sharply. I had an impression, said he, that this gentleman's name was Howard. He has used

  the name of Howard since he has been staying here, for reasons which no longer exist, but which I will explain to you later. His name is Humphrey Jardine, and he's a Bachelor of Medicine. Mr. Miller entered these particulars in his book, and then said, I suppose it's not necessary to ask if you were actually present when this poor lady was murdered. No, I was not. And I presume you did not see the murderer. I saw a man, whom I believed have been the murderer, come out of our entry and walk quickly

  towards the Tudor Street gate. But I can give you no description of him. I saw him from the window and by the light of the entry lamp. The Superintendent wrote down my answer and reflected for a few moments. Perhaps, said he, you'd better just give us an account of what happened, and we can ask you any questions afterwards. It's very painful for you, I know, but it has to be, as you will understand. It was more than painful. It was harrowing to reconstitute that hideous tragedy step by step,

  with the knowledge that the poor murdered corpse was still warm. But it had to be, and I did it, haltingly indeed, and with many a pause to commend my voice. But in the end, I gave the Superintendent the full description of the actual occurrences, though I withheld any reference to those words that my poor dead friend had spoken for my ear alone. When I'd read through and signed my statement, Mr. Miller studied his notebook with an air of dissatisfaction, and then turned to Thorndyke.

  This is all quite clear, Doctor, said he, and just about what you inferred from that letter. But it doesn't help us much. The question is, who is this man? I have an inkling that you know, Doctor. I have a very strong suspicion as to who he is, replied Thorndyke. That will do for me, said Miller. Your strong suspicion is equal to another man's certainty. Do you know his name, sir? He has recently passed under the name of Samway, replied Thorndyke. What his real name

  is, I think I shall be able to tell you later. Meanwhile, I can give you such particulars as are necessary for making an arrest. The Superintendent looked narrowly at Thorndyke, as the letter pressed the button of the electric bell. Apparently, Doctor, said he, you have been making some investigations concerning this man, and as it was not in connection with this crime, it must have been in connection with something else. Yes, replied Thorndyke, you are quite right,

  Miller, and it will be a matter of the deepest regret to me, to my dying day, that circumstances have hindered those investigations as they have. The delay has cost this poor woman her life. A few more days and my case would almost certainly have been complete, and then this terrible disaster would have been impossible. As Thorndyke finished speaking, the door opened quietly, and Poulton entered, with a small, neatly made parcel in his hand.

  Ah, said Thorndyke, you guessed what I wanted, and guessed right, as you always do, Poulton. How many are there in that parcel? Three dozen, sir, replied Poulton. That ought to be enough for the moment. Hand them to the superintendent, Poulton. If you want any more, Miller, we can let you have a further supply, and I am having a half-toned

  block made which will be ready tomorrow morning. Are these portraits of the man you suspect? asked Miller. No, I haven't his portrait, unfortunately, but on each card is a photograph of three of his which are all I have been able to collect, and on the back is a description which will enable you easily to identify him. You can post them off to the various seaports and telegraph the description

  in advance, and I would recommend to you specially to keep a watch on Dover and Folkestone, as I know that he has been in the habit of using that route. Speaking of fingerprints, said Miller, have you tried that letter for them? Yes, replied Thulndike. I powdered it very carefully, but there is not a single trace of a fingerprint. He must have realized the risk he was taking, and worn gloves when he wrote it.

  The superintendent pocketed the parcel with a thoughtful air, and after a few moments cogitation turned once more to Thulndike. You have supplied me with the means of arresting the man, Doctor, said he, but that's all. Supposing I find him and detain him in custody, what then? I don't know that he murdered this poor woman. Do you? Doctor Dardien can't identify him, and apparently no one else saw him.

  I have no doubt that you have substantial grounds for suspecting him, but I should like to know what they are. Thulndike reflected for a moment or two before replying. You are quite right, Miller, he said at length. You ought to have enough information to establish a prima facie case. But I think that on this occasion I can say no more than that if you produce the man, you can rely upon me to furnish enough evidence to secure a conviction.

  Will that do? It will do from you, sir, replied Miller, rising and buttoning his overcoat. I will get this description circulated at once. Oh, there was one more matter. The name of the deceased lady was Semway, the same as that of the suspected murderer. What was the relationship? She passed as,

  and presumably was, his wife. Ah, said Miller, I see, that was how she knew. Well, well, she was a brave woman to take the risk that she did, and she deserved something very different from what she got. But we are taught that there is a place where people who suffer injustice and misfortune in this world get it made up to them. I hope it's true for her sake. And for his, he added abruptly, with a sudden change of tone.

  Naturally you do, said Thorndyke. But meanwhile our business is with this world. Spread your net close and wide, Miller. I shall never forgive you if you let this villain slip. It is our sacred duty to purge the world of his presence. You do your part, Miller, and be confident that I will do mine. You can depend on me to do my best, sir, said Miller, though I am working rather in the dark.

  I suppose you couldn't give me any sort of hint as to what you've got up your sleeve. You've no doubt, for instance, that it was really the man Semway who committed this murder. Thorndyke, according to his usual habit, considered the superintendent's question for a while before answering. At length he replied, I don't know why I shouldn't take you into my confidence to some extent, Miller, knowing you as I do, but you will remember that

  this is a confidence. The fact is that I am proposing to proceed against this man on an entirely different charge, but I am not quite ready to lay in information, and I want you to secure his person on the charge of murdering his wife while I complete the other case. Is that another case of murder? asked Miller. Yes. The facts are briefly these. A certain Septimus Maddock, who was living with the Semways,

  died some time ago under what seemed to me very suspicious circumstances. He was nursed by Semway and his wife, and by no one else. The cause of death given on the certificate was, in my opinion, not the true one, and I am proceeding to verify my theory as to what was the real cause of death. I see, said Miller. You are applying for an exhumation of the body? Well, hardly an exhumation. The man Maddock was cremated.

  Cremated? exclaimed Miller. Then we're done. There isn't any body to exhume. No, agreed Thorndyke. There is no body, but there are the ashes. But surely, said Miller, you can't get any information out of a few handfuls of bone ash. That remains to be proved, replied Thorndyke. I have applied for an authority to make an exhaustive examination of those ashes, and if my opinion as to the cause of death is correct,

  I shall be able to demonstrate its correctness, and that will involve a charge of murder against this man Semway. It will also support a charge against him of attempts to murder Dr. Jardine, and furnish strong evidence connecting him with the horrible crime that has just been committed. So you see, Miller, that the important thing is to get possession of him before he has time to escape from this country, and hold him in custody, if necessary, while the evidence against him is

  being examined and completed. But I must impress on you that no time ought to be lost in getting the description circulated. No, that's true, said Miller. I'll go and telegraph it off at once, and I'll send one or two of our best men to what are the likely seaports. He shook hands with us all round, and when we'd almost fervently wished him success, he took his departure. As soon as he was gone, Jervis turned to his senior, and, looking at him

  with a sort of puzzled curiosity, exclaimed, You're a most astounding person, Thorndyke. You really are. I thought I had begun to see daylight in that medic case, and now I find that I was all abroad. But I can't for the life of me conceive what in the world you expect to discover by examining a few pounds of calcined phosphates. Suppose medic was poisoned. What evidence will be obtainable from the ashes? Of the poisons which could possibly have been used under the known

  circumstances, not one would leave a trace after cremation. But of course you've thought of all that. Certainly I have, replied Thorndyke, and I agree with you that the ashes of a body that has been cremated are highly unpromising material for a primary investigation. But does it not occur to you that, in a case where certain circumstantial evidence is available, excellent corroborative data might be obtained by the examination of the ashes? No, replied Jervis, I can't say that it does.

  It is not too late to consider the question, said Thorndyke. I shall probably not get the authority for a day or two, so you will have time to turn the problem over in the interval. It is quite worth your while, I assure you, apart from this particular case, as a mere exercise in constructive theory. You could acquire experience from imaginary cases as well as from real ones, as I've often pointed out. In fact, much of my own experience has been gained in this way. I think I've mentioned

  to you that, in my early days, when I had more leisure than practice, it was my custom to construct imaginary crimes of an elaborately skillful type, and then, having of course all the facts, to consider the appropriate procedure for their detection. It was a most valuable exercise, for I was thus able to furnish myself with an abundance of problems of a kind that, in actual practice, are met with only at long intervals of years. And since then, a quite

  considerable number of my imaginary cases have presented themselves in a more or less modified form for solution in the cause of practice, and have come to me with the familiarity of problems that have already been considered and solved. That is what you should do, Jervis. Try the synthetic method, and then consider what analytical procedure would be appropriate to your result. I have, Jervis replied gloomily. I've worked at this confounded case until I feel like a rat that

  has been trying to gnaw through a plate glass window. Still, I'll have another try. By the way, where are you going to make this examination? I think I shall do it here. I had thought of handing the ashes over to one of the more eminent analysts, but it would be only a small operation, well within the capacity of our own laboratory. I think of asking Professor Woodfield to come here and carry out the actual analysis. Poulton will give him any help that he may want, and of course,

  we shall be here to give any further assistance if he should need it. Why not have made the analysis yourself? asked Jervis. Is there anything specially difficult or intricate about it? Not at all, replied Thorndyke. But as the case will have to go into court on a capital charge, that is, assuming that my hypothesis turns out to be correct, I thought it best to have the analysis made by a man whose name as an authority on

  chemistry will carry special weight. Neither the judge nor the jury are likely to have much special knowledge of chemistry, but they will be able to appreciate the fact that Woodfield is a man with a worldwide reputation, and they will respect his opinion accordingly. Yes, agreed Jervis, I think you're quite right. A well-known name goes a long way with the jury. I hope your experiment will turn out as you expect, and I hope too that some of Miller's

  men will manage to lay that murderous devil by the heels, but I'm afraid they'll have their work cut out. He's a clever scoundrel, one must admit that. How do you suppose you could try to track Jardine here? I think, replied Thorndyke, that he must have seen us on one of the two occasions when we went to the mineral waterworks and followed us here. Then, when Jardine disappeared from his lodgings, he would naturally look for him here, this being in fact the only

  place known to him in connection with Jardine, excepting Batson's house, on which he also probably kept a watch. But how would he have discovered that Jardine actually was here? There are a number of ways in which he might have ascertained the fact. A good many persons knew that we had a new resident. We could not conceal his presence here. Many of our visitors have seen him, and the porter and hangers-on of the inn will have noticed him taking his exercise in the

  morning. Samway himself even may have seen him, and he would easily have penetrated the disguise if he saw him out of doors, for there is no disguising a man's stature. He might have made enquiries of one of the porters or lamp-lighters, or he might have employed someone else to make enquiries. The fact that someone was staying here and that his name was Howard could not have been very difficult to discover, while, as for ourselves, we are as well known in the inn as the griffin at

  Temple Bar. From the circumstance that he knew of our attendance at the Maidstone Assizes, it seems likely that he had subsidised some solicitous clerk who would know our movements. And I suppose, said I, as he is gone now, I may as well go back to my lodgings. Not at all, replied Thondike. In the first place we don't know that he is gone, and we do know that he is now absolutely desperate and reckless. And you must not forget, Jardine, that whether we

  charge him with murder in the case of Maddock, with the murder of poor Mrs Samway, or the attempted murder of yourself, in either case you are the chief witness for the prosecution. You are the appointed instrument of retribution in this man's case, and you must take the utmost care of yourself until your mission is accomplished. He knows the value of your evidence better than you do, and it is still worth his while to get rid of you if he can. But you, I am sure, are at least

  as anxious as we are to see him hanged. I'd sooner twist his neck with my own hands, said I. I dare say you would, said Thondike, and it is perfectly natural that you should. But it is not desirable. This is a case for a few fathoms of good stout hempen rope and the common hangman. The private vengeance of a decent man would be an undeserved honor for a wretch like this. So you must stay here quietly for a few days more, and give us a little help

  when we need it. Thondike's decision was not altogether unwelcome. Shaken as I was by the shock of this horrible tragedy, I was in no state to return to the solitude of my lodgings. The quiet and tactful sympathy of my two friends, or I should rather say three, for Poulton was as kind and gentle as a woman, was infinitely comforting, and their sober cheerfulness and the interest of their talk prevented me from brooding morbidly over the catastrophe of which I had been

  the involuntary cause, and dreadful as the associations of the place were, I could not but feel that those of my older resorts would be equally painful. For me at present the heath would be haunted by the figure of poor Letitia walking at my side, telling me her pitiful tale and so pathetically craving my sympathy and friendship. And the Highgate Road could not but ring my heart with the recollection of that evening when we'd walked together up the narrow lane, all unconscious

  of a black-hearted murderer stealing after us and foiled only by that futile spy, when, as we said goodbye, I'd kissed her and she had run off, blushing like a girl. Moreover, if Thorndyke's chambers were fraught with terrible and gloomy associations, they were also pervaded by an atmosphere of resolute, relentless preparation which was itself a relief to me. For, as the first shock of horrified grief passed, it left me possessed by a fury of hatred for the murderer,

  and consumed by an inextinguishable craving for vengeance. Nor by the time of suspense so long as we had anticipated, as the very next morning a letter arrived from the Home Office containing the necessary authority to make the proposed examination and informing Thorndyke that on the following day the police would take possession of the ashes, which would be delivered to him by an officer who would remain to witness the examination and to resume possession of the remains when it

  was concluded. I saw very little more of Thorndyke that day, but gathered that he was busy making the final arrangements for the important work of the morrow and clearing off various tasks so as to leave himself in from engagements. Nor did I enjoy much of Jervis's society, for he, too, was anxious to have the day free for the crucial experiment which was, we hoped, to solve the mystery of Septimus Medic's death and explain the villain Samway's strange vindictiveness towards me.

  Left to myself, and by no means enamored of my own society, I wandered up to the laboratory to see what Poulton was doing and to distract my gloomy thoughts by little gossip with him on the various technical processes of which he possessed so much curious information. I found him arrayed in a white apron with his sleeves turned up, busily occupied with what I took to be a slab of dough which had spread on a pastry board and was leveling with a hardwood rolling pin. He greeted me as I entered

  with his queer, crinkly smile but made no remark, and I stood awhile in silence, watching him cut the pace in halves, sprinkle it with flour, fold it up, and once more roll it out into a sheet with a wooden pin. Is this going to be a meat pie, Poulton? I asked at length. His smile broadened at my question, for which I suspect he had been waiting. I don't think you'd care much for the flavor of it, he answered.

  I was just a vicious whack with the rolling pin. There you are, sir, that's just what I've been asking myself all the time I've been rolling it out. The doctor, sir, God bless him, is the most exasperating gentleman in the world. He fairly drives me mad with curiosity at times. He will give me a piece of work to do, something to make perhaps, with full particulars, all the facts you understand perfectly clear and exact, with working drawings if necessary, but he never says what the thing is for, so I make a hypothesis for myself. Whole bundles of hypotheses I make, and they always turn out wrong.

  I assure you, sir, he concluded with solemn emphasis, that I've spent the best part of my life asking myself conundrums and giving myself the wrong answers. I should have thought, said I, that you would have got used to his ways by now. You can't get used to him, rejoined Poulton. It's impossible. He doesn't think like any other man. Ordinary men's brains are turned out pretty much alike from a single mould, like a batch of pottery, but the doctor's brain was a special order.

  If there was any mould at all, that mould was broken up and the job was finished. What you mean is, said I, that he has a great deal more intelligence than is given to the rank and file of humanity. No, I don't, retorted Poulton. It isn't a question of quantity at all. It's a different kind of intelligence. Ordinary man have to reason from visible facts. He doesn't. He reasons from facts which his imagination tells him exists, but which nobody else can see.

  He's like a portrait painter who can do you a likeness of your face by looking at the back of your head. I suppose it's what he calls constructive imagination, such as Darwin and Harvey and Pasteur and other great discoverers had, which enabled them to see beyond the facts that were known to the common herd of humanity. I was somewhat doubtful as to the soundness of Poulton's views on the transcendental intellect, though respectfully admiring of the thoughtfulness

  of this curious little handicraftsman. Accordingly, I returned to the more concrete subject of wax. Haven't you any idea what this stuff is going to be used for? Not the slightest, he replied. The doctor's instructions were to make six pounds of it, to make it soft enough to take a squeeze of a stiff feather if warmed gently, and firm enough to keep its shape in a half-inch layer with a plaster backing,

  and to be sure to have it ready by tomorrow morning. That's all. I know there's an important analysis on tomorrow, and I suppose this wax has got something to do with it. But as to what molding wax can have to do with a chemical analysis, that's a question that I can't make head or tail of. Neither could I, though I had more data than Poulton appeared to possess. Nor could Jervis, to whom I propounded the riddle when he came in to tea.

  We went up to the laboratory together and inspected not only the wax, but the exterior of three large parcels addressed to Professor Woodfield, care of Dr. Thorndyke, and bearing the labels of a firm of wholesale chemists. But neither of us could suggest any solution of the mystery, and the only result of our visit to the laboratory was that Poulton was somewhat scandalized by the conduct of his junior employer, who consoled himself for his failure by executing with the wax

  a life-sized and highly grotesque portrait of Father Humperdinck. End of chapter 20.

• 21 - Chapter XXI - The Final Problem

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  CHAPTER XXI. THE FINAL PROBLEM At exactly half-past eleven in the following forenoon, Professor Woodfield arrived, bearing a massive cowhide bag which he deposited on a chair as a preliminary to taking off his head and wiping his forehead. He was a big, burly, heavy-browed man, sparing of speech and rather gruff in manner.

  "'Stuff arrived yet?' he asked when he had brought his forehead to a satisfactory polish. "'I think it came yesterday morning,' replied Thorndyke. "'The dews it did,' exclaimed Woodfield. "'Yes. Drapers. Three parcels from Townley and—' "'Oh, you're talking of the chemicals. I meant the other stuff.'

  "'No. The officer hasn't arrived yet. But I expect he will be here in a few minutes. Superintendent Miller is a scrupulously punctual man.' The professor strode over to the window and glared out in the direction of Crown Office Row. "'That man of yours got everything ready?' he asked.

  "'Yes,' answered Thorndyke. "'And I've looked over the laboratory myself. Everything is ready. You can begin the instant the ashes are delivered to us.' Woodfield expressed his satisfaction—or whatever he intended to express—by a grunt without removing his eyes from the approach to our chambers.

  "'Cab coming,' he announced a few moments later. "'Man inside with a parcel. That the officer?' Jervis looked out over the professor's shoulder. "'Yes,' said he. "'That's Miller.'

  "'And confounded. Here's Margement with old Humpadink. Shall we bolt up to the laboratory and send down word that we're all out of town?' "'I don't see why we should,' said Thorndyke. "'Woodfield won't be inconsolable if we have to leave him to work by himself for a while.' The professor confirmed this statement by another grunt. And shortly afterwards the

  clamour of the little brass knocker announced the arrival of the first contingent, which, when I opened the door, was seen to consist of the solicitor and his very reverent client. "'My dear Thorndyke,' exclaimed Margement, shaking our principal's hand, "'what a shocking affair this is! This murder, I mean. I read about it in the paper. A dreadful affair!' "'Yes, indeed,' Thorndyke assented.

  "'The most callous and horrible crime.' "'Terrible! Terrible!' said Margement. "'So unpleasant for you, too, and so inconvenient. Actually on your own stairs, I understand. But I hope they'll be able to catch the villain.' "'Have you any idea who he is?'

  "'I have a very strong suspicion,' Thorndyke replied. "'Ah,' exclaimed Margement, "'I thought so. The rascal brought his picks to the wrong market. What? Like doing a burglary at Scotland Yard. He couldn't have known who lived here. "'Hello. Why, here's Mr. Miller. How do you do, Superintendent?'

  The officer, for whom I'd left the door ajar, entered in his usual brisk fashion, and, having bestowed a comprehensive salutation on the assembled company, deposited on the table an apparently weighty parcel, securely wrapped and decorated with a label bearing the inscription, "'This side up.'

  "'There, sir,' said he. "'There's your box of mystery. And I don't mind telling you that I'm on tenterhooks of curiosity, to see what you're going to make of it.' "'Professor Woodfield is the presiding magician,' said Thorndyke. "'So we will hand it over to him.'

  "'I suppose the casket is sealed?' "'Yes. It was sealed in my presence, and I've got to be present when the seals are broken.' "'Well, break the seals up in the laboratory,' said Woodfield. "'But we may as well undo the parcel here.' He produced a solid-looking pocketknife, fitted with a practicable corkscrew,

  and, having cut the string, stripped off the wrappings of the parcel. "'God bless my soul,' exclaimed Marchmont, as the last wrapping was removed. "'Why, it's a cremation urn. What in the name of fortune are you going to do?' Miller tapped the lid of the urn with a dramatic gesture. "'Dr. Thorndyke,' said he,

  "'is going, I hope, to extract from the ashes in this casket an instrument of vengeance on the murderer of Mrs. Samway.' "'Ach,' exclaimed Father Humperdinck, "'do not speak of vengeance in the presence of these poor remains of a fellow creature. Justice, if you like. But not vengeance.'

  "'Vengeance is mine,' says the Lord.' "'Yes,' agreed Miller. "'That's perfectly true, sir, and we quite understand your point of view. So we've got our job to do, you know.' "'But,' said Marchmont,

  "'I don't understand. What is the connection? These appear to be the remains of Septimus Maddock, whoever he may have been, and he seems to have died last November. What has he to do with the murder of this poor woman Samway?' "'The connection is this,' replied Thorndyke.

  "'The man who murdered Mrs. Samway murdered the man whose ashes are in this urn. That is my proposition, and I hope, with the skillful aid of my friend Professor Woodfield, to prove it.' "'Well,' said Marchmont, "'it is a remarkable proposition, and the proof will be still more remarkable.

  I certainly thought that a body that had been cremated was beyond the reach of any possible inquiry.' "'I am afraid that is so as a rule,' Thorndyke admitted. "'But I hope to find an exception in this case. Shall we go upstairs and commence the examination?'

  Woodfield having agreed with gruff emphasis, Miller picked up the casket, and we all proceeded to the laboratory, where Poulton, like a presiding analytical demon, was discovered amidst his beloved apparatus. The casket was placed on a table, the seals broken, and the cover removed by Woodfield, whereupon we all, with one accord, craned forward to peer in at what looked like a

  mass of fragments of snowy matripoor coral. "'Ach,' exclaimed Father Humperdinck, "'but it is a solemn thought that these boer ashes was once a living man just like ourselves.' "'Yes,' said Marchmont, "'it is, and I suppose we shall all be pretty much alike by the time we reach this stage.

  Cremation is a leveler with a vengeance. Still, I will say this much, these remains are perfectly unobjectionable in every way. In fact, they are almost agreeable in appearance. Whereas an ordinary disinterment after this lapse of time would have been a most horrid business.' "'Yes, indeed,' agreed Thorndyke.

  "'I have had to make a good many examinations of exhumed bodies, and, as you say, they were very different from this. If I were not a practitioner of legal medicine, in which exhumation often furnishes crucial evidence, I should say that this cleanly and decent method of disposing of the dead was incomparably superior to any other.

  Unfortunately, it has serious medico-legal drawbacks. I think would feel that we will turn the ashes out on that sheet of paper on the bench, and then, with your permission, I will pick out the recognizable fragments and examine them, while you are working on the small, powdery portions.' He took up the urn, which was an oblong terracotta vessel some fourteen inches in length,

  and very carefully inverted it over the large sheet of clean white paper. Then, from the dazzling, snowy heap, he picked out daintily the larger fragments, handling them with the utmost tenderness, for of course they were excessively fragile, and finally transferring them one by one to another sheet of paper at the other end of the bench. The appearance of the remains was not quite as I had expected.

  Among the powdery debris was a quite considerable number of larger fragments, most of which were easily recognizable by the anatomical eye, while some of the larger long bones almost gave the impression of having been broken to enable them to be placed in the urn, and suggested that a partial reconstitution, for the purpose of determining the stature or other peculiarities of the skeleton,

  was by no means as impossible as I had supposed. But large and small alike the pieces were strangely light and attenuated, like the ghosts of bones or artificial counterfeits in porous, spongy coral. When Thorndyke had picked out such of the fragments as he wished to examine, Professor Woodfield glanced casually over the collection, but suddenly he paused,

  and stooping over a large piece of the right, inominate bone, narrowly inspected a somewhat shiny yellow stain on its inner surface. "'Looks as if you're right, Thorndyke,' he said in his laconic way. "'Qualitatively, at any rate. We shall see what the quantitative test says.' I pored over that dull yellow stain, acid-jervous also, but could make no guess at its nature,

  or conceive any explanation of its presence. What interested me more was a small depression or cavity in the bone at the center of the stain. That it was not the result of cremation was obvious from the fact that it was surrounded by a small area of sclerosed or hardened bone, which was quite plainly distinguishable on the spongy background, and which clearly pointed to some inflammatory change that had occurred during life. But of its cause, as of that of the stain

  itself, I could think of no intelligible explanation. Have you enough of the small fragments to go on with for the present, Woodfield?' Thorndyke asked. "'Plenty,' replied Woodfield. "'Then,' said Thorndyke, "'I will get on with my side of the inquiry. I shall want the whole plate camera first, Poulton.'

  While his assistant was preparing the camera, he laid several of the fragments on a base-covered board, and secured them in position by threads attached to wooden-headed pins, like diminutive bradoles. When the fragments were fixed immovably, he placed the board in a vertical position on a stand in a good light by which time Poulton was ready to make the exposure. Meanwhile, Professor Woodfield was proceeding under the horrified supervision of Father Humperdinck,

  with his part of the investigation. He was a matter-of-fact man, a chemist to the backbone, and to him it was evident that the late Septimus Medoc was simply so many pounds of animal phosphates. Quite compositely, he shoveled up a scoopful of the ashes, which he emptied into the pan of a spring balance, and, having weighed out a pound and a quarter, shot the contents of the pan into a large mortar, and forthwith began to grind the fragments to a fine powder,

  humming a cheerful stave to the ring of the pestle. But his next proceeding scandalized the worthy Jesuit still more deeply. Having weighed out certain quantities of charcoal, sodium carbonate, and borax, he pulverized each in a second mortar, mixed the whole together, and shot the mixture into the first mortar, which contained the ash, stirring the entire contents up into a repulsive-looking gray powder. But, my dear sir, exclaimed Father Humperdinck,

  you are destroying sir remains. Woodfield looked at him from under his beetling brows, but went on stirring. Matter is indestructible, he replied stolidly, and with this he tipped the contents of the mortar onto a sheet of paper, and transferred them to a large fire-clay crucible. Now, Polton, said he, is the furnace ready? Polton disengaged himself for a moment from the camera,

  and took up a position by the side of the big fire-clay drum with his hand on the gas-cock. Then Woodfield, having dropped three or four large iron nails into the crucible, carried the latter over to the furnace, and lowered it into the central cavity. The cock was turned on by Polton, and a match applied, whereupon a great purplish flame shot up with a roar from the mouth of the furnace, and even when this had been confined by the dropping

  arm of the massive cover, the iron-cased cylinder continued to emit a muffled, sullen growl. While the crucible was heating, I transferred my attention to Thorndyke. The photographic operations were now concluded, and the moulding wax had just been produced for a warmed incubator. Polton's curiosity, and mine, was about to be satisfied. Thorndyke began by laying a thick slab of the warm and pliable wax on the middle of a smooth

  plate of varnished plaster, at each corner of which was a small hemispherical pit, and dusting powdered French chalk sparingly over the level surface of the wax. Then he took the large fragment of bone, which bore the mysterious yellow stain, and laid it on the wax with the stained side uppermost, pressing it very gently until it gradually sank into the soft, pasty mass. Next he took a somewhat smaller slab of wax, and, having dusted its surface with French chalk,

  laid it on the fragment of bone, pressing it on gently but firmly, especially in the neighbourhood of the stain. Having squeezed some irregular-shaped lumps of wax on the back of the top slab, he fastened a strip of india rubber round the edge of the plaster plate so that it formed a bright rim, and turned to Polton. Now mix a bowl of plaster, and mix it extra stiff so that it will set quickly and hard. With a soft brush he painted a thin coat of oil on the exposed portion

  of the plaster plate up to the edges of the wax, and including little circular hollows. By the time he had done this, Polton reappeared from the workshop with a basin of liquid plaster, which he was beating up with a spoon as if preparing a custard or batter pudding. As soon as the plaster began to thicken, he poured it on the wax, and the oiled slab, until it formed a level mass, nearly flush with the top of the india rubber rim.

  In a surprisingly short time the smooth, creamy liquid solidified into a substance having the appearance of icing sugar, and when Polton had stripped away the india rubber rim, exposing the edge of the new plaster slab, this part of the process was finished. We will put this mold aside for the plaster to harden while we make the other mold, said Thorndyke. Aren't you going to make molds of all the fragments? asked Jervis.

  No, Thorndyke answered. The photographs of the rest will be sufficient, and I don't think we shall want even those. In fact, what I am doing now is merely by way of extra precaution. We are obliged to destroy the fragments in order to make the analysis, so I am just putting their appearance on record. You never know what an ingenious defending counsel may spring on you. As Polton produced a second plate of varnished plaster, and Thorndyke began to prepare the wax

  for the next mold, I turned my attention once more to Professor Woodfield. He had now deserted the mortar, in which he had been preparing a further supply of the stuff, and taken up a position by the furnace with a long pair of crucible tongs in his hand. On the bench hard by was an iron plate, and on this an oblong block of iron in which were six conical hollows. Presently Woodfield glanced at his watch, turned off the gas-cock, removed the cover of the furnace with his tongs,

  and, reaching down into the glowing interior, lifted out the nearly white-hot crucible. Instantly, Marchmont, Humperdinck, and Jervis gathered round to watch, and even Thorndyke left his mold to come and see the result of the first trial. Having stood the crucible on the iron plate while he picked out the large nails one by one, Woodfield lifted it and steadily poured its molten contents into the first hollow in the iron block, which they soon filled, and overflowing, ran along

  the iron plate in glowing streams that soon grew dull from contact with the cold surface. I noticed that, as the crucible was slowly tilted, Thorndyke kept his eyes fixed on its interior, as also did Jervis and Woodfield, and watching closely, I saw just as the vessel was nearly empty, what looked somewhat like a red-hot oil globule floating in the louse of the glowing liquid. This passed out as the crucible was tilted further and disappeared into the iron mold,

  when Woodfield, having exchanged a quick, significant glance with Thorndyke, proceeded forthwith, in his mature effect way, to fill up the still red-hot vessel with another pound and a quarter of the late Septimus medic. I suppose, said Marchment, it is premature to ask you what is the final object of these very interesting operations.

  It's no use asking me, replied Woodfield, because I don't know. I'm searching for traces of a particular substance, but what may be the significance of its presence, I haven't the slightest idea. It better ask Dr. Thorndyke, and he won't tell you. No, I know, said Marchment. Thorndyke will never tell you anything until he can tell you everything. By the way, will the remains be completely destroyed, or will it be possible

  to recover them? They are not destroyed at all, replied Woodfield. They are all in the slag that came out of the crucible. We shall simply put the slag in the urn. There's little charcoal, soda, and borax added, but nothing is taken away. I could see that to the unchemical mind of Father Humpherdink This was far from satisfactory, and I observed him pouring, with obvious disapproval, over the

  dark-collared, glassy masses of slag on the iron plate. Ashes to ashes was an intelligible formula, but ashes to slag was quite another matter, for which no provision had been made in any known ritual. After a rather hurried luncheon, the wax moulds were carefully opened and the fragments of bone picked out, when it was seen that each fragment had left a perfect impression on the wax surface into which it had been pressed. These hollow impressions were now filled with

  liquid plaster, and when the latter had thickened sufficiently, the two halves of each mould were quickly fitted together and kept in close contact by a weight. During the interval which was necessary to allow for the plaster setting quite firmly, I had leisure to note that Professor Woodfield had filled two more of the cavities in the iron mould. Now that the furnace was thoroughly hot, he was able to work rather more quickly, and he had economised time by leaving a

  crucible to heat while we were at lunch. He was preparing to take the fourth charge from the furnace, when I observed Poulton removing the weight from one of the moulds and hurriedly transferred my patronage to his part of the entertainment. The mould on which he was operating was the one bearing the impressions of the stained fragment of the inominate bone, and when he separated the two halves and exposed a newly made cast inside, one might have thought that the actual

  bone had been left in. So perfectly, the snowy plaster cast reproduced a dazzlingly white calcined bone. But naturally, the stain did not appear in the cast, a defect which Thorndike proceeded at once to remedy by making a tracing of the exact position and extent of the coloured patch and transferring it to the cast. Then, and not till then, Thorndike regretfully handed the original fragment to Professor Woodfield, who impassively dropped it into the mortar and pounded it into a

  mere characterless powder. After the opening of the second mould and the removal of the casts, the interest of the investigation lapsed for a time. Woodfield's operations were doubtless the most important part of the procedure, but they were not thrilling to look on at. In fact, they became by unvarying repetition decidedly tedious, and when the last charge containing the uttermost crumb of ash had been placed in the furnace and there was nothing to do but stare at the great

  fire-clay drum, Marchmott and Humperdinck began to yawn in the most pretentious manner. I rather wondered that they did not go, for the investigation was no business of theirs, and there was little entertainment in gazing at the outside of the furnace or watching Poulton and the superintendent gather up the masses of slag from the plate and drop them into the casket. But I suppose that they, like myself, were consoling themselves for the tedium of the chemists' manipulations by the

  prospect of satisfying their curiosity as the final result of the experiment. When at length the last charge was ready, Woodfield withdrew the white-hot crucible from the furnace and stood it on the iron plate. But this time he did not pour out the contents. Instead, he tilted the iron mold and, picking out the conical masses of slag that it contained, one by one, lowered them with his tongs into the hot crucible. Then, having thrown in a little fresh flux, he returned the crucible

  to the furnace. Why didn't he pour out the melted stuff this time? Marchmott asked. Because, Thorndyke replied, I want, for certain reasons, to have the total result of the analysis in a single mass. Each of those little cones of slag contains the result from a sixth part of the ash. The crucible now contains the matter extracted from the whole of the ashes. For my purposes, this is more suitable, as you will see in a few minutes, for we shall not have to leave the

  crucible and the furnace so long this time. I am glad of that, said Marchmott. Though this has been a most interesting, and I may say fascinating, experience, I am delighted to have had an opportunity of witnessing these most instructive and, erm, ah, the rest of the sentence was rendered somewhat obscure by a colossal yawn. But very soon the interest of the proceedings was revived by Woodfield, who approached the furnace with a determined air and removed its cover with somewhat

  of a flourish. Now we shall see, Thorndyke, said he, turning off the gas and reaching down into the glowing cavity with his tongues. He lifted out the crucible and, standing it on the iron plate, took out the nails, tapping each on the side of the pot as he withdrew it. Do you want me to pour it out, or shall I break the pot? asked Woodfield. That rests with you, replied Thorndyke. Better break the pot, then, said Woodfield. This entailed a further spell of expectant waiting,

  and we all stood round, gazing impatiently at the crucible as it slowly faded from bright red to dull red, and from this to its natural dull drab. It was quite a long time before Woodfield considered it cool enough to be broken. Indeed, I half suspected him of prolonging our suspense with deliberate malice. At length he took up a peculiarly shaped hammer which Poulton had handed him, and, laying the crucible on its side, struck it sharply near the bottom with a pointed beak.

  Then he turned the pot over and struck a similar blow on the opposite side, upon which the bottom of the crucible broke off cleanly, exposing the mass of dark glassy slag, and, embedded in it, a bright button of metal. What metal is that? Jervis demanded eagerly. The Professor struck the button smartly with the hammer, whereupon it detached itself from the slag and rolled onto the plate.

  Lead, said he. I don't vouch for its purity, but it's undoubtedly lead. Jervis turned to Thorndyke with a puzzled look. You can't be suggesting, said he, that this was a case of acute lead poisoning. The circumstances didn't admit of it, and besides the quantity of lead is impossibly large. I should suppose, interposed Miller, that the Doctor was suggesting a most

  particularly acute form of lead poisoning, only that it is impossible to imagine that a cremation certificate would be granted in a case where a man had been killed by a pistol shot. I am not so sure of that, said Thorndyke, though it is not likely that a cremation certificate would be applied for under those circumstances. But I am certainly not suggesting lead poisoning. What do you say is the weight of this button, Thorndyke? Professor asked.

  Lead, replied Thorndyke, depends on its relation to the total content of lead in the ashes. What percentage do you suppose has been lost in the process of reduction? Not more than 10%, I hope. You may take this button as representing 90% of the total lead, perhaps a little more. Thorndyke made a rapid calculation on a scrap of paper. I suggest, said he, that the total lead in the ashes was 386 grains.

  Deducting a tenth, say 38 and a half grains, we have 347 and a half grains, which should be the weight of this button. Woodfield picked up the button, and striding over to the glass case which contained the chemical balance, slid up the front, and, placing the button in one pan, put the weight corresponding to Thorndyke's estimate in the other. On turning the handle that released the balance, it was seen that the button was appreciably

  heavier than Thorndyke had stated, and Woodfield adjusted the weights with a small pair of forceps until the index stood in the middle of the graduated arc. The weight is 349 and a half grains, said Woodfield. That means that my essay was rather better than I thought. You're quite right, Thorndyke, as you generally are. I wonder what the object was that weighed 386 grains. Are you going to tell us?

  Thorndyke felt in his waistcoat pocket. It was an object, said he, very similar to this. As he spoke, he produced a rather large dark-colored bullet, which he handed to Woodfield, who immediately placed it in the pan of the balance and tested its weight. Just a fraction short of 387 grains, said he. The superintendent peered curiously into the balance case, and, taking the bullet out of the pan, turned it over in his fingers.

  That's not a modern bullet, said he. They don't make them that size now, and they don't generally make them of pure lead. No, Thorndyke agreed. They don't. This is an old French bullet. A Chassepot of about 1870. A Chassepot! exclaimed Humpadink, with suddenly awakened interest. Yes, said Thorndyke. And this button, he picked it up from the floor of the balance case as he spoke,

  was once a Chassepot bullet too. This, Father Humpadink, he added, holding out the little mass of metal towards the Jesuit, was the bullet which struck your friend Vitalis Reinhardt near Saarbruck more than 30 years ago. The priest was thunderstruck. For some seconds he gazed from Thorndyke's face to the button of lead, with his mouth agape, an expression of utter stupefaction.

  But, he exclaimed at length, it is impossible. How can it be in the ashes of a stranger? I take it, said Marjment, that Dr. Thorndyke is suggesting that this was the body of Vitalis Reinhardt. Undoubtedly I am, said Thorndyke. It sounds a rather bold supposition, Marjment observed, a little dubiously. Isn't it basing a somewhat startling conclusion upon rather slender data? The presence of the lead is a striking fact, but still taken alone.

  But it isn't taken alone, Thorndyke interrupted. It is the final link in a long chain of evidence. You will hear that evidence later, but as it happens I can prove the identity of these remains from facts elicited by the examination that we've just made. Let me put the argument briefly. First, I will draw your attention to these plaster casts which you have seen me make from the original bones. Take, to begin with, these small fragments. Dr. Jervis will tell

  you what bones they are. He handed the small casts to Jervis, who looked them over, not for the first time, and passed them to me. I say that they represent two complete fingers in the first or proximal joint of a right thumb. What do you say, Jardine? That is what I had already made them out to be, I replied. Very well, said Thorndyke, that gives us an important initial fact. These remains contain two complete fingers and the first joint of a thumb, but these remains

  profess to be those of a man named Septimus Maddock. Now this man is known to have had deformed hands of the kind described as brachydectalis. In such hands all the fingers are incomplete. They have only two joints instead of the normal three, and the first or proximal joint of the thumb is absent. Obviously, then, these remains cannot be those of Septimus Maddock, as alleged. But if not Maddock's remains, whose are they? From certain facts known to me,

  I had assumed them to be those of Vytalus Reinhardt. Let us see what support that assumption has received. Reinhardt is known to have been wounded in the right hip by a Chassepot bullet, and the bullet was never extracted. Now I find among these remains a considerable portion of the right hip bone. In that bone is a mark which plainly shows that it has been perforated and the perforation repaired, and there is a cavity in which a foreign body of

  about the size of a Chassepot bullet has been partly embedded. The chemical composition of that foreign body is plainly indicated by a stain which surrounds the cavity, which stain is evidently due to oxide of lead. Clearly, the foreign body was composed of lead, which will have melted in the cremation furnace and run away, but left a small portion in the cavity. Which small portion, becoming oxidized, the oxide will have liquefied and become soaked up by the absorbent bone ash,

  thus producing the stain. Finally, we find by assay that this foreign body actually was composed of lead, and that its weight was, within a negligible amount of error, 386 grains, which is the weight of a Chassepot bullet. I say that the evidence, from the ashes alone, is conclusive, but this is only corroborative of conclusions that I'd already formed on a quite considerable body of evidence. Are you satisfied, Marjment? I mean, of course, only respect of a prima facie

  case. Perfectly satisfied, replied Marjment. And now I understand why you insisted on my being present at this investigation and bringing Father Humperdinck, which, I must admit, has been puzzling me the whole day. By the way, I rather infer from what you said that there has been foul play. Is that so? I think, replied Thorndyke, there can hardly be a doubt that Reinhard was murdered by Septimus Maddock. Father Humperdinck's face suddenly turned purple.

  And this man Maddock, he exclaimed fiercely, this murderer of my poor friend, Vytelus, where is he? He is being sought by the police at this moment, replied Thorndyke. He must be caught, Father Humperdinck shouted in a furious voice, and when he is caught, he must be punished as he deserves. I shall not one moment rest until he is hanged as high as Hamann. Here I caught a quick glance from Marjment's eyes and seemed to hear a faint murmur which

  framed the words, Vengeance is mine. But, the Jesuit continued after a momentary pause in the same loud angry tone, this villain has a double grime committed. He has murdered a good, generous, a biased man, and he has robbed the boer, so suffering, and so unfortunate. How has he done that? asked Marjment. By murdering the benefactor of our society, was the answer. He has to be sure, agreed the solicitor. I hadn't thought of that. Of course,

  the original will in favor of Miss Vine probably stands without modification. At this point Superintendent Miller interposed. He was saying, sir, that the man Maddock is now being sought by the police. Do you mean under that name? No, answered Thorndyke. I mean under the name of Samway. Septimus Maddock, alias Isaac Van Dam, is written of as deceased. But Samway, alias Maddock, alias Burton of Bruges, alias Gill, is his reincarnation, and as such, I command him

  to your attention, and I hope, Miller, you will be able to produce him shortly in the flesh. The evidence, as you see, is now ready, and all that is lacking is the prisoner. He shan't be lacking long, sir, if any efforts of mine can bring him to light. I see a case here that will pay for all the work that we can put into it, and now, with your permission, doctor, I will take possession of this urn and get off, to see that everything necessary is being done. The Superintendent,

  as so often happens with departing guests, infected our other two visitors with a sudden desire to be gone. Father Humperding, especially, seemed unwilling to lose sight of the police officer, who was correspondingly anxious to escape, and, having wished us a very hasty adieu, hurried down the stairs in his wake, followed, at a greater interval, by his legal advisor. End of chapter 21

• 22 - Chapter XXII - Thorndyke reviews the Case

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  CHAPTER XXII. THORNDYKE REVIEWS THE CASE When Professor Woodfield, having deliberately packed his bag and, to my great relief and jelvises, declined Thorndyke's invitation to stay and take tea with us, presently took his departure, we descended to the sitting-room, where the polton followed us almost immediately with a tea-tray, having apparently boiled the kettle in the adjacent workshop while

  the final act of the analysis was in progress. He placed the tray on a small table by Thorndyke's chair, and, evidently anticipating the inevitable discussion on the results of the analysis, made up the fire on a liberal scale and retired with unconcealed reluctance. As soon as we were alone, Jelvis opened the subject by voicing his and my joint desire for more light.

  This has been a great surprise to me, Thorndyke, said he. A complete surprise? Thorndyke asked. No, I can't say that. The solution of the problem was one that I had proposed to myself, but I had rejected it as impossible, and it looks impossible still, though I now know it to be the true solution.

  I quite appreciate your difficulty, said Thorndyke, and I see that if you did not happen to light on the answer to it, the difficulty was insuperable. That was the really brilliant feature in Maddock's plan. But for a single fact which was almost certain to be overlooked, the real explanation of the circumstances would appear utterly incredible. Even if suspicion had been aroused later and the true explanation suggested, there seemed

  to be one fact with which it was absolutely irreconcilable. Yes, agreed Jelvis, that is what I have felt. The truth is, said Thorndyke, that this crime was planned with the most diabolical cleverness and subtlety. We realized that when we considered by what an infinitely narrow margin it failed. Indeed, we can hardly say that it did fail. As far as we can see, it succeeded completely, and if the criminal could only have accepted

  its success, there seems to be no reason why any discovery should ever have taken place. Looking back on the case, we see that our experience has been the same as O'Donnell's. We had no clue whatever, excepting the one that was furnished by the criminal himself in his unnecessary efforts to obtain even greater security. Suppose Maddock, having carried out his plan successfully, had been content to leave it at that. Who would have

  known, or even suspected, that a crime had been committed? Not a soul, I believe. But of that he must needs do what the criminal almost invariably does. He must tinker at the crime when all is going well, and surround himself by a number of needless safeguards by which, in the end, attention is attracted to his doings. He knows, or believes he knows, that Jardine has in his possession certain knowledge of a highly dangerous character.

  He does not ask himself whether Jardine is aware that he possesses such knowledge. But appraising that knowledge at what he himself knows to be its value, he decides to get rid of Jardine as the one element of danger. And that was where he failed. If he had left Jardine alone, the whole affair would have passed off as perfectly normal, and its details would soon have been lost sight of and forgotten. Even as it was, he missed complete success

  only by a hair's breadth. But for the most trivial coincidence, Jardine's body might be lying undiscovered in that cellar at this very moment. That's a comfortable thought for you, Jardine, my younger colleague remarked. Very, I agreed, with a slight shudder at the recollecting of that horrible death trap. But what was the coincidence? I never understood how you came to be in that most unlikely place

  at that very opportune moment. "'It was the merest chance,' replied Tholndyke. I happened to have called in at the hospital that evening, and having an hour to spare, it occurred to me to look in at Batsen's and see if you were getting on quite happily in your new command. As I had induced you to take charge, I felt some sort of responsibility in the matter.'

  "'It was exceedingly kind of you, sir,' said I. "'Not in the least,' said Tholndyke. It was just the ordinary solicitude of the teacher for a promising pupil. Well, when I arrived at the house, I found that excellent girl, Maggie, standing on the doorstep, looking anxiously up and down the street. It seemed that, on reflection, she was still convinced that the works were untenanted, and the oddity

  of the whole set of circumstances had made her somewhat uneasy. I waited a few minutes and disposed of one or two patients, and then, as she did not return, after what seemed an unaccountably long absence, I very easily induced her to show me where the place was. And when we arrived there, the deserted aspect of the building and the notice-board over the gate seemed rather to justify her anxiety. I rang the bell loudly, as I dare say you know, but

  I did not wait very long. When I failed to get any response, I, too, became suspicious, and proceeded without delay to pick the lock of the wicket. And it is most fortunate that the wicket was unprovided with a bolt, which would have delayed me very considerably. You know the rest. When I shouted your name, you must have tried to answer, for I called a kind of muffled groan and the sound of tapping, which guided me and Maggie to your prison.

  But it was a near thing, for when I opened the cellar door, you fell out quite unconscious and accompanied by a gush of carbon dioxide that was absolutely stifling. Yes, said I, it was touch and go. A few minutes more and it would have been all up with me. I realized that as soon as I recovered consciousness. But I couldn't, for the life of me, understand why anybody should want to murder me, and I'm not so very clear on the subject now.

  I really knew nothing about Madoc. You knew more than anyone else knew, and he thought you knew more than you did. But perhaps it would be instructive to review the case in detail. It would be very instructive to me, said Jervis, for I don't even now see how you managed to bridge over those gaps that stopped me in my attempts to make a hypothesis that covered

  all the circumstances. Very well, said Thorndyke. Then we will begin at the beginning. And the beginning for me was the finding of Jardine, as I have described it. Here was a pretty plain case of attempted murder, evidently premeditated and apparently committed by some person who had access to these works, evidently also conceived and planned with considerable knowledge, skill

  and foresight, though with how much foresight I did not realize until I had heard Jardine's story. When I had Jardine's account of the affair, I saw that the crime had been planned with quite remarkable ingenuity and judgment. In fact, the circumstances had been so carefully considered, and contingencies so well provided for that but for a single tactical error the plan would have succeeded. That error was in making the pretended emergency a surgical

  injury. If the letter to Jardine had stated that the man was in a fit, instead of suffering from a wound, our friend would have had no need to call up the surgery for appliances, but would have gone straight to the works. And there in all probability his body would still be lying, for no one would have known whether he had gone, and even if his body had been accidentally discovered, all traces of the means by which he had been killed would

  probably have been removed. There would have been nothing to show that he had not strayed into the deserted factory and turned on the gas himself. Indeed, it is pretty certain that matters would have been so arranged as to convey that impression to the persons who made the discovery. There was the letter, said I. That would have given things away to some extent. But you

  would have had it in your pocket, from which he would, of course, have removed it. We may be sure that he had not overlooked the letter. It was the need for surgical appliances that he had overlooked. But in spite of this error, the plan was ingenious, subtle, and clearly not the work of an ignorant man. And here I would point out to you that this letter fact was one of great importance in searching for the solution of the mystery. We knew something

  of our man. He was subtle, resourceful, and absolutely ruthless. Noting this, I was prepared in pursuing the case to find his other actions characterized by subtlety, resourcefulness, and ruthlessness. His further actions were not going to be those of a dullard or an ignoramus. But this was not all the information that I had concerning the personality of this unknown villain. Jervis and I looked over the cellars that same night within an hour

  and a half of the rescue and before anything had been moved. We were then in a position to infer that the unknown was probably a somewhat tall man and above the average of strength, as shown by the weight, position, and arrangement of the iron bottles. Moreover, since there was no faintest trace of a fingerprint on any of them, it followed that some precaution against them, such as gloves, had been adopted, which again suggested either a professional

  criminal or a person well acquainted with criminal methods. So much for the man. As to the rest of the information that I obtained by looking into the cellar, it seemed at the time meager enough. And yet, when considered by the light of Jardine's statement, it turned out to be of vital importance. Do you remember what it was, Jardine? That cellar contained certain objects. They seemed very unilluminating and commonplace, but according to my invariable

  custom I considered them attentively and made a written list of them. Do you remember what they were? Yes, quite well. There were ten empty cylinders, a spanner, a packing case. What were the dimensions of the case, Thorndike interrupted? Seven foot long by two and a half wide and deep. Then there were a couple of waterproof sheets and a quantity of straw. That is the lot, I think, and I'll be hanged if I can see what any of them, excepting the

  three cylinders that were used for my benefit, have to do with the case. Can you, Jervis? I'm afraid I can't, he replied. They are all such very ordinary objects. Ordinary or not, said Thorndike, there they were, and I made a note of them on the principle, which I am continually impressing on my students, that you can never judge in advance what the evidential value of any fact will be, and on the further principle that, in estimating

  evidence, there is no such thing as a commonplace fact or object. Until I had heard Jardine's account of the affair there was not much to be gained by thinking about the possibilities that it presented. There was, however, one point to be settled, and I dealt with it at once. My slight inspection of the works had shown that no business was being carried on in them, and the question was whether they were completely untenanted or whether there

  was some person who had regular access to them. My inquiries resulted, as you know, in the unearthing of the mysterious Mr. Gill, but what his relation to the affair might be I was not at the moment in a position to judge. Then came our talk with Jardine from which emerged the fact that the ordinary motives of murder apparently did not exist in this case, and that the crime appeared to have its origin in circumstances that had arisen

  locally and recently, and on our proceeding to search for such conditions as might conceivably generate an adequate motive, we lighted on a case of cremation. Now, it is my habit, whenever I have to deal with death which has been followed by cremation, to approach the case with the utmost caution and scrutinize the circumstances most narrowly, for, admirable as is this method of disposing of the dead regarded from a hygienic standpoint, it has

  the fatal defect of lending itself most perfectly to the more subtle forms of murder and especially to the administration of poison. By cremation, all traces of the alkaloids, the toxins and the other organic poisons are utterly destroyed, while of the metals, the three whose compounds are most commonly employed for criminal purposes. Arsenic, antimony and mercury are volatilized by heat and would be more or less completely dissipated during the incineration of the

  body. It is true that the most elaborate precautions in the form of examination and certification are prescribed, and usually taken, I presume, before cremation is performed, but as every medical jurist knows, precautions taken before the event are useless, for to be effective they would have to cover every possible cause of death, which would be impracticable. Hence, less suspicion in case of poisoning commonly does not arise until some time after death.

  I always give the closest consideration to the antecedent circumstances in cases where cremation is performed, but in this case of Jardine's it was at once obvious that the circumstances called for the minutest inquiry and that no inquiry had been made. On the face of it the case was a suspicious one, and the curious incident that Jardine described made it look more suspicious still, and moreover suggested a possible motive for the attempt

  on his life. Apparently he had seen, or was believed to have seen, something that he was not desired to see, something that it was not intended that anyone should see. Now, what might that something have been? Apparently it was connected with the hand, or with the part of the arm adjacent to the hand. I considered the possibilities, and at once they fell into two categories. That something might have been a wound, an injury, a hypodermic needle

  mark, something that is to say related to the cause of death, or it might have been a mutilation, a deformity, a finger ring, a tattoo mark, something that is to say related to the identity of the deceased, and it followed that the cremation might have been made use of to conceal either the cause of death or the identity of the body. But all this was purely speculative. The case looked suspicious, but there was not a particle of positive evidence

  that anything abnormal had occurred. At this point Jardine exploded on us his second mystery, that of the dead cleric at Hampstead. This gave us at once an adequate motive for getting rid of him, for it had every appearance of a case of murder with successful concealment of the body, and Jardine was the only witness who could testify to its having occurred. Upon hearing of this I was for a moment disposed to dismiss the cremation case, to consider

  that the suspicious elements in it had been magnified by our imaginations in our endeavors to find an explanation of the assault on Jardine. Moreover, since we now had a sufficient motive for that assault, the cremation case appeared to be outside the scope of the inquiry. But there was a difficulty. It was now six weeks since Jardine had encountered the body in a lane, and during that time he had been entirely unmolested. The assault had occurred on his

  moving into a new neighborhood, to which he had come unexpectedly unannounced. Moreover, the assault had been committed by some person who either had access to the factory or was at least well acquainted with it, and who therefore seemed to be connected with the new neighborhood, and it was committed within a few days of the cremation incident. Furthermore, the assault was manifestly premeditated and prepared, but yet the circumstances, namely

  Jardine's recent and unexpected appearance in the neighborhood, were such as to make it certain that the crime could have been planned only a day or two before its execution, which again seemed to connect it with the cremation case rather than with the Hampstead case. There were two more points. We have seen that Jardine's would-be murderer was a subtle,

  genius, resourceful, and cautious villain, but a crime adjusted to the conditions of cremation is exactly such a crime as we should expect of such a man, whereas the Hampstead crime, assuming it to be a crime, appeared to have been a somewhat clumsy affair, though the successful concealment of the body pointed to a person of some capacity, so that the former crime was more congruous with the known personality of the would-be murderer

  than the latter. The second point was made on further investigation. The day after our consultation I looked around the neighborhood with the aid of a large-scale map, when I discovered that the yard of the factory in Norton Street backed on the garden of the Samways house in Gatens Street. This again suggested a connection between the cremation case and the assault on Jardine, and the suggestion

  was so strong that once more the cremation incident assumed the uppermost place in my mind. I considered that case at length. Assuming a crime to have been committed, what was the probable nature of that crime? Now cremation, as I have said, tends to destroy two kinds of evidence, namely that relating to the cause of death and that relating to the identity of the body, whence it follows that the two crimes which it may be used to conceal are

  murder and substitution. To which of these crimes did the evidence point in the present instance? Well, we had the undoubted fact that cremation had been performed pursuant to the expressed wishes of Septimus Madoc, the man who was alleged to have been cremated. But if it was a case of murder, the crime must have been hurriedly planned a few days before the man's death, that is, after the execution of the will, for we could assume

  that Madoc would not have connived at his own murder, whereas if it was a case of substitution, Madoc himself was probably the actual agent. Considering the circumstances, the inexplicable, symptomless illness and the unexpected death, the latter crime was obviously more probable than the former. The illness, in that case, would be a sham illness deliberately planned to prepare the way for the introduction of the substituted body. Moreover, the attendant

  circumstances were more in favor of substitution than of murder. Of the three doctors who saw the body, only one had seen a living man, and that one, Batson, was more than half blind and wholly inattentive and neglectful. For the purpose of substitution, no more perfectly suitable practitioner could have been selected. The identity of the body was taken for granted, naturally enough, I admit, and no verification was even thought of. Then, as to Jardine's

  experience, the hand or wrist is not at all a likely region on which to find either a fatal injury or the trace of a hypodermic injection, whereas it is a most important region for purposes of identification. The hand is highly characteristic in itself, even when normal, and there is no part of the body that is so subject to mutilation, or in which mutilations and deformities are so striking, so conspicuous, and so characteristic. Lost

  fingers, stiff fingers, wept fingers, supernumerary fingers, contracted palm, deformed nails, brachydactyly, and numerous other abnormal conditions are not only easily recognized, but since the hand is usually unclothed and visible, their existence will be known to a large number of persons. The evidence, in short, was strongly in favor of substitution as against murder. If, however, the body which was cremated was not that of Madoc, then it

  was the body of some other person. That is to say, that the theory of substitution left us with a dead body that was unaccounted for. And since a dead body implies a death for some person, the theory of substitution left us with a death unaccounted for, and obviously concealed. That is to say, it raised a strong presumption of the murder of some unknown person. And here it seemed that our data came to an end. That we had no material whatever

  for forming any hypothesis as to the identity of the person whose dead body we were assuming to have been substituted for that of Septimus Madoc. But while I was thus turning over the possibilities of this cremation case, the other, the Hampstead case, continued to lurk in the background of my mind. It was much less hypothetical. There was positive evidence of some weight that a crime had been committed, and the circumstances offered a fully adequate

  motive for getting rid of Jardine. Thus it was natural that I should raise the question. Was it possible that the two cases could be in any way connected? At the first glance the suggestion looked absolutely wild, but still I considered it at length, and then it looked somewhat less wild. The two cases had this in common, that if a crime had been committed Jardine was the sole witness. Moreover, the supposition that the two cases were connected

  and incriminated the same parties greatly intensified the motive for making away with Jardine. But there was another, and much stronger point in favor of this view. If we adopted the theory of substitution it was impossible, on looking at the two cases, to avoid being struck by the very curious converseness of their conditions. In Hampstead case we were dealing with a body which had suddenly vanished. No one could say whither. In the Madoc case

  we were dealing with a body which had suddenly appeared. No one could say whence. When I reflected on this very striking appearance of relation it was inevitable that I should ask myself the question, is it conceivable that these two bodies could have been one and the same? That the body which was cremated could have been the body which Jardine saw in the lane? Again, at the first glance the question looked absurd. The first body was

  seen by Jardine more than six weeks before the alleged death of Madoc, and the body which he saw at the Samways house was that of a man newly dead, with a rigor mortis just beginning. It was indeed barely conceivable that the Hampstead body was not actually dead, and that the man might have lingered on alive for six weeks. But this suggestion failed to fit the known facts in two respects. In the first place the body which Jardine saw

  in the lane was from his description pretty unmistakably a dead body, and in the second the sham illness of Madoc and the elaborate leisurely preparations suggest a complete control of the time factor, which would be absent if those preparations were adjusted to a dying man who might expire at any moment. Rejecting this suggestion then the further question arose. Is it possible that the body that was seen in the lane could, after an

  interval of six weeks, have been produced in Gaten Street, perfectly fresh and in a state of incipient rigor mortis? And when the question was thus fairly stated the answer was obviously in the affirmative. For is it not a matter of common knowledge that the bodies of sheep are habitually brought from New Zealand to London, traversing the whole width of the tropics in the voyage, and are delivered after an interval of more than six

  weeks, perfectly fresh and in a state of incipient rigor mortis? The physical possibility was beyond question. But if physically possible, was such preservation practicable? Well, how are the bodies of the sheep preserved? By exposing them continuously to intense cold. And how is that intense cold produced? Roughly speaking, by the volatilization of a liquefied gas, ammonia in the case of the sheep. But behold, the very man whom we are suspecting

  of being the agent in this crime is a man who has command of large quantities of a liquefied gas and who has hired a mineral water factory for no apparent reason and put the premises to no apparent use. At this point Jervis brought his fist down with a bang on the arm of his chair. Idiot! he exclaimed. Ass, fool, dulled, imbecile that I am! With those cylinders staring me in the face too! Of course, it was that interval of six weeks that brought me up short.

  And yet I'd actually heard Jardine describe the cloud of carbon dioxide snow that fell on his face. Don't you consider me an absolute donkey, Thorndyke? Certainly not, replied Thorndyke. You happened to miss a link, and of course the chain would not hold. It occurs to us all now and again. But do you see, Jardine, how the stone which the builders rejected has become the head at the corner? Don't you understand how, when I reached this point,

  there rose before me the picture of that cellar with the commonplace objects that it contained? The case, seven feet by two and a half, so convenient for preserving a body in a bulky packing. The two waterproof sheets, so well adapted to holding a mass of carbon dioxide snow in contact with the body. The mass of straw, one of the most perfect non-conductors, so admirably fitted for its use as a protective packing for the frozen body. And lastly, those

  ten empty cylinders, of which seven had been used for some purpose unknown to us. Let this case be a lesson to you, Jardine, not only in legal medicine, but in clinical medicine too, to take the facts as you find them, relevant or irrelevant, striking or commonplace. Note them carefully and trust them to find their own places in the inductive scheme. It has been a most instructive lesson to me, said I, especially your analysis of the reasoning

  by which you identified the criminal. Hmm, said Thorndyke. I didn't know I'd got as far as that. But if the body was preserved in a frozen state, there could not be much doubt as to who had preserved it. Possibly not, Thorndyke agreed. But I had not proved that it had been so preserved, but only that it was possible for it to have been, and that the supposition of its having been so preserved

  was in agreement with the known circumstances of the case. But I must impress on you that up to this point I was dealing in pure hypothesis. My hypothesis was perfectly sound, perfectly consistent in all its parts, and perfectly congruous with all the known facts, but it did not follow therefore that it was true. It was entirely unverified, for hitherto I had not one single item of positive evidence to support it. Nevertheless, the striking

  agreement between the hypothesis and the known facts encouraged me greatly, and as it was evident that I had now exhausted the material yielded by the cremation incident, I decided to take up the clue at the other end, to investigate the details of the Hampstead affair. To this end I called on Jardine, who very kindly went over the case with me afresh. And here it was that I first came with an hail of positive evidence. On his wall was pinned an oil sketch,

  and on that sketch was a distinct print of a right thumb. It was beautifully clear, for the paint having been dry on the surface but soft underneath, had taken the impression as sharply as a surface of warm wax. Now you will remember that I took possession of the letter which summoned Jardine to the mineral waterworks, and I may now say that I tested it most carefully for fingerprints, but paper is a poor material in which to develop invisible

  prints owing to its absorbent nature, and I had very indifferent success. Still I did not fail entirely. By the combined use of lycopodium powder and photography I obtained impressions of parts of two fingertips and a portion of the end of a right thumb. They were wretched prints, but yet available for corroboration, since one could see part of the pattern on each, and could make out that the rich pattern of the thumb was of the kind

  known as a twin loop. Bearing this fact in mind you will understand that I was quite interested to find that the print on the sketch, also that of a right thumb, had a twin loop pattern. I noted the fact as a coincidence, but of course attached no importance to it, until Jardine told me that the artist who painted the sketch habitually worked in gloves, and even then I merely made a mental note that I would ascertain who and what the artist

  was. I need not go over our examination of the scene of the crime. I need only say that I was deeply interested in following the track along which the body had been carried because I was on the lookout for something, and that something was a house or other building in which the body might have been temporarily deposited. My hypothesis seemed to demand such a building, for since the body was quite fresh and rigor mortis was only beginning

  when Jardine saw it at Gayton Street, it must have been frozen very shortly after death. Now it obviously could not have been carried from Hampstead to Gayton Street on a man's back. The alternative is either a vehicle waiting at an appointed place, and necessarily not far away, or a house or other building to which the body could be taken, but the vehicle would under the circumstances be almost impracticable. It would hardly be possible to make an appointment with

  any exactness as to time, and the presence of a waiting or loitering vehicle would, at such an hour – it was about midnight, you will remember – be almost certain to arouse suspicion and inquiry. On the other hand, a house to which the body could be conveyed would meet the conditions perfectly, when once the body was deposited there the danger of pursuit would be practically at an end, and it would be quite possible to have a supply of the liquid gas ready for use on its arrival.

  This is assuming long premeditation and very deliberate preparation, an assumption supported by Gill's peculiar tendency of the factory. I therefore kept a sharp lookout for a likely house or building, and as Jardine and I came out of Kenwood by the turnstile, behold, a house which answered their requirements to perfection. It was a solitary house, there was no other house near, and it lay right on the track along which the body had apparently been carried.

  Instantly I decided to investigate the recent history of that house and its tenants, but Jardine saved me the trouble. From him I learned that, at the time of the assumed murder, it had been inhabited by the artist whom he had mentioned, but that it had now been empty for a week or two. Here were news indeed. This artist, who habitually wore gloves and whose right thumb print was a twinned loop, had been living in this house at the time of the assumed murder,

  but had been living elsewhere at the time of the cremation. It was a striking group of facts, and I eagerly availed myself of the opportunity of looking over the house. At first the examination was quite barren and disappointing. The man's habits, as shown by the few discarded articles of use or other traces, were of no interest to me, as still less to Jardine, and of traces of his personality there were none. I searched all the rejected canvases and every

  available scrap of paper in the hope of collecting some fresh fingerprints, but without the smallest results. In fact, the examination looked like being an utter failure up to the very last, when we entered the stable loft. But here I came upon one or two really significant traces of occupation. The first of these was a smooth indented line on the floor as if some heavy, metallic object had been dragged along it, with other rougher lines apparently made by a heavy

  wooden case. Then there was a quantity of straw, not new straw such as you might expect to find in a stable loft, but straw that had evidently been used for packing. And finally there was a pair of canvas pliers which appeared to have been strained by a violent effort to rotate from right to left some hard metallic body, three-quarters of an inch wide, with sharp corners and apparently square in section. Some body, in fact, that in shape, in size, and apparently in material was identical

  with the square of the cock on one of the liquid gas bottles, which appeared to have been connected with a screw thread and had clearly required great force to turn it with this inadequate appliance. The evidence collected from the loft suggesting that a large case had been moved in and out and that the gas cylinder had been opened, you will say, was of the flimsiest. And so it was, but the effects of evidence are cumulative. To estimate the value of these observations made in

  the loft you must add them to the facts just obtained concerning the artist himself, the position of his house, and the date on which he vacated it. And these coincidences and agreements must be added to, or more strictly, multiplied into, the body of coincidences and agreements which I have already described. But the evidence collected at the house was the least important part of the day's catch. On returning to Jardine's rooms I vented to borrow the sketch and took it home with

  me, and when I compared the thumbprint on it with the photograph of the thumbprint on the letter, employing the excellent method of comparison that is in use at Scotland Yard, there could be no possible doubt, disregarding for the moment the chances of forgery, that they were the prints of one and the same thumb. Here then at last I had stepped out of the region of mere hypothesis. Here was an item of positive evidence, and one, moreover, of high probative value. It proved

  beyond any reasonable doubt the existence of some connection between the house on the Heath and the factory in Norton Street, and it established a strong presumption that the artist and the man at the factory were the same person, the weak point in this being the absence of proof that the thumbprint on the painting was made by the artist. And here, Jardine, I would draw your attention to the interesting way in which, when a long train of hypothetical reasoning has at length elicited an

  actual, demonstrable truth, that truth instantly reacts on the hypothesis, lifting it as a whole onto an entirely different plane of probability. I may compare the effect to that of a crystal, dropped into a super saturated solution of salt, such as sodium sulfate. So long as it is at rest, the solution remains a clear liquid, but drop into it the minute crystal of its own salt, and in a few moments the entire liquid has solidified into a mass of crystals.

  So it was in the present case. In the instant when it became an established fact that the house at Hampstead and the factory in Norton Street had been occupied by the same person, the entire sequence of events which had hypothetically constructed sprang from the plane of mere conceivability to that of actual probability. It was now more likely than unlikely that the unknown cleric had been murdered, that his body had been conveyed to the artist's house,

  that it had there been frozen, transferred to the factory, preserved there for some weeks, passed over the wall to the same way's house, and finally cremated under the name of Septimus Maddock. All that now remained to be done was the verification and identification of the body. As to the first, I examined the will at Somerset House and found it, as the American detectives suspected, a mere notification to the New York authorities that Septimus Maddock was dead.

  I wrote to the detective agency and in due course came O'Donnell with the answers to my questions, from which we learned for certain that the artist was Septimus Maddock, and that the assumed peculiarity of the hands consisted of brachydectomy. And then came the good father Humpherding to enable us to give a name to the body and to furnish us with an unlooked-for means of identification. Henceforward all was plain sailing with only one possible source of failure,

  the possibility that the bullet might have been subsequently extracted. But this was highly improbable. We knew that the wound had healed completely, and it was pretty certain that the bullet was lying quietly and kiss-ed or embedded in the bone. Still, I will confess that I have never in my life been more relieved than I was when my eyes lighted on that dent in the ilium with a stain of lead oxide round it.

  So I can imagine, said Jarvis. It was a triumph, and you deserved it. I've never known even my revered senior to work out the theory of a crime more neatly or with less positive matter to work from. And I suppose you have a pretty clear and connected idea of the actual sequence of events. I think so, replied Zolndyke, although much of it is necessarily conjectural. I take it that Maddock, while hiding in Bruges on the name of Burton, made the acquaintance of Reinhardt and saw in the rich,

  friendless, eccentric bachelor a suitable subject for a crime which had probably already considered in general terms. I should think that they were probably somewhat alike in appearance, and that the idea of personation was first suggested by the circumstance that they both wore gloves habitually. Maddock will have learned of Reinhardt's intended visit to England and immediately begun his preparations. His scheme, and the most ingenious one it was, I must confess,

  was clearly to cause Reinhardt to disappear in one locality and produce his body after a considerable interval in another at some distance, and the house on the heath was apparently taken with this object and to be near Reinhardt's haunts. I take it that on the night of the murder Reinhardt had an appointment to visit him at that house, but that, having learned at Miss Vines of the sudden illness of Brother Bartholomew, he suddenly altered his plans and refused to go. Then Maddock,

  who had probably waited for him on the road, seeing his scheme on the point of being wrecked, walked with him as he was going home and took the risk of killing him in Millfield Lane. The risk was not great considering the time of night and the solitary character at the place, and the distance from the house was not too great for a strong man, as Maddock seems to have been, to carry the body. Death was almost certainly produced by a stab in the back, and Maddock was

  probably just about to carry the body away when Destiny, in the form of Jardine, appeared. Then Maddock must have lurked, probably behind the fence which had the large hole in it, until Jardine went away, when he must instantly have picked up the body, carried it down the lane, pushed it over the fence, detaching the reliquary as he did so, carried it away to the house, stripped it and proceeded at once to freeze it, having provided a bottle of the gas in readiness.

  The next morning he will have gone to Marchman's office, probably dressed in Reinhard's clothes, from thence to Charing Cross, and with Reinhard's luggage gone straight on to Paris, leaving the body packed in an abundance of the carbonic acid snow. At Paris he will have made his arrangements with the zeer, and then disappeared, returning in disguise to England to carry out the rest of the plan. And a wonderfully clever plan it was, and most ingeniously and

  resolutely executed. If it had succeeded, and it was within a hair's breadth of succeeding, the hunted criminal, Maddock, would have been beyond the reach of justice forever, and the fictitious Reinhard might have lived out his life in luxury and absolute security. As Thorndyke concluded, he rose from his chair, and stepping over to a cabinet, drew from some inner recess, a cigar of melanotic complexion and repulsive aspect. Jarvis looked at it and chuckled.

  Thorndyke's one dissipation, said he, at the close of every successful case he proceeds as a sort of Thanksgiving ceremony, to funk us out of these chambers with the smoke of a trigonopole charute. But listen, don't light it yet, Thorndyke, here comes some harmless and inoffensive stranger. Thorndyke paused with the cigar in his fingers. A quick step ascended the stairs, and then came a sharp, official rat-tat from the little brass knocker. Thorndyke laid

  the cigar on the mantelpiece and strode over to the door. I saw him take in a telegram, open it, glance at the paper, and dismiss the messenger. Then, closing the door, he came back to the fireside with a flimsy in his hand. There, Jardine, said he, laying it on my knee. There is your order of release. I picked up the paper and read aloud its curt message. Maddock arrested Folkston, now in custody both street. Miller. That means to say, said Thorndyke, that the halter is already

  round his neck. I think I may light my trigonopoly now. And he did so. There is little more to tell. This has been a history of coincidences, and one more coincidence brings it to a close. The very day in which my formal engagement to Sylvia was made public, chanced to be the day on which the execution of Septimus Maddock was described in the papers. On that day, too, the portrait of Poor Letitia, painted by that skillful and murderous hand, was placed in the handsome ebony frame that

  I'd caused to be made for it. As I write these closing words, it hangs before me, flanged on either side but a little jar of violets that are renewed religiously from day to day by my wife or me. The pale, inscrutable eyes look out on me, her friend whom she loved so faithfully, and who so little merited her love. But as I look into them, the picture fades and shows me the same face glorified, waxen, pallid, drowsy-eyed, peaceful and sweet. The dead face of the woman who gave her

  heart's blood as the prize of my ransom, and who has fated then to pass, out of my life indeed, but out of my heart's shrine and my most loving remembrance. Never. The end. End of A Silent Witness by R. Austin Freeman. Recorded by Anna Simon. Nijmegen, The Netherlands, 2014.