A Project Gutenberg of Australia eBook

Title: Dr Thorndyke Short Story Omnibus
Author: R Austin Freeman
eBook No.:  0500391.txt
Edition:    1
Language:   English
Character set encoding:     Latin-1(ISO-8859-1)--8 bit
Date first posted:          April 2005
Date most recently updated: May 2007

This eBook was produced by: Jon Jermey


Production notes:

[Compiler's note: These short stories consist of those compiled by
Freeman into several earlier volumes--'The Singing Bone' (1912), 'John
Thorndyke's Cases' (1909), and 'The Magic Casket' (1927) along with
others from sources I am not familiar with.

This particular volume has apparently been issued under several names:
'The Famous Cases of Dr Thorndyke' and 'The Dr Thorndyke Omnibus' in
addition to the current title taken from the edition in my possession.

I have used eBook sources for the material from 'The Singing Bone' and
'John Thorndyke's Cases', plus some of the other stories. Others have
been scanned from the omnibus volume to complete the set.

Illustrations to these stories, where available, can be found in the HTML
version at http://gutenberg.net.au/ebooks05/0500391h.html ]

* * *

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Title: Dr Thorndyke Short Story Omnibus
Author: R Austin Freeman



Dr Thorndyke Short Story Omnibus
First Published as:
The Famous Cases of Dr. Thorndyke (1928)
(published in the USA as The Dr Thorndyke Omnibus)




CONTENTS:


THE SINGING BONE 1912
(a.k.a. The Adventures of Dr. Thorndyke)

ORIGINAL PREFACE TO "THE SINGING BONE"
THE CASE OF OSCAR BRODSKI
A CASE OF PREMEDITATION
THE ECHO OF A MUTINY
A WASTREL'S ROMANCE
THE OLD LAG


THE GREAT PORTRAIT MYSTERY 1918
(This book included 2 Thorndyke Stories)

THE MISSING MORTGAGEE
PERCIVAL BLAND'S PROXY


JOHN THORNDYKE'S CASES 1909
(a.k.a. Dr. Thorndyke's Cases)

ORIGINAL PREFACE TO 'JOHN THORNDYKE'S CASES'
THE MAN WITH THE NAILED SHOES
THE STRANGER'S LATCHKEY
THE ANTHROPOLOGIST AT LARGE
THE BLUE SEQUIN
THE MOABITE CIPHER
THE MANDARIN'S PEARL
THE ALUMINIUM DAGGER
A MESSAGE FROM THE DEEP SEA


THE MAGIC CASKET 1927

THE MAGIC CASKET
THE CONTENTS OF A MARE'S NEST
THE STALKING HORSE
THE NATURALIST AT LAW
MR. PONTING'S ALIBI
PANDORA'S BOX
THE TRAIL OF BEHEMOTH
THE PATHOLOGIST TO THE RESCUE
GLEANINGS FROM THE WRECKAGE


THE PUZZLE LOCK 1925

THE PUZZLE LOCK
THE GREEN CHECK JACKET
THE SEAL OF NEBUCHADNEZZAR
PHYLLIS ANNESLEY'S PERIL
A SOWER OF PESTILENCE
REX V. BURNABY
A MYSTERY OF THE SAND-HILLS
THE APPARITION OF BURLING COURT
THE MYSTERIOUS VISITOR


DR. THORNDYKE'S CASE BOOK 1923
(a.k.a. The Blue Scarab)

THE CASE OF THE WHITE FOOTPRINTS
THE BLUE SCARAB
THE NEW JERSEY SPHINX
THE TOUCHSTONE
A FISHER OF MEN
THE STOLEN INGOTS
THE FUNERAL PYRE

* * * * *



ORIGINAL PREFACE TO "THE SINGING BONE"


The peculiar construction of the first four stories in the present
collection will probably strike both reader and critic and seem to call
for some explanation, which I accordingly proceed to supply.

In the conventional "detective story" the interest is made to focus on
the question, "Who did it?" The identity of the criminal is a secret that
is jealously guarded up to the very end of the book, and its disclosure
forms the final climax.

This I have always regarded as somewhat of a mistake. In real life, the
identity of the criminal is a question of supreme importance for
practical reasons; but in fiction, where no such reasons exist, I
conceive the interest of the reader to be engaged chiefly by the
demonstration of unexpected consequences of simple actions, of
unsuspected causal connections, and by the evolution of an ordered train
of evidence from a mass of facts apparently incoherent and unrelated. The
reader's curiosity is concerned not so much with the question "Who did
it?" as with the question "How was the discovery achieved?" That is to
say, the ingenious reader is interested more in the intermediate action
than in the ultimate result.

The offer by a popular author of a prize to the reader who should
identify the criminal in a certain "detective story," exhibiting as it
did the opposite view, suggested to me an interesting question.

Would it be possible to write a detective story in which from the outset
the reader was taken entirely into the author's confidence, was made an
actual witness of the crime and furnished with every fact that could
possibly be used in its detection? Would there be any story left when the
reader had all the facts? I believed that there would; and as an
experiment to test the justice of my belief, I wrote "The Case of Oscar
Brodski." Here the usual conditions are reversed; the reader knows
everything, the detective knows nothing, and the interest focuses on the
unexpected significance of trivial circumstances.

By excellent judges on both sides of the Atlantic--including the editor
of 'Pearson's Magazine'--this story was so far approved of that I was
invited to produce others of the same type.

Three more were written and are here included together with one of the
more orthodox character-, so that the reader can judge of the respective
merits of the two methods of narration.

Nautical readers will observe that I have taken the liberty (for obvious
reasons connected with the law of libel) of planting a screw-pile
lighthouse on the Girdler Sand in place of the light-vessel. I mention
the matter to forestall criticism and save readers the trouble of writing
to point out the error.

R. A. F, Gravesend

* * * * *



THE CASE OF OSCAR BRODSKI


PART I. THE MECHANISM OF CRIME


A surprising amount of nonsense has been talked about conscience. On the
one hand remorse (or the "again-bite," as certain scholars of
ultra-Teutonic leanings would prefer to call it); on the other hand "an
easy conscience": these have been accepted as the determining factors of
happiness or the reverse.

Of course there is an element of truth in the "easy conscience" view, but
it begs the whole question. A particularly hardy conscience may be quite
easy under the most unfavourable conditions--conditions in which the
more feeble conscience might be severely afflicted with the "again-bite."
d, then, it seems to be the fact that some fortunate persons have no
conscience at all; a negative gift that raises them above the mental
vicissitudes of the common herd of humanity.

Now, Silas Hickler was a case in point. No one, looking into his
cheerful, round face, beaming with benevolence and wreathed in perpetual
smiles, would have imagined him to be a criminal. Least of all, his
worthy, high-church housekeeper, who was a witness to his unvarying
amiability, who constantly heard him carolling light-heartedly about the
house and noted his appreciative zest at meal-times.

Yet it is a fact that Silas earned his modest, though comfortable, income
by the gentle art of burglary. A precarious trade and risky withal, yet
not so very hazardous if pursued with judgment and moderation. And Silas
was eminently a man of judgment. He worked invariably alone. He kept his
own counsel. No confederate had he to turn King's Evidence at a pinch; no
one he knew would bounce off in a fit of temper to Scotland Yard. Nor was
he greedy and thriftless, as most criminals are. His "scoops" were few
and far between, carefully planned, secretly executed, and the proceeds
judiciously invested in "weekly property."

In early life Silas had been connected with the diamond industry, and he
still did a little rather irregular dealing. In the trade he was
suspected of transactions with I.D.B.'s, and one or two indiscreet
dealers had gone so far as to whisper the ominous word "fence." But Silas
smiled a benevolent smile and went his way. He knew what he knew, and his
clients in Amsterdam were not inquisitive.

Such was Silas Hickler. As he strolled round his garden in the dusk of an
October evening, he seemed the very type of modest, middle-class
prosperity. He was dressed in the travelling suit that he wore on his
little continental trips; his bag was packed and stood in readiness on
the sitting-room sofa. A parcel of diamonds (purchased honestly, though
without impertinent questions, at Southampton) was in the inside pocket
of his waistcoat, and another more valuable parcel was stowed in a cavity
in the heel of his right boot. In an hour and a half it would be time for
him to set out to catch the boat train at the junction; meanwhile there
was nothing to do but to stroll round the fading garden and consider how
he should invest the proceeds of the impending deal. His housekeeper had
gone over to Welham for the week's shopping, and would probably not be
back until eleven o'clock. He was alone in the premises and just a trifle
dull.

He was about to turn into the house when his ear caught the sound of
footsteps on the unmade road that passed the end of the garden. He paused
and listened. There was no other dwelling near, and the road led nowhere,
fading away into the waste land beyond the house. Could this be a
visitor? It seemed unlikely, for visitors were few at Silas Hickler's
house. Meanwhile the footsteps continued to approach, ringing out with
increasing loudness on the hard, stony path.

Silas strolled down to the gate, and, leaning on it, looked out with some
curiosity. Presently a glow of light showed him the face of a man,
apparently lighting his pipe; then a dim figure detached itself from the
enveloping gloom, advanced towards him and halted opposite the garden.
The stranger removed a cigarette from his mouth and, blowing out a cloud
of smoke, asked -

"Can you tell me if this road will take me to Badsham Junction?"

"No," replied Hickler, "but there is a footpath farther on that leads to
the station."

"Footpath!" growled the stranger. "I've had enough of footpaths. I came
down from town to Catley intending to walk across to the junction. I
started along the road, and then some fool directed me to a short cut,
with the result that I have been blundering about in the dark for the
last half-hour. My sight isn't very good, you know," he added.

"What train do you want to catch?" asked Hickler.

"Seven fifty-eight," was the reply.

"I am going to catch that train myself," said Silas, "but I shan't be
starting for another hour. The station is only three-quarters of a mile
from here. If you like to come in and take a rest, we can walk down
together and then you'll be sure of not missing your way."

"It's very good of you," said the stranger, peering, with spectacled
eyes, at the dark house, "but--I think -?"

"Might as well wait here as at the station," said Silas in his genial
way, holding the gate open, and the stranger, after a momentary
hesitation, entered and, flinging away his cigarette, followed him to the
door of the cottage.

The sitting-room was in darkness, save for the dull glow of the expiring
fire, but, entering before his guest, Silas applied a match to the lamp
that hung from the ceiling. As the flame leaped up, flooding the little
interior with light, the two men regarded one another with mutual
curiosity.

"Brodski, by Jingo!" was Hickler's silent commentary, as he looked at his
guest. "Doesn't know me, evidently--wouldn't, of course, after all these
years and with his bad eyesight. Take a seat, sir," he added aloud. "Will
you join me in a little refreshment to while away the time?"

Brodski murmured an indistinct acceptance, and, as his host turned to
open a cupboard, he deposited his hat (a hard, grey felt) on a chair in a
corner, placed his bag on the edge of the table, resting his umbrella
against it, and sat down in a small arm-chair.

"Have a biscuit?" said Hickler, as he placed a whisky-bottle on the table
together with a couple of his best star-pattern tumblers and a siphon.

"Thanks, I think I will," said Brodski. "The railway journey and all this
confounded tramping about, you know -?"

"Yes," agreed Silas. "Doesn't do to start with an empty stomach. Hope you
don't mind oat-cakes; I see they're the only biscuits I have."

Brodski hastened to assure him that oat-cakes were his special and
peculiar fancy, and in confirmation, having mixed himself a stiff jorum,
he fell to upon the biscuits with evident gusto.

Brodski was a deliberate feeder, and at present appeared to be somewhat
sharp set. His measured munching being unfavourable to conversation, most
of the talking fell to Silas; and, for once, that genial transgressor
found the task embarrassing. The natural thing would have been to discuss
his guest's destination and perhaps the object of his journey; but this
was precisely what Hickler avoided doing. For he knew both, and instinct
told him to keep his knowledge to himself.

Brodski was a diamond merchant of considerable reputation, and in a large
way of business. He bought stones principally in the rough, and of these
he was a most excellent judge. His fancy was for stones of somewhat
unusual size and value, and it was well known to be his custom, when he
had accumulated a sufficient stock, to carry them himself to Amsterdam
and supervise the cutting of the rough stones. Of this Hickler was aware,
and he had no doubt that Brodski was now starting on one of his
periodical excursions; that somewhere in the recesses of his rather
shabby clothing was concealed a paper packet possibly worth several
thousand pounds.

Brodski sat by the table munching monotonously and talking little.
Hickler sat opposite him, talking nervously and rather wildly at times,
and watching his guest with a growing fascination. Precious stones, and
especially diamonds, were Hickler's specialty. "Hard stuff"--silver
plate--he avoided entirely; gold, excepting in the form of specie, he
seldom touched; but stones, of which he could carry off a whole
consignment in the heel of his boot and dispose of with absolute safety,
formed the staple of his industry. And here was a man sitting opposite
him with a parcel in his pocket containing the equivalent of a dozen of
his most successful "scoops"; stones worth perhaps -? Here he pulled
himself up short and began to talk rapidly, though without much
coherence. For, even as he talked, other Words, formed subconsciously,
seemed to insinuate themselves into the interstices of the sentences, and
to carry on a parallel train of thought.

"Gets chilly in the evenings now, doesn't it?" said Hickler.

"It does indeed," Brodski agreed, and then resumed his slow munching,
breathing audibly through his nose.

"Five thousand at least," the subconscious train of thought resumed;
"probably six or seven, perhaps ten." Silas fidgeted in his chair and
endeavoured to concentrate his ideas on some topic of interest. He was
growing disagreeably conscious of a new and unfamiliar state of mind.

"Do you take any interest in gardening?", he asked. Next to diamonds and
weekly "property," his besetting weakness was fuchsias.

Brodski chuckled sourly. "Hatton Garden is the nearest approach -?" He
broke off suddenly, and then added, "I am a Londoner, you know."

The abrupt break in the sentence was not unnoticed by Silas, nor had he
any difficulty in interpreting it. A man who carries untold wealth upon
his person must needs be wary in his speech.

"Yes," he answered absently, "it's hardly a Londoner's hobby." And then,
half consciously, he began a rapid calculation. Put it at five thousand
pounds. What would that represent in weekly property? His last set of
houses had cost two hundred and fifty pounds apiece, and he had let them
at ten shillings and sixpence a week. At that rate, five thousand pounds
represented twenty houses at ten and sixpence a week--say ten pounds a
week--one pound eight shillings a day--five hundred and twenty pounds a
year--for life. It was a competency. Added to what he already had, it
was wealth. With that income he could fling the tools of his trade into
the river and live out the remainder of his life in comfort and security.

He glanced furtively at his guest across the table, and then looked away
quickly as he felt stirring within him an impulse the nature of which he
could not mistake. This must be put an end to. Crimes against the person
he had always looked upon as sheer insanity. There was, it is true, that
little affair of the Weybridge policeman, but that was unforeseen and
unavoidable, and it was the constable's doing after all. And there was
the old housekeeper at Epsom, too, but, of course, if the old idiot would
shriek in that insane fashion--well, it was an accident, very
regrettable, to be sure, and no one could be more sorry for the mishap
than himself. "But deliberate homicide!--robbery from the person! It was
the act of a stark lunatic.

Of course, if he had happened to be that sort of person, here was the
opportunity of a lifetime. The immense booty, the empty house, the
solitary neighbourhood, away from the main road and from other
habitations; the time, the darkness--but, of course, there was the body
to be thought of; that was always the difficulty. What to do with the
body? Here he caught the shriek of the up express, rounding the curve in
the line that ran past the waste land at the back of the house. The sound
started a new train of thought, and, as he followed it out, his eyes
fixed themselves on the unconscious and taciturn Brodski, as he sat
thoughtfully sipping his whisky. At length, averting his gaze with an
effort, he rose suddenly from his chair and turned to look at the clock
on the mantelpiece, spreading out his hands before the dying fire. A
tumult of strange sensations warned him to leave the house. He shivered
slightly, though he was rather hot than chilly, and, turning his head,
looked at the door.

"Seems to be a confounded draught," he said, with another slight shiver;
"did I shut the door properly, I wonder?" He strode across the room and,
opening the door wide, looked out into the dark garden. A desire, sudden
and urgent, had come over him to get out into the open air, to be on the
road and have done with this madness that was knocking at the door of his
brain.

"I wonder if it is worth while to start yet," he said, with a yearning
glance at the murky, starless sky.

Brodski roused himself and looked round. "Is your clock right?" he asked.

Silas reluctantly admitted that it was.

"How long will it take us to walk to the station?" inquired Brodski.

"Oh, about twenty-five minutes to half-an-hour," replied Silas,
unconsciously exaggerating the distance.

"Well," said Brodski, "we've got more than an hour yet, and it's more
comfortable here than hanging about the station. I don't see the use of
starting before we need."

"No; of course not," Silas agreed. A wave of strange emotion,
half-regretful, half-triumphant, surged through his brain. For some
moments he remained standing on the threshold, looking out dreamily into
the night. Then he softly closed the door; and, seemingly without the
exercise of his volition, the key turned noiselessly in the lock.

He returned to his chair and tried to open a conversation with the
taciturn Brodski, but the words came faltering and disjointed. He felt
his face growing hot, his brain full and intense, and there was a faint,
high-pitched singing in his ears. He was conscious of watching his guest
with a new and fearful interest, and, by sheer force of will, turned away
his eyes; only to find them a moment later involuntarily returning to fix
the unconscious man with yet more horrible intensity. And ever through
his mind walked, like a dreadful procession, the thoughts of what that
other man--the man of blood and violence--would do in these
circumstances. Detail by detail the hideous synthesis fitted together the
parts of the imagined crime, and arranged them in due sequence until they
formed a succession of events, rational, connected and coherent.

He rose uneasily from his chair, with his eyes still riveted upon his
guest. He could not sit any longer opposite that man with his hidden
store of precious gems. The impulse that he recognized with fear and
wonder was growing more ungovernable from moment to moment. If he stayed
it would presently overpower him, and then? He shrank with horror from
the dreadful thought, but his fingers itched to handle the diamonds. For
Silas was, after all, a criminal by nature and habit. He was a beast of
prey. His livelihood had never been earned; it had been taken by stealth
or, if necessary, by force. His instincts were predacious, and the
proximity of unguarded valuables suggested to him, as a logical
consequence, their abstraction or seizure. His unwillingness to let these
diamonds go away beyond his reach was fast becoming overwhelming.

But he would make one more effort to escape. He would keep out of
Brodski's actual presence until the moment for starting came.

"If you'll excuse me," he said, "I will go and put on a thicker pair of
boots. After all this dry weather we may get a change, and damp feet are
very uncomfortable when you are travelling."

"Yes; dangerous too," agreed Brodski.

Silas walked through into the adjoining kitchen, where, by the light of
the little lamp that was burning there, he had seen his stout, country
boots placed, cleaned and in readiness, and sat down upon a chair to make
the change. He did not, of course, intend to wear the country boots, for
the diamonds were concealed in those he had on. But he would make the
change and then alter his mind; it would all help to pass the time. He
took a deep breath. It was a relief, at any rate, to be out of that room.
Perhaps if he stayed away, the temptation would pass. Brodski would go on
his way--he wished that he was going alone--and the danger would be
over--at least--and the opportunity would have gone--the diamonds -?

He looked up as he slowly unlaced his boot. From where he sat he could
see Brodski sitting by the table with his back towards the kitchen door.
He had finished eating, now, and was composedly rolling a cigarette.
Silas breathed heavily, and, slipping off his boot, sat for a while
motionless, gazing steadily at the other man's back. Then he unlaced the
other boot, still staring abstractedly at his unconscious guest, drew it
off, and laid it very quietly on the floor.

Brodski calmly finished rolling his cigarette, licked the paper, put away
his pouch, and, having dusted the crumbs of tobacco from his knees, began
to search his pockets for a match. Suddenly, yielding to an
uncontrollable impulse, Silas stood up and began stealthily to creep
along the passage to the sitting-room. Not a sound came from his
stockinged feet. Silently as a cat he stole forward, breathing softly
with parted lips, until he stood at the threshold of the room. His face
flushed duskily, his eyes, wide and staring, glittered in the lamplight,
and the racing blood hummed in his ears.

Brodski struck a match--Silas noted that it was a wooden vesta--lighted
his cigarette, blew out the match and flung it into the fender. Then he
replaced the box in his pocket and commenced to smoke.

Slowly and without a sound Silas crept forward into the room, step by
step, with catlike stealthiness, until he stood close behind Brodski's
chair--so close that he had to turn his head that his breath might not
stir the hair upon the other man's head. So, for half-a-minute, he stood
motionless, like a symbolical statue of Murder, glaring down with
horrible, glittering eyes upon the unconscious diamond merchant, while
his quick breath passed without a sound through his open mouth and his
fingers writhed slowly like the tentacles of a giant hydra. And then, as
noiselessly as ever, he backed away to the door, turned quickly and
walked back into the kitchen.

He drew a deep breath. It had been a near thing. Brodski's life had hung
upon a thread For it had been so easy. Indeed, if he had happened, as he
stood behind the man's chair, to have a weapon--a hammer, for instance,
or even a stone?

He glanced round the kitchen and his eyes lighted on a bar that had been
left by the workmen who had put up the new greenhouse. It was an odd
piece cut off from a square, wrought-iron stanchion, and was about a foot
long and perhaps three-quarters of an inch thick. Now, if he had had that
in his hand a minute ago -

He picked the bar up, balanced it in his hand and swung it round his
head. A formidable weapon this: silent, too. And it fitted the plan that
had passed through his brain. Bah! He had better put the thing down.

But he did not. He stepped over to the door and looked again at Brodski,
sitting, as before, meditatively smoking, with his back towards the
kitchen.

Suddenly a change came over Silas. His face flushed, the veins of his
neck stood out and a sullen scowl settled on his face. He drew out his
watch, glanced at it earnestly and replaced it. Then he strode swiftly
but silently along the passage into the sitting-room.

A pace away from his victim's chair he halted and took deliberate aim.
The bar swung aloft, but not without some faint rustle of movement, for
Brodski looked round quickly even as the iron whistled through the air.
The movement disturbed the murderer's aim, and the bar glanced off his
victim's head, making only a trifling wound. Brodski sprang up with a
tremulous, bleating cry, and clutched his assailant's arms with the
tenacity of mortal terror.

Then began a terrible struggle, as the two men, locked in a deadly
embrace, swayed to and fro and trampled backwards and forwards. The chair
was overturned, an empty glass swept from the table and, with Brodski's
spectacles, crushed beneath stamping feet. And thrice that dreadful,
pitiful, bleating cry rang out into the night, filling Silas, despite his
murderous frenzy, with terror lest some chance wayfarer should hear it.
Gathering his great strength for a final effort, he forced his victim
backwards onto the table and, snatching up a corner of the tablecloth,
thrust it into his face and crammed it into his mouth as it opened to
utter another shriek. And thus they remained for a full two minutes,
almost motionless, like some dreadful group of tragic allegory. Then,
when the last faint twitchings had died away, Silas relaxed his grasp and
let the limp body slip softly onto the floor.

It was over. For good or for evil, the thing was done. Silas stood up,
breathing heavily, and, as he wiped the sweat from his face, he looked at
the clock. The hands stood at one minute to seven. The whole thing had
taken a little over three minutes. He had nearly an hour in which to
finish his task The goods train that entered into his scheme came by at
twenty minutes past, and it was only three hundred yards to the line.
Still, he must not waste time. He was now quite composed, and only
disturbed by the thought that Brodski's cries might have been heard. If
no one had heard them it was all plain sailing.

He stooped, and, gently disengaging the table-cloth from the dead man's
teeth, began a careful search of his pockets. He was not long finding
what he sought, and, as he pinched the paper packet and felt the little
hard bodies grating on one another inside, his faint regrets for what had
happened were swallowed up in self-congratulations.

He now set about his task with business-like briskness and an attentive
eye on the clock. A few large drops of blood had fallen on the
table-cloth, and there was a small bloody smear on the carpet by the dead
man's head. Silas fetched from the kitchen some water, a nail-brush and a
dry cloth, and, having washed out the stains from the table-cover--not
forgetting the deal table-top underneath--and cleaned away the smear
from the carpet and rubbed the damp places dry, he slipped a sheet of
paper under the head of the corpse to prevent further contamination. Then
he set the tablecloth straight, stood the chair upright, laid the broken
spectacles on the table and picked up the cigarette, which had been
trodden flat in the struggle, and flung it under the grate. Then there
was the broken glass, which he swept up into a dust-pan. Part of it was
the remains of the shattered tumbler, and the rest the fragments of the
broken spectacles. He turned it out onto a sheet of paper and looked it
over carefully, picking out the larger recognizable pieces of the
spectacle-glasses and putting them aside on a separate slip of paper,
together with a sprinkling of the minute fragments. The remainder he shot
back into the dust-pan and, having hurriedly put on his boots, carried it
out to the rubbish-heap at the back of the house.

It was now time to start. Hastily cutting off a length of string from his
string-box--for Silas was an orderly man and despised the oddments of
string with which many people make shift--he tied it to the dead man's
bag and umbrella and slung them from his shoulder. Then he folded up the
paper of broken glass, and, slipping it and the spectacles into his
pocket, picked up the body and threw it over his shoulder. Brodski was a
small, spare man, weighing not more than nine stone; not a very
formidable burden for a big, athletic man like Silas.

The night was intensely dark, and, when Silas looked out of the back gate
over the waste land that stretched from his house to the railway, he
could hardly see twenty yards ahead. After listening cautiously and
hearing no sound, he went out, shut the gate softly behind him and set
forth at a good pace, though carefully, over the broken ground. His
progress was not as silent as he could have wished for, though.

The scanty turf that covered the gravelly land was thick enough to deaden
his footfalls, the swinging bag and umbrella made an irritating noise;
indeed, his movements were more hampered by them than by the weightier
burden.

The distance to the line was about three hundred yards. Ordinarily he
would have walked it in from three to four minutes, but now, going
cautiously with his burden and stopping now and again to listen, it took
him just six minutes to reach the three-bar fence that separated the
waste land from the railway. Arrived here he halted for a moment and once
more listened attentively, peering into the darkness on all sides. Not a
living creature was to be seen or heard in this desolate spot, but far
away, the shriek of an engine's whistle warned him to hasten.

Lifting the corpse easily over the fence, he carried it a few yards
farther to a point where the line curved sharply.

Here he laid it face downwards, with the neck over the near rail. Drawing
out his pocket-knife, he cut through the knot that fastened the umbrella
to the string and also secured the bag; and when he had flung the bag and
umbrella on the track beside the body, he carefully pocketed the string,
excepting the little loop that had fallen to the ground when the knot was
cut.

The quick snort and clanking rumble of an approaching goods train began
now to be clearly audible. Rapidly, Silas; drew from his pockets the
battered spectacles and the packet of broken glass. The former he threw
down by the dead man's head, and then, emptying the packet into his hand,
sprinkled the fragments of glass around the spectacles.

He was none too soon. Already the quick, laboured puffing of the engine
sounded close at hand. His impulse was to stay and watch; to witness the
final catastrophe that should convert the murder into an accident or
suicide. But it was hardly safe: it would be better that he should not be
near lest he should not be able to get away without being seen. Hastily
he climbed back over the fence and strode away across the rough fields,
while the train came snorting and clattering towards the curve.

He had nearly reached his back gate when a sound from the line brought
him to a sudden halt; it was a prolonged whistle accompanied by the groan
of brakes and the loud clank of colliding trucks. The snorting of the
engine had ceased and was replaced by the penetrating hiss of escaping
steam.

The train had stopped!

For one brief moment Silas stood with bated breath and mouth agape like
one petrified; then he strode forward quickly to the gate, and, letting
himself in, silently slid the bolt. He was undeniably alarmed. What could
have happened on the line? It was practically certain that the body had
been seen; but what was happening now? and would they come to the house?
He entered the kitchen, and having paused again to listen--for somebody
might come and knock at the door at any moment--he walked through the
sitting-room and looked round. All seemed in order there. There was the
bar, though, lying where he had dropped it in the scuffle.
He picked it up and held it under the lamp. There was no blood on it;
only one or two hairs. Somewhat absently he wiped it with the
table-cover, and then, running out through the kitchen into the back
garden, dropped it over the wall into a bed of nettles. Not that there
was anything incriminating in the bar, but, since he had used it as a
weapon, it had somehow acquired a sinister aspect to his eye.

He now felt that it would be well to start for the station at once. It
was not time yet, for it was barely twenty-five minutes past seven; but
he did not wish to be found in the house if any one should come. His soft
hat was on the sofa with his bag, to which his umbrella was strapped. He
put on the hat, caught up the bag and stepped over to the door; then he
came back to turn down the lamp. And it was at this moment, when he stood
with his hand raised to the burner, that his eyes, travelling by chance
into the dim corner of the room, lighted on Brodski's grey felt hat,
reposing on the chair where the dead man had placed it when he entered
the house.

Silas stood for a few moments as if petrified, with the chilly sweat of
mortal fear standing in beads upon his forehead. Another instant and he
would have turned the lamp down and gone on his way; and then -? He
strode over to the chair, snatched up the hat and looked inside it. Yes,
there was the name, "Oscar Brodski," written plainly on the lining. If he
had gone away, leaving it to be discovered, he would have been lost;
indeed, even now, if a search-party should come to the house, it was
enough to send him to the gallows.

His limbs shook with horror at the thought, but in spite of his panic he
did not lose his self-possession. Darting through into the kitchen, he
grabbed up a handful of the dry brush-wood that was kept for lighting
fires and carried it to the sitting-room grate where he thrust it on the
extinct, but still hot, embers, and crumpling up the paper that he had
placed under Brodski's head--on which paper he now noticed, for the
first time, a minute bloody smear--he poked it in under the wood, and
striking a wax match, set light to it. As the wood flared up, he hacked
at the hat with his pocket knife and threw the ragged strips into the
blaze.

And all the while his heart was thumping and his hands a-tremble with the
dread of discovery. The fragments of felt were far from inflammable,
tending rather to fuse into cindery masses that smoked and smouldered
than to burn away into actual ash. Moreover, to his dismay, they emitted
a powerful resinous stench mixed with the odour of burning hair, so that
he had to open the kitchen window (since he dared not unlock the front
door) to disperse the reek. And still, as he fed the fire with small cut
fragments, he strained his ears to catch, above the crackling of the
wood, the sound of the dreaded footsteps, the knock on the door that
should be as the summons of Fate.

The time, too, was speeding on. Twenty-one minutes to eight! In a few
minutes more he must set out or he would miss the train. He dropped the
dismembered hat-brim on the blazing wood and ran upstairs to open a
window, since he must close that in the kitchen before he left. When he
came back, the brim had already curled up into a black, clinkery mass
that bubbled and hissed as the fat, pungent smoke rose from it sluggishly
to the chimney.

Nineteen minutes to eight! It was time to start. He took up the poker and
carefully beat the cinders into small particles, stirring them into the
glowing embers of the wood and coal. There was nothing unusual in the
appearance of the grate. It was his constant custom to burn letters and
other discarded articles in the sitting-room fire: his housekeeper would
notice nothing out of the common. Indeed, the cinders would probably be
reduced to ashes before she returned. He had been careful to notice that
there were no metallic fittings of any kind in the hat, which might have
escaped burning.

Once more he picked up his bag, took a last look round, turned down the
lamp and, unlocking the door, held it open for a few moments. Then he
went out, locked the door, pocketed the key (of which his housekeeper
had a duplicate) and set off at a brisk pace for the station.

He arrived in good time after all, and, having taken his ticket, strolled
through onto the platform. The train was not yet signalled, but there
seemed to be an unusual stir in the place. The passengers were collected
in a group at one end of the platform, and were all looking in one
direction down the line; and, even as he walked towards them, with a
certain tremulous, nauseating curiosity, two men emerged from the
darkness and ascended the slope to the platform, carrying a stretcher
covered with a tarpaulin. The passengers parted to let the bearers pass,
turning fascinated eyes upon the shape that showed faintly through the
rough pall; and, when the stretcher had been borne into the lamp-room,
they fixed their attention upon a porter who followed carrying a hand-bag
and an umbrella.

Suddenly one of the passengers started forward with an exclamation.

"Is that his umbrella?" he demanded.

"Yes, sir," answered the porter, stopping and holding it out for the
speaker's inspection.

"My God!" ejaculated the passenger; then, turning sharply to a tall man
who stood close by, he said excitedly: "That's Brodski's umbrella. I
could swear to it. You remember Brodski?" The tall man nodded, and the
passenger, turning once more to the porter, said: "I identify that
umbrella. It belongs to a gentleman named Brodski. If you look in his hat
you will see his name written in it. He always writes his name in his
hat."

"We haven't found his hat yet," said the porter; "but here is the
station-master coming up the line." He awaited the arrival of his
superior and then announced: "This gentleman, sir, has identified the
umbrella."

"Oh," said the station-master, "you recognize the umbrella, sir, do you?
Then perhaps you would step into the lamp-room and see if you can
identify the body."

"Is it--is he--very much injured?" the passenger asked tremulously.

"Well, yes," was the reply. "You see, the engine and six of the trucks
went over him before they could stop the train. Took his head clean off,
in fact."

"Shocking! shocking!" gasped the passenger. "I think, if you don't mind--
I'd--I'd rather not. You don't think it's necessary, doctor, do you?"

"Yes, I do," replied the tall man. "Early identification may be of the
first importance."

"Then I suppose I must," said the passenger.

Very reluctantly he allowed himself to be conducted by the station-master
to the lamp-room, as the clang of the bell announced the approaching
train. Silas Hickler followed and took his stand with the expectant crowd
outside the closed door. In a few moments the passenger burst out, pale
and awe-stricken, and rushed up to his tall friend. "It is!" he exclaimed
breathlessly. "It's Brodski! Poor old Brodski! Horrible! horrible! He was
to have met me here and come on with me to Amsterdam."

"Had he any--merchandize about him?" the tall man asked; and Silas
strained his ears to catch the reply.

"He had some stones, no doubt, but I don't know what.

His clerk will know, of course. By the way, doctor, could you watch the
case for me? Just to be sure it was really an accident or--you know
what. We were old friends, you know, fellow townsmen, too; we were both
born in Warsaw. I'd like you to give an eye to the case."

"Very well," said the other. "I will satisfy myself that--there is
nothing more than appears, and let you have a report. Will that do?"

"Thank you. It's excessively good of you, doctor. Ah! here comes the
train. I hope it won't inconvenience you to stay and see to this matter."

"Not in the least," replied the doctor. "We are not due at Warmington
until to-morrow afternoon, and I expect we can find out all that is
necessary to know before that."

Silas looked long and curiously at the tall, imposing man who was, as it
were, taking his seat at the chessboard, to play against him for his
life. A formidable antagonist he looked, with his keen, thoughtful face,
so resolute and calm. As Silas stepped into his carriage he thought with
deep discomfort of Brodski's hat, and hoped that he had made no other
oversight.


PART II. THE MECHANISM OF DETECTION


(Related by Christopher Jervis, M.D.)

I he singular circumstances that attended the death of Mr. Oscar Brodski,
the well-known diamond merchant of Hatton Garden, illustrated very
forcibly the importance of one or two points in medico-legal practice
which Thorndyke was accustomed to insist were not sufficiently
appreciated. What those points were, I shall leave my friend and teacher
to state at the proper place; and meanwhile, as the case is in the
highest degree instructive, I shall record the incidents in the order of
their occurrence.

The dusk of an October evening was closing in as Thorndyke and I, the
sole occupants of a smoking compartment, found ourselves approaching the
little station of Ludham; and, as the train slowed down, we peered out at
the knot of country, people who were waiting on the platform. Suddenly
Thorndyke exclaimed in a tone of surprise: "Why, that is surely
Boscovitch!" and almost at the same moment a brisk, excitable little man
darted at the door of our compartment and literally tumbled in.

"I hope I don't intrude on this learned conclave," he said, shaking hands
genially and banging his Gladstone with impulsive violence into the rack;
"but I saw your faces at the window, and naturally jumped at the chance
of such pleasant companionship."

"You are very flattering," said Thorndyke; "so flattering that you leave
us nothing to say. But what in the name of fortune are you doing at--
what's the name of the place--Ludham?"

"My brother has a little place a mile or so from here, and I have been
spending a couple of days with him," Mr. Boscovitch explained. "I shall
change at Badsham Junction and catch the boat train for Amsterdam. But
whither are you two bound? I see you have your mysterious little green
box up on the hat-rack, so I infer that you are on some romantic quest,
eh? Going to unravel some dark and intricate crime?"

"No," replied Thorndyke. "We are bound for Warmington on a quite prosaic
errand. I am instructed to watch the proceedings at an inquest there
to-morrow on behalf of the Griffin Life Insurance Office, and we are
travelling down to-night as it is rather a cross-country journey."

"But why the box of magic?" asked Boscovitch, glancing up at the
hat-rack.

"I never go away from home without it," answered Thorndyke. "One never
knows what may turn up; the trouble of carrying it is small when set off
against the comfort of having appliances at hand in an emergency."

Boscovitch continued to stare up at the little square case covered with
Willesden canvas. Presently he remarked: "I often used to wonder what you
had in it when you were down at Chelmsford in connection with that bank
murder--what an amazing case that was, by the way, and didn't your
methods of research astonish the police!" As he still looked up wistfully
at the case, Thorndyke good-naturedly lifted it down and unlocked it. As
a matter of fact he was rather proud of his "portable laboratory," and
certainly it was a triumph of condensation, for, small as it was--only a
foot square by four inches deep--it contained a fairly complete outfit
for a preliminary investigation.

"Wonderful!" exclaimed Boscovitch, when the case lay open before him,
displaying its rows of little re-agent bottles, tiny test-tubes,
diminutive spirit-lamp, dwarf microscope and assorted instruments on the
same Lilliputian scale; "it's like a doll's house--everything looks as
if it was seen through the wrong end of a telescope. But are these tiny
things really efficient? That microscope now -?"

"Perfectly efficient at low and moderate magnifications," said Thorndyke.
"It looks like a toy, but it isn't one; the lenses are the best that can
be had. Of course a full-sized instrument would be infinitely more
convenient--but I shouldn't have it with me, and should have to make
shift with a pocket-lens. And so with the rest of the under-sized
appliances; they are the alternative to no appliances."

Boscovitch pored over the case and its contents, fingering the
instruments delicately and asking questions innumerable about their uses;
indeed, his curiosity was but half appeased when, half-an-hour later, the
train began to slow down.

"By Jove!" he exclaimed, starting up and seizing his bag, "here we are at
the junction already. You change here too, don't you?"

"Yes," replied Thorndyke. "We take the branch train on to Warmington."

As we stepped out onto the platform, we became aware that something
unusual was happening or had happened. All the passengers and most of the
porters and supernumeraries were gathered at one end of the station, and
all were looking intently into the darkness down the line.

"Anything wrong?" asked Mr. Boscovitch, addressing the station-inspector.

"Yes, sir," the official replied; "a man has been run over by the goods
train about a mile down the line. The station-master has gone down with a
stretcher to bring him in, and I expect that is his lantern that you see
coming this way."

As we stood watching the dancing light grow momentarily brighter,
flashing fitful reflections from the burnished rails, a man came out of
the booking-office and joined the group of onlookers. He attracted my
attention, as I afterwards remembered, for two reasons: in the first
place his round, jolly face was excessively pale and bore a strained and
wild expression, and, in the second, though he stared into the darkness
with eager curiosity he asked no questions.

The swinging lantern continued to approach, and then suddenly two men
came into sight bearing a stretcher covered with a tarpaulin, through
which the shape of a human figure was dimly discernible. They ascended
the slope to the platform, and proceeded with their burden to the
lamp-room, when the inquisitive gaze of the passengers was transferred to
a porter who followed carrying a handbag and umbrella and to the
station-master who brought up the rear with his lantern.

As the porter passed, Mr. Boscovitch started forward with sudden
excitement.

"Is that his umbrella?" he asked.

"Yes, sir," answered the porter, stopping and holding it out for the
speaker's inspection.

"My God!" ejaculated Boscovitch; then, turning sharply to Thorndyke, he
exclaimed: "That's Brodski's umbrella. I could swear to it. You remember
Brodski?"

Thorndyke nodded, and Boscovitch, turning once more to the porter, said:
"I identify that umbrella. It belongs to a gentleman named Brodski. If
you look in his hat, you will see his name written in it. He always
writes his name in his hat."

"We haven't found his hat yet," said the porter; "but here is the
station-master." He turned to his superior and announced: "This
gentleman, sir, has identified the umbrella."

"Oh," said the station-master, "you recognize the umbrella, sir, do you?
Then perhaps you would step into the lamp-room and see if you can
identify the body."

Mr. Boscovitch recoiled with a look of alarm. "Is it? is he--very much
injured?" he asked nervously.

"Well, yes," was the reply. "You see, the engine and six of the trucks
went over him before they could stop the train. Took his head clean off,
in fact."

"Shocking! shocking!" gasped Boscovitch. "I think? if you don't mind--
I'd--I'd rather not. You don't think it necessary, doctor, do you?"

"Yes, I do," replied Thorndyke. "Early identification may be of the first
importance."

"Then I suppose I must," said Boscovitch; and, with extreme reluctance,
he followed the station-master to the lamp-room, as the loud ringing of
the bell announced the approach of the boat train. His inspection must
have been of the briefest, for, in a few moments, he burst out, pale and
awe-stricken, and rushed up to Thorndyke.

"It is!" he exclaimed breathlessly. "It's Brodski! Poor" old Brodski!
Horrible! horrible! He was to have met me here and come on with me to
Amsterdam."

"Had he any--merchandize about him?" Thorndyke asked; and, as he spoke,
the stranger whom I had previously noticed edged up closer as if to catch
the reply.

"He had some stones, no doubt," answered Boscovitch, "but I don't know
what they were. His clerk will know, of course. By the way, doctor, could
you watch the case for me? Just to be sure it was really an accident or--
you know what. We were old friends, you know, fellow townsmen, too; we
were both born in Warsaw. I'd like you to give an eye to the case."

"Very well," said Thorndyke. "I will satisfy myself that there is nothing
more than appears, and let you have a report. Will that do?"

"Thank you," said Boscovitch. "It's excessively good of you, doctor. Ah,
here comes the train. I hope it won't inconvenience you to stay and see
to the matter."

"Not in the least," replied Thorndyke. "We are not due at Warmington
until to-morrow afternoon, and I expect we can find out all that is
necessary to know and still keep our appointment."

As Thorndyke spoke, the stranger, who had kept close to us with the
evident purpose of hearing what was said, bestowed on him a very curious
and attentive look; and it was only when the train had actually come to
rest by the platform that he hurried away to find a compartment.

No sooner had the train left the station than Thorndyke sought out the
station-master and informed him of the instructions that he had received
from Boscovitch. "Of course," he added, in conclusion, "we must not move
in the matter until the police arrive. I suppose they have been
informed?"

"Yes," replied the station-master; "I sent a message at once to the Chief
Constable, and I expect him or an inspector at any moment. In fact, I
think I will slip out to the approach and see if he is coming." He
evidently wished to have a word in private with the police officer before
committing himself to any statement.

As the official departed, Thorndyke and I began to pace the now empty
platform, and my friend, as was his wont, when entering on a new inquiry,
meditatively reviewed the features of the problem.

"In a case of this kind," he remarked, "we have to decide on one of three
possible explanations: accident, suicide or homicide; and our decision
will be determined by inferences from three sets of facts: first, the
general facts of the case; second, the special data obtained by
examination of the body, and, third, the special data obtained by
examining the spot on which the body was found. Now the only general
facts at present in our possession are that the deceased was a diamond
merchant making a journey for a specific purpose and probably having on
his person property of small bulk and great value. These facts are
somewhat against the hypothesis of suicide and somewhat favourable to
that of homicide. Facts relevant to the question of accident would be the
existence or otherwise of a level crossing, a road or path leading to the
line, an enclosing fence with or without a gate, and any other facts
rendering probable or otherwise the accidental presence of the deceased
at the spot where the body was found. As we do not possess these facts,
it is desirable that we extend our knowledge."

"Why not put a few discreet questions to the porter who brought in the
bag and umbrella?" I suggested. "He is at this moment in earnest
conversation with the ticket collector and would, no doubt, be glad of a
new listener."

"An excellent suggestion, Jervis," answered Thorndyke. "Let us see what
he has to tell us." We approached the porter and found him, as I had
anticipated, bursting to unburden himself of the tragic story.

"The way the thing happened, sir, was this," he said, in answer to
Thorndyke's question: "There's a sharpish bend in the road just at that
place, and the goods train was just rounding the curve when the driver
suddenly caught sight of something lying across the rails. As the engine
turned, the head-lights shone on it and then he saw it was a man. He shut
off steam at once, blew his whistle, and put the brakes down hard, but,
as you know, sir, a goods train takes some stopping; before they could
bring her up, the engine and half-a-dozen trucks had gone over the poor
beggar."

"Could the driver see how the man was lying?" Thorndyke asked.

"Yes, he could see him quite plain, because the headlights were full on
him. He was lying on his face with his neck over the near rail on the
down side. His head was in the four-foot and his body by the side of the
track. It looked as if he had laid himself out a-purpose."

"Is there a level crossing thereabouts?" asked Thorndyke.

"No, sir. No crossing, no road, no path, no nothing," said the porter,
ruthlessly sacrificing grammar to emphasis. "He must have come across the
fields and climbed over the fence to get onto the permanent way.
Deliberate suicide is what it looks like."

"How did you learn all this?" Thorndyke inquired.

"Why, the driver, you see, sir, when him and his mate had lifted the body
off the track, went on to the next signal-box and sent in his report by
telegram. The station-master told me all about it as we walked down the
line."

Thorndyke thanked the man for his information, and, as we strolled back
towards the lamp-room, discussed the bearing of these new facts.

"Our friend is unquestionably right in one respect," he said; "this was
not an accident. The man might, if he were near-sighted, deaf or stupid,
have climbed over the fence and got knocked down by the train. But his
position, lying across the rails, can only be explained by one of two
hypotheses: either it was, as the porter says, deliberate suicide, or
else the man was already dead or insensible. We must leave it at that
until we have seen the body, that is, if the police will allow us to see
it. But here comes the station-master and an officer with him. Let us
hear what they have to say."

The two officials had evidently made up their minds to decline any
outside assistance. The divisional surgeon would make the necessary
examination, and information could be obtained through the usual
channels. The production of Thorndyke's card, however, somewhat altered
the situation. The police inspector hummed and hawed irresolutely, with
the card in his hand, but finally agreed to allow us to view the body,
and we entered the lamp-room together, the station-master leading the way
to turn up the gas.

The stretcher stood on the floor by one wall, its grim burden still
hidden by the tarpaulin, and the hand-bag and umbrella lay on a large
box, together with the battered frame of a pair of spectacles from which
the glasses had fallen out.

"Were these spectacles found by the body?" Thorndyke inquired.

''Yes," replied the station-master. "They were close to the head and the
glass was scattered about on the ballast."

Thorndyke made a note in his pocket-book, and then, as the inspector
removed the tarpaulin, he glanced down on the corpse, lying limply on the
stretcher and looking grotesquely horrible with its displaced head and
distorted limbs. For fully a minute he remained silently stooping over
the uncanny object, on which the inspector was now throwing the light of
a large lantern; then he stood up and said quietly to me: "I think we can
eliminate two out of the three hypotheses."

The inspector looked at him quickly, and was about to ask a question,
when his attention was diverted by the travelling-case which Thorndyke
had laid on a shelf and now opened to abstract a couple of pairs of
dissecting forceps.

"We've no authority to make a post mortem, you know," said the inspector.

"No, of course not," said Thorndyke. "I am merely going to look into the
mouth." With one pair of forceps he turned back the lip and, having
scrutinized its inner surface, closely examined the teeth.

"May I trouble you for your lens, Jervis?" he said; and, as I handed him
my doublet ready opened, the inspector brought the lantern close to the
dead face and leaned forward eagerly. In his usual systematic fashion,
Thorndyke slowly passed the lens along the whole range of sharp, uneven
teeth, and then, bringing it back to the centre, examined with more
minuteness the upper incisors. At length, very delicately, he picked out
with his forceps some minute object from between two of the upper front
teeth and held it in the focus of the lens. Anticipating his next move, I
took a labelled microscope-slide from the case and handed it to him
together with a dissecting needle, and, as he transferred the object to
the slide and spread it out with the needle, I set up the little
microscope on the shelf.

"A drop of Farrant and a cover-glass, please, Jervis,'' said Thorndyke.

I handed him the bottle, and, when he had let a drop of the mounting
fluid fall gently on the object and put on the cover-slip, he placed the
slide on the stage of the microscope and examined it attentively.

Happening to glance at the inspector, I observed on his countenance a
faint grin, which he politely strove to suppress when he caught my eye.

"I was thinking, sir," he said apologetically, "that it's a bit off the
track to be finding out what he had for dinner. He didn't die of
unwholesome feeding."

Thorndyke looked up with a smile. "It doesn't do, inspector, to assume
that anything is off the track in an inquiry of this kind. Every fact
must have some significance, you know."

"I don't see any significance in the diet of a man who has had his head
cut off," the inspector rejoined defiantly.


"Don't you?" said Thorndyke. "Is there no interest attaching to the last
meal of a man who has met a violent death? These crumbs, for instance,
that are scattered over the dead man's waistcoat. Can we learn nothing
from them?"

"I don't see what you can learn," was the dogged rejoinder.

Thorndyke picked off the crumbs, one by one, with his forceps, and having
deposited them on a slide, inspected them, first with the lens and then
through the microscope.

"I learn," said he, "that shortly before his death, the deceased partook
of some kind of whole-meal biscuits, apparently composed partly of
oatmeal."

"I call that nothing," said the inspector. "The question that we have got
to settle is not what refreshments had the deceased been taking, but what
was the cause of his death: did he commit suicide? was he killed by
accident? or was there any foul play?"

"I beg your pardon," said Thorndyke, "the questions that remain to be
settled are, who killed the deceased and with what motive? The others are
already answered as far as I am, concerned."

The inspector stared in sheer amazement not unmixed with incredulity.

"You haven't been long coming to a conclusion, sir," he said.

"No, it was a pretty obvious case of murder," said Thorndyke. "As to the
motive, the deceased was a diamond merchant and is believed to have had a
quantity of stones about his person. I should suggest that you search the
body."

The inspector gave vent to an exclamation of disgust. "I see," he said.
"It was just a guess on your part. The dead man was a diamond merchant
and had valuable property about him; therefore he was murdered." He drew
himself up, and, regarding Thorndyke with stern reproach, added: "But you
must understand, sir, that this is a judicial inquiry, not a prize
competition in a penny paper. And, as to searching the body, why, that is
what I principally came for." He ostentatiously turned his back on us and
proceeded systematically to turn out the dead man's pockets, laying the
articles, as he removed them, on the box by the side of the hand-bag and
umbrella.

While he was thus occupied, Thorndyke looked over the body generally,
paying special attention to the soles of the boots, which, to the
inspector's undissembled amusement, he very thoroughly examined with the
lens.

"I should have thought, sir, that his feet were large enough to be seen
with the naked eye," was his comment; "but perhaps," he added, with a sly
glance at the station-master, "you're a little near-sighted."

Thorndyke chuckled good-humouredly, and, while the officer continued his
search, he looked over the articles that had already been laid on the
box. The purse and pocket-book he naturally left for the inspector to
open, but the reading-glasses, pocket-knife and card-case and other small
pocket articles were subjected to a searching scrutiny. The inspector
watched him out of the corner of his eye with furtive amusement; saw him
hold up the glasses to the light to estimate their refractive power, peer
into the tobacco pouch, open the cigarette book and examine the watermark
of the paper, and even inspect the contents of the silver match-box.

"What might you have expected to find in his tobacco pouch?" the officer
asked, laying down a bunch of keys from the dead man's pocket.

"Tobacco," Thorndyke replied stolidly; "but I did not expect to find
fine-cut Latakia. I don't remember ever having seen pure Latakia smoked
in cigarettes." "You do take an interest in things, sir," said the
inspector, with a side glance at the stolid station-master.

"I do," Thorndyke agreed; "and I note that there are no diamonds among
this collection."

"No, and we don't know that he had any about him; but there's a gold
watch and chain, a diamond scarf-pin, and a purse containing"--he opened
it and tipped out its contents into his hand--"twelve pounds in gold.
That doesn't look much like robbery, does it? What do you say to the
murder theory now?"

"My opinion is unchanged," said Thorndyke, "and I should like to examine
the spot where the body was found. Has the engine been inspected?" he
added, addressing the station-master.

"I telegraphed to Bradfield to have it examined," the official answered.
"The report has probably come in by now. I'd better see before we start
down the line."

We emerged from the lamp-room and, at the door, found the
station-inspector waiting with a telegram. He handed it to the
station-master, who read it aloud.

"The engine has been carefully examined by me. I find small smear of
blood on near leading wheel and smaller one on next wheel following. No
other marks." He glanced questioningly at Thorndyke, who nodded and
remarked: "It will be interesting to see if the line tells the same
tale."

The station-master looked puzzled and was apparently about to ask for an
explanation; but the inspector, who had carefully pocketed the dead man's
property, was impatient to start and, accordingly, when Thorndyke had
repacked his case and had, at his own request, been furnished with a
lantern, we set off down the permanent way, Thorndyke carrying the light
and I the indispensable green case.

"I am a little in the dark about this affair," I said, when we had
allowed the two officials to draw ahead out of earshot; "you came to a
conclusion remarkably quickly. What was it that so immediately determined
the opinion of murder as against suicide?"

"It was a small matter but very conclusive," replied Thorndyke. "You
noticed a small scalp-wound above the left temple? It was a glancing
wound, and might easily have been made by the engine. But the wound had
bled; and it had bled for an appreciable time. There were two streams of
blood from it, and in both the blood was firmly clotted and partially
dried. But the man had been decapitated; and this wound, if inflicted by
the engine, must have been made after the decapitation, since it was on
the side most distant from the engine as it approached. Now, a
decapitated head does not bleed. Therefore, this wound was inflicted
before the decapitation.

"But not only had the wound bled: the blood had trickled down in two
streams at right angles to one another. First, in the order of time as
shown by the appearance of the stream, it had trickled down the side of
the face and dropped on the collar. The second stream ran from the wound
to the back of the head. Now, you know, Jervis, there are no exceptions
to the law of gravity. If the blood ran down the face towards the chin,
the face must have been upright at the time; and if the blood trickled
from the front to the back of the head, the head must have been
horizontal and face upwards. But the man when he was seen by the
engine-driver, was lying face downwards. The only possible inference is
that when the wound was inflicted, the man was in the upright position--
standing or sitting; and that subsequently, and while he was still alive,
he lay on his back for a sufficiently long time for the blood to have
trickled to the back of his head."

"I see. I was a duffer not to have reasoned this out for myself," I
remarked contritely.

"Quick observation and rapid inference come by practice," replied
Thorndyke. "What did you notice about the face?"

"I thought there was a strong suggestion of asphyxia."

"Undoubtedly," said Thorndyke. "It was the face of a suffocated man. You
must have noticed, too, that the tongue was very distinctly swollen and
that on the inside of the upper lip were deep indentations made by the
teeth, as well as one or two slight wounds, obviously caused by heavy
pressure on the mouth. And now observe how completely these facts and
inferences agree with those from the scalp wound. If we knew that the
deceased had received a blow on the head, had struggled with his
assailant and been finally borne down and suffocated, we should look for
precisely those signs which we have found."

"By the way, what was it that you found wedged between the teeth? I did
not get a chance to look through the microscope."

"Ah!" said Thorndyke, "there we not only get confirmation, but we carry
our inferences a stage further. The object was a little tuft of some
textile fabric. Under the microscope I found it to consist of several
different fibres, differently dyed. The bulk of it consisted of wool
fibres dyed crimson, but there were also cotton fibres dyed blue and a
few which looked like jute, dyed yellow. It was obviously a
parti-coloured fabric and might have been part of a woman's dress, though
the presence of the jute is much more suggestive of a curtain or rug of
inferior quality."

"And its importance?"

"Is that, if it is not part of an article of clothing, then it must have
come from an article of furniture, and furniture suggests a habitation."

"That doesn't seem very conclusive," I objected.


"It is not; but it is valuable corroboration."

"Of what?"

"Of the suggestion offered by the soles of the dead man's boots. I
examined them most minutely and could find no trace of sand, gravel or
earth, in spite of the fact that he must have crossed fields and rough
land to reach the place where he was found. What I did find was fine
tobacco ash, a charred mark as if a cigar or cigarette had been trodden
on, several crumbs of biscuit, and, on a projecting brad, some coloured
fibres, apparently from a carpet. The manifest suggestion is that the man
was killed in a house with a carpeted floor, and carried from thence to
the railway."

I was silent for some moments. Well as I knew Thorndyke, I was completely
taken by surprise; a sensation, indeed, that I experienced anew every
time that I accompanied him on one of his investigations. His marvellous
power of co-ordinating apparently insignificant facts, of arranging them
into an ordered sequence and making them tell a coherent story, was a
phenomenon that I never got used to; every exhibition of it astonished me
afresh.

"If your inferences are correct," I said, "the problem is practically
solved. There must be abundant traces inside the house. The only question
is, which house is it?"

"Quite so," replied Thorndyke; "that is the question, and a very
difficult question it is. A glance at that interior would doubtless clear
up the whole mystery. But how are we to get that glance? We cannot enter
houses speculatively to see if they present traces of a murder. At
present, our clue breaks off abruptly. The other end of it is in some
unknown house, and, if we cannot join up the two ends, our problem
remains unsolved. For the question is, you remember, Who killed Oscar
Brodski?"

"Then what do you propose to do?" I asked.

"The next stage of the inquiry is to connect some particular house with
this crime. To that end, I can only gather up all available facts and
consider each in all its possible bearings. If I cannot establish any
such connection, then the inquiry will have failed and we shall have to
make a fresh start--say, at Amsterdam, if it turns out that Brodski
really had diamonds on his person, as I have no doubt he had."

Here our conversation was interrupted by our arrival at the spot where
the body had been found. The station-master had halted, and he and the
inspector were now examining the near rail by the light of their lanterns

"There's remarkably little blood about," said the former. "I've seen a
good many accidents of this kind and there has always been a lot of
blood, both on the engine and on the road. It's very curious."

Thorndyke glanced at the rail with but slight attention: that question
had ceased to interest him. But the light of his lantern flashed onto the
ground at the side of the track--a loose, gravelly soil mixed with
fragments of chalk--and from thence to the soles of the inspector's
boots, which were displayed as he knelt by the rail.

"You observe, Jervis?" he said in a low voice, and I nodded. The
inspector's boot-soles were covered with adherent particles of gravel and
conspicuously marked by the chalk on which he had trodden.

"You haven't found the hat, I suppose?" Thorndyke asked, stooping to pick
up a short piece of string that lay on the ground at the side of the
track.

"No," replied the inspector, "but it can't be far off. You seem to have
found another clue, sir," he added, with a grin, glancing at the piece of
string.

"Who knows," said Thorndyke. "A short end of white twine with a green
strand in it. It may tell us something later. At any rate we'll keep it,"
and, taking from his pocket a small tin box containing, among other
things, a number of seed envelopes, he slipped the string into one of the
latter and scribbled a note in pencil on the outside. The inspector
watched his proceedings with an indulgent smile, and then returned to his
examination of the track, in which Thorndyke now joined.

"I suppose the poor chap was near-sighted," the officer remarked,
indicating the remains of the shattered spectacles; "that might account
for his having strayed onto the line."

"Possibly," said Thorndyke. He had already noticed the fragments
scattered over a sleeper and the adjacent ballast, and now once more
produced his "collecting-box," from which he took another seed envelope.
"Would you hand me a pair of forceps, Jervis," he said; "and perhaps you
wouldn't mind taking a pair yourself and helping me to gather up these
fragments."

As I complied, the inspector looked up curiously.

"There isn't any doubt that these spectacles belonged to the deceased, is
there?" he asked. "He certainly wore spectacles, for I saw the mark on
his nose."

"Still, there is no harm in verifying the fact," said Thorndyke, and he
added to me in a lower tone, "Pick up every particle you can find,
Jervis. It may be most important."

"I don't quite see how," I said, groping amongst the shingle by the light
of the lantern in search of the tiny splinters of glass.

"Don't you?" returned Thorndyke. "Well, look at these fragments; some of
them are a fair size, but many of these on the sleeper are mere grains.
And consider their number. Obviously, the condition of the glass does not
agree with the circumstances in which we find it. These are thick concave
spectacle-lenses broken into a great number of minute fragments. Now how
were they broken? Not merely by falling, evidently: such a lens, when it
is dropped, breaks into a small number of large pieces. Nor were they
broken by the wheel passing over them, for they would then have been
reduced to fine powder, and that powder would have been visible on the
rail, which it is not. The spectacle-frames, you may remember, presented
the same incongruity: they were battered and damaged more than they would
have been by falling, but not nearly so much as they would have been if
the wheel had passed over them."

"What do you suggest, then?" I asked.

"The appearances suggest that the spectacles had been trodden on. But, if
the body was carried here the probability is that the spectacles were
carried here too, and that they were then already broken; for it is more
likely that they were trodden on during the struggle than that the
murderer trod on them after bringing them here. Hence the importance of
picking up every fragment."

"But why?" I inquired, rather foolishly, I must admit.

"Because, if, when we have picked up every fragment that we can find,
there still remains missing a larger portion of the lenses than we could
reasonably expect, that would tend to support our hypothesis and we might
find the missing remainder elsewhere. If, on the other hand, we find as
much of the lenses as we could expect to find, we must conclude that they
were broken on this spot."

While we were conducting our search, the two officials were circling
around with their lanterns in quest of the missing hat; and, when we had
at length picked up the last fragment, and a careful search, even aided
by a lens, failed to reveal any other, we could see their lanterns
moving, like will-o'-the-wisps, some distance down the line.

"We may as well see what we have got before our friends come back," said
Thorndyke, glancing at the twinkling lights. "Lay the case down on the
grass by the fence; it will serve for a table."

I did so, and Thorndyke, taking a letter from his pocket, opened it,
spread it out flat on the case, securing it with a couple of heavy
stones, although the night was quite calm. Then he tipped the contents of
the seed envelope out on the paper, and carefully spreading out the
pieces of glass, looked at them for some moments in silence. And, as he
looked, there stole over his face a very curious expression; with sudden
eagerness he began picking out the large fragments and laying them on two
visiting-cards which he had taken from his card-case. Rapidly and with
wonderful deftness he fitted the pieces together, and, as the
reconstituted lenses began gradually to take shape on their cards I
looked on with growing excitement, for something in my colleague's manner
told me that we were on the verge of a discovery.

At length the two ovals of glass lay on their respective cards, complete
save for one or two small gaps; and the little heap that remained
consisted of fragments so minute as to render further reconstruction
impossible. Then Thorndyke leaned back and laughed softly.

"This is certainly an unlooked-for result," said he.

"What is?" I asked.

"Don't you see, my dear fellow? There's too much glass. We have almost
completely built up the broken lenses, and the fragments that are left
over are considerably more than are required to fill up the gaps."

I looked at the little heap of small fragments and saw at once that it
was as he had said. There was a surplus of small pieces.

"This is very extraordinary," I said. "What do you think can be the
explanation?"

"The fragments will probably tell us," he replied, "if we ask them
intelligently."

He lifted the paper and the two cards carefully onto the ground, and,
opening the case, took out the little microscope, to which he fitted the
lowest-power objective and eye-piece--having a combined magnification of
only ten diameters. Then he transferred the minute fragments of glass to
a slide, and, having arranged the lantern as a microscope-lamp, commenced
his examination.

"Ha!" he exclaimed presently. "The plot thickens. There is too much glass
and yet too little; that is to say, there are only one or two fragments
here that belong to the spectacles; not nearly enough to complete the
building up of the lenses. The remainder consists of a soft, uneven,
moulded glass, easily distinguished from the clear, hard optical glass.
These foreign fragments are all curved, as if they had formed part of a
cylinder, and are, I should say, portions of a wine-glass or tumbler." He
moved the slide once or twice, and then continued: "We are in luck,
Jervis. Here is a fragment with two little diverging lines etched on it,
evidently the points of an eight-rayed star--and here is another with
three points--the ends of three rays. This enables us to reconstruct the
vessel perfectly. It was a clear, thin glass--probably a tumbler--
decorated with scattered stars; I dare say you know the pattern.
Sometimes there is an ornamented band in addition, but generally the
stars form the only decoration. Have a look at the specimen."

I had just applied my eye to the microscope when the station-master and
the inspector came up. Our appearance, seated on the ground with the
microscope between us, was too much for the police officer's gravity, and
he laughed long and joyously.

"You must excuse me, gentlemen," he said apologetically, "but really, you
know, to an old hand, like myself, it does look a little--well--you
understand--I dare say a microscope is a very interesting and amusing
thing, but it doesn't get you much forwarder in a case like this, does
it?"

"Perhaps not," replied Thorndyke. "By the way, where did you find the
hat, after all?"

"We haven't found it," the inspector replied.

"Then we must help you to continue the search," said Thorndyke. "If you
will wait a few moments, we will come with you." He poured a few drops of
xylol balsam on the cards to fix the reconstituted lenses to their
supports and then, packing them and the microscope in the case, announced
that he was ready to start.

"Is there any village or hamlet near?" he asked the station-master.

"None nearer than Corfield. That is about half-a-mile from here."

"And where is the nearest road?"

"There is a half-made road that runs past a house about three hundred
yards from here. It belonged to a building estate that was never built.
There is a footpath from it to the station."

"Are there any other houses near?"

"No. That is the only house for half-a-mile round, and there is no other
road near here."

"Then the probability is that Brodski approached the railway from that
direction, as he was found on that side of the permanent way."

The inspector agreeing with this view, we all set off slowly towards the
house, piloted by the station-master and searching the ground as we went.
The waste land over which we passed was covered with patches of docks and
nettles, through each of which the inspector kicked his way, searching
with feet and lantern for the missing hat. A walk of three hundred yards
brought us to a low wall enclosing a garden, beyond which we could see a
small house; and here we halted while the inspector waded into a large
bed of nettles beside the wall and kicked vigorously. Suddenly there came
a clinking sound mingled with objurgations, and the inspector hopped out
holding one foot and soliloquizing profanely.

"I wonder what sort of a fool put a thing like that into a bed of
nettles!" he exclaimed, stroking the injured foot. Thorndyke picked the
object up and held it in the light of the lantern, displaying a piece of
three-quarter inch rolled iron bar about a foot long. "It doesn't seem to
have been there very long," he observed, examining it closely, "there is
hardly any rust on it."

"It has been there long enough for me," growled the inspector, "and I'd
like to bang it on the head of the blighter that put it there."

Callously indifferent to the inspector's sufferings, Thorndyke continued
calmly to examine the bar. At length, resting his lantern on the wall, he
produced his pocket-lens, with which he resumed his investigation, a
proceeding that so exasperated the inspector that that afflicted official
limped off in dudgeon, followed by the station-master, and we heard him,
presently, rapping at the front door of the house.

"Give me a slide, Jervis, with a drop of Farrant on it," said Thorndyke.
"There are some fibres sticking to this bar."

I prepared the slide, and, having handed it to him together with a
cover-glass, a pair of forceps and a needle, set up the microscope on the
wall.

"I'm sorry for the inspector," Thorndyke remarked, with his eye applied
to the little instrument, "but that was a lucky kick for us. Just take a
look at the specimen."

I did so, and, having moved the slide about until I had seen the whole of
the object, I gave my opinion. "Red wool fibres, blue cotton fibres and
some yellow vegetable fibres that look like jute."

"Yes," said Thorndyke; "the same combination of fibres as that which we
found on the dead man's teeth and probably from the same source. This bar
has probably been wiped on that very curtain or rug with which poor
Brodski was stifled. We will place it on the wall for future reference,
and meanwhile, by hook or by crook, we must get into that house. This is
much too plain a hint to be disregarded."

Hastily repacking the case, we hurried to the front of the house, where
we found the two officials looking rather vaguely up the unmade road.

"There's a light in the house," said the inspector, "but there's no one
at home. I have knocked a dozen times and got no answer. And I don't see
what we are hanging about here for at all. The hat is probably close to
where the body was found, and we shall find it in the morning."

Thorndyke made no reply, but, entering the garden, stepped up the path,
and having knocked gently at the door, stooped and listened attentively
at the key-hole.

"I tell you there's no one in the house, sir," said the inspector
irritably; and, as Thorndyke continued to listen, he walked away,
muttering angrily. As soon as he was gone, Thorndyke flashed his lantern
over the door, the threshold, the path and the small flower-beds; and,
from one of the latter, I presently saw him stoop and pick something up.

"Here is a highly instructive object, Jervis," he said, coming out to the
gate, and displaying a cigarette of which only half-an-inch had been
smoked.

"How instructive?" I asked. "What do you learn from it?"

"Many things," he replied. "It has been lit and thrown away unsmoked;
that indicates a sudden change of purpose. It was thrown away at the
entrance to the house, almost certainly by some one entering it. That
person was probably a stranger, or he would have taken it in with him.
But he had not expected to enter the house, or he would not have lit it.
These are the general suggestions; now as to the particular ones. The
paper of the cigarette is of the kind known as the 'Zig-Zag' brand; the
very conspicuous water-mark is quite easy to see. Now Brodski's cigarette
book was a 'Zig-Zag' book--so called from the way in which the papers
pull out. But let us see what the tobacco is like." With a pin from his
coat, he hooked out from the unburned end a wisp of dark, dirty brown
tobacco, which he held out for my inspection.

"Fine-cut Latakia," I pronounced, without hesitation.

"Very well," said Thorndyke. "Here is a cigarette made of an unusual
tobacco similar to that in Brodski's pouch and wrapped in an unusual
paper similar to those in Brodski's cigarette book. With due regard to
the fourth rule of the syllogism, I suggest that this cigarette was made
by Oscar Brodski. But, nevertheless, we will look for corroborative
detail."

"What is that?" I asked.

"You may have noticed that Brodski's match-box contained round wooden
vestas--which are also rather unusual. As he must have lighted the
cigarette within a few steps of the gate, we ought to be able to find the
match with which he lighted it. Let us try up the road in the direction
from which he would probably have approached."

We walked very slowly up the road, searching the ground with the lantern,
and we had hardly gone a dozen paces when I espied a match lying on the
rough path and eagerly picked it up. It was a round wooden vesta.

Thorndyke examined it with interest and having deposited it, with the
cigarette, in his "collecting-box," turned to retrace his steps. "There
is now, Jervis, no reasonable doubt that Brodski was murdered in that
house. We have succeeded in connecting that house with the crime, and now
we have got to force an entrance and join up the other clues." We walked
quickly back to the rear of the premises, where we found the inspector
conversing disconsolately with the station-master.

"I think, sir," said the former, "we had better go back now; in fact, I
don't see what we came here for, but--here! I say, sir, you mustn't do
that!" For Thorndyke, without a word of warning, had sprung up lightly
and thrown one of his long legs over the wall.

"I can't allow you to enter private premises, sir," continued the
inspector; but Thorndyke quietly dropped down on the inside and turned to
face the officer over the wall.


"Now, listen to me, inspector," said he. "I have good reasons for
believing that the dead man, Brodski, has been in this house, in fact, I
am prepared to swear an information to that effect. But time is precious;
we must follow the scent while it is hot. And I am not proposing to break
into the house off-hand. I merely wish to examine the dust-bin."

"The dust-bin!" gasped the inspector. "Well, you really are a most
extraordinary gentleman! What do you expect to find in the dust-bin?"

"I am looking for a broken tumbler or wine-glass. It is a thin glass
vessel decorated with a pattern of small, eight-pointed stars. It may be
in the dust-bin or it may be inside the house."

The inspector hesitated, but Thorndyke's confident manner had evidently
impressed him.

"We can soon see what is in the dust-bin," he said, "though what in
creation a broken tumbler has to do with the case is more than I can
understand. However, here goes." He sprang up onto the wall, and, as he
dropped down into the garden, the station-master and I followed.

Thorndyke lingered a few moments by the gate examining the ground, while
the two officials hurried up the path. Finding nothing of interest,
however, he walked towards the house, looking keenly about him as he
went; but we were hardly half-way up the path when we heard the voice of
the inspector calling excitedly.

"Here you are, sir, this way," he sang out, and, as we hurried forward,
we suddenly came on the two officials standing over a small rubbish-heap
and looking the picture of astonishment. The glare of their lanterns
illuminated the heap, and showed us the scattered fragments of a thin
glass, star-pattern tumbler.

"I can't imagine how you guessed it was here, sir," said the inspector,
with a new-born respect in his tone, "nor what you're going to do with it
now you have found it."

"It is merely another link in the chain of evidence," said Thorndyke,
taking a pair of forceps from the case and stooping over the heap.
"Perhaps we shall find something else." He picked up several small
fragments of glass, looked at them closely and dropped them again.
Suddenly his eye caught a small splinter at the base of the heap. Seizing
it with the forceps, he held it close to his eye in the strong lamplight,
and, taking out his lens, examined it with minute attention. "Yes," he
said at length, "this is what I was looking for. Let me have those two
cards, Jervis."

I produced the two visiting-cards with the reconstructed lenses stuck to
them, and, laying them on the lid of the case, threw the light of the
lantern on them. Thorndyke looked at them intently for some time, and
from them to the fragment that he held. Then, turning to the inspector,
he said: "You saw me pick up this splinter of glass?"

"Yes, sir," replied the officer.

"And you saw where we found these spectacle-glasses and know whose they
were?"

"Yes, sir. They are the dead man's spectacles, and you found them where
the body had been."

"Very well," said Thorndyke; "now observe;" and, as the two officials
craned forward with parted lips, he laid the little splinter in a gap in
one of the lenses and then gave it a gentle push forward, when it
occupied the gap perfectly, joining edge to edge with the adjacent
fragments and rendering that portion of the lens complete.

"My God!" exclaimed the inspector. "How on earth did you know?"

"I must explain that later," said Thorndyke. "Meanwhile we had better
have a look inside the house. I expect to find there a cigarette--or
possibly a cigar--which has been trodden on, some whole-meal biscuits,
possibly a wooden vesta, and perhaps even the missing hat."

At the mention of the hat, the inspector stepped eagerly to the back
door, but, finding it bolted, he tried the window. This also was securely
fastened and, on Thorndyke's advice, we went round to the front door.

"This door is locked too," said the inspector. "I'm afraid we shall have
to break in. It's a nuisance, though."

"Have a look at the window," suggested Thorndyke.

The officer did so, struggling vainly to undo the patent catch with his
pocket-knife.

"It's no go," he said, coming back to the door. "We shall have to -?" He
broke off with an astonished stare, for the door stood open and Thorndyke
was putting something in his pocket.

"Your friend doesn't waste much time--even in picking a lock," he
remarked to me, as we followed Thorndyke into the house; but his
reflections were soon merged in a new surprise. Thorndyke had preceded us
into a small sitting-room dimly lighted by a hanging lamp turned down
low.

As we entered he turned up the light and glanced about the room. A
whisky-bottle was on the table, with a siphon, a tumbler and a
biscuit-box. Pointing to the latter, Thorndyke said to the inspector:
"See what is in that box."

The inspector raised the lid and peeped in, the station-master peered
over his shoulder, and then both stared at Thorndyke.

"How in the name of goodness did you know that there were whole-meal
biscuits in the house, sir?" exclaimed the station-master.

"You'd be disappointed if I told you," replied Thorndyke. "But look at
this." He pointed to the hearth, where lay a flattened, half-smoked
cigarette and a round wooden vesta. The inspector gazed at these objects
in silent wonder, while, as to the station-master, he continued to stare
at Thorndyke with what I can only describe as superstitious awe.

"You have the dead man's property with you, I believe?" said my
colleague.

"Yes," replied the inspector; "I put the things in my pocket for safety."

"Then," said Thorndyke, picking up the flattened cigarette, "let us have
a look at his tobacco-pouch."

As the officer produced and opened the pouch, Thorndyke neatly cut open
the cigarette with his sharp pocket-knife. "Now," said he, "what kind of
tobacco is in the pouch?"

The inspector took out a pinch, looked at it and smelt it distastefully.
"It's one of those stinking tobaccos," he said, "that they put in
mixtures--Latakia, I think."

"And what is this?" asked Thorndyke, pointing to the open cigarette.

"Same stuff, undoubtedly," replied the inspector.

"And now let us see his cigarette papers," said Thorndyke.

The little book, or rather packet--for it consisted of separated papers
--was produced from the officer's pocket and a sample paper abstracted.
Thorndyke laid the half-burnt paper beside it, and the inspector, having
examined the two, held them up to the light.

"There isn't much chance of mistaking that 'Zig-Zag' watermark," he said.
"This cigarette was made by the deceased; there can't be the shadow of a
doubt."

"One more point," said Thorndyke, laying the burnt wooden vesta on the
table. "You have his match-box?"

The inspector brought forth the little silver casket, opened it and
compared the wooden vestas that it contained with the burnt end. Then he
shut the box with a snap.

"You've proved it up to the hilt," said he. "If we could only find the
hat, we should have a complete case."

"I'm not sure that we haven't found the hat," said Thorndyke. "You notice
that something besides coal has been burned in the grate."

The inspector ran eagerly to the fire-place and began with feverish
hands, to pick out the remains of the extinct fire. "The cinders are
still warm," he said, "and they are certainly not all coal cinders. There
has been wood burned here on top of the coal, and these little black
lumps are neither coal nor wood. They may quite possibly be the remains
of a burnt hat, but, lord! who can tell? You can put together the pieces
of broken spectacle-glasses, but you can't build up a hat out of a few
cinders." He held out a handful of little, black, spongy cinders and
looked ruefully at Thorndyke, who took them from him and laid them out on
a sheet of paper.

"We can't reconstitute the hat, certainly," my friend agreed, "but we may
be able to ascertain the origin of these remains. They may not be cinders
of a hat, after all." He lit a wax match and, taking up one of the
charred fragments, applied the flame to it. The cindery mass fused at
once with a crackling, seething sound, emitting a dense smoke, and
instantly the air became charged with a pungent, resinous odour mingled
with the smell of burning animal matter.

"Smells like varnish," the station-master remarked.

"Yes. Shellac," said Thorndyke; "so the first test gives a positive
result. The next test will take more time."

He opened the green case and took from it a little flask, fitted for
Marsh's arsenic test, with a safety funnel and escape tube, a small
folding tripod, a spirit lamp and a disc of asbestos to serve as a
sand-bath. Dropping into the flask several of the cindery masses,
selected after careful inspection, he filled it up with alcohol and
placed it on the disc, which he rested on the tripod. Then he lighted the
spirit lamp underneath and sat down to wait for the alcohol to boil.

"There is one little point that we may as well settle," he said
presently, as the bubbles began to rise in the flask. "Give me a slide
with a drop of Farrant on it, Jervis."

I prepared the slide while Thorndyke, with a pair of forceps, picked out
a tiny wisp from the table-cloth. "I fancy we have seen this fabric
before," he remarked, as he laid the little pinch of fluff in the
mounting fluid and slipped the slide onto the stage of the microscope.
"Yes," he continued, looking into the eye-piece, "here are our old
acquaintances, the red wool fibres, the blue cotton and the yellow jute.
We must label this at once or we may confuse it with the other
specimens."

"Have you any idea how the deceased met his death?" the inspector asked.

"Yes," replied Thorndyke. "I take it that the murderer enticed him into
this room and gave him some refreshments. The murderer sat in the chair
in which you are sitting, Brodski sat in that small arm-chair. Then I
imagine the murderer attacked him with that iron bar that you found among
the nettles, failed to kill him at the first stroke, struggled with him
and finally suffocated him with the table-cloth. By the way, there is
just one more point. You recognize this piece of string?" He took from
his "collecting-box" the little end of twine that had been picked up by
the line. The inspector nodded. "Look behind you, you will see where it
came from."

The officer turned sharply and his eye lighted on a string-box on the
mantelpiece. He lifted it down, and Thorndyke drew out from it a length
of white twine with one green strand, which he compared with the piece in
his hand. "The green strand in it makes the identification fairly
certain," he said. "Of course the string was used to secure the umbrella
and hand-bag. He could not have carried them in his hand, encumbered as
he was with the corpse. But I expect our other specimen is ready now." He
lifted the flask off the tripod, and, giving it a vigorous shake,
examined the contents through his lens. The alcohol had now become
dark-brown in colour, and was noticeably thicker and more syrupy in
consistence.

"I think we have enough here for a rough test," said he, selecting a
pipette and a slide from the case. He dipped the former into the flask
and, having sucked up a few drops of the alcohol from the bottom, held
the pipette over the slide on which he allowed the contained fluid to
drop.


Laying a cover-glass on the little pool of alcohol, he put the slide on
the microscope stage and examined it attentively, while we watched him in
expectant silence.

At length he looked up, and, addressing the inspector, asked: "Do you
know what felt hats are made of?"

"I can't say that I do, sir," replied the officer.

"Well, the better quality hats are made of rabbits' and hares' wool--the
soft under-fur, you know--cemented together with shellac. Now there is
very little doubt that these cinders contain shellac, and with the
microscope I find a number of small hairs of a rabbit. I have, therefore,
little hesitation in saying that these cinders are the remains of a hard
felt hat; and, as the hairs do not appear to be dyed, I should say it was
a grey hat."

At this moment our conclave was interrupted by hurried footsteps on the
garden path and, as we turned with one accord, an elderly woman burst
into the room.

She stood for a moment in mute astonishment, and then, looking from one
to the other, demanded: "Who are you? and what are you doing here?"

The inspector rose. "I am a police officer, madam," said he. "I can't
give you any further information just now, but, if you will excuse me
asking, who are you?"

"I am Mr. Hickler's housekeeper," she replied.

"And Mr. Hickler; are you expecting him home shortly?"

"No, I am not," was the curt reply. "Mr. Hickler is away from home just
now. He left this evening by the boat train."

"For Amsterdam?" asked Thorndyke.

"I believe so, though I don't see what business it is of yours," the
housekeeper answered.

"I thought he might, perhaps, be a diamond broker or merchant," said
Thorndyke. "A good many of them travel by that train."

"So he is," said the woman, "at least, he has something to do with
diamonds."

"Ah. Well, we must be going, Jervis," said Thorndyke, "we have finished
here, and we have to find an hotel or inn. Can I have a word with you,
inspector?"

The officer, now entirely humble and reverent, followed us out into the
garden to receive Thorndyke's parting advice.

"You had better take possession of the house at once, and get rid of the
housekeeper. Nothing must be removed. Preserve those cinders and see that
the rubbish-heap is not disturbed, and, above all, don't have the room
swept. An officer will be sent to relieve you."

With a friendly "good-night" we went on our way, guided by the
station-master; and here our connection with the case came to an end.
Hickler (whose Christian name turned out to be Silas) was, it is true,
arrested as he stepped ashore from the steamer, and a packet of diamonds,
subsequently identified as the property of Oscar Brodski, found upon his
person. But he was never brought to trial, for on the return voyage he
contrived to elude his guards for an instant as the ship was approaching
the English coast, and it was not until three days later, when a
hand-cuffed body was cast up on the lonely shore by Orfordness, that the
authorities knew the fate of Silas Hickler.

"An appropriate and dramatic end to a singular and yet typical case,"
said Thorndyke, as he put down the newspaper. "I hope it has enlarged
your knowledge, Jervis, and enabled you to form one or two useful
corollaries."

"I prefer to hear you sing the medico-legal doxology," I answered,
turning upon him like the proverbial worm and grinning derisively (which
the worm does not).

"I know you do," he retorted, with mock gravity, "and I lament your lack
of mental initiative. However, the points that this case illustrates are
these: First, the danger of delay; the vital importance of instant action
before that frail and fleeting thing that we call a clue has time to
evaporate. A delay of a few hours would have left us with hardly a single
datum. Second, the necessity of pursuing the most trivial clue to an
absolute finish, as illustrated by the spectacles. Third, the urgent need
of a trained scientist to aid the police; and, last," he concluded, with
a smile, "we learn never to go abroad without the invaluable green case."



A CASE OF PREMEDITATION


PART I. THE ELIMINATION OF MR. PRATT


The wine merchant who should supply a consignment of petit vin to a
customer who had ordered, and paid for, a vintage wine, would render
himself subject to unambiguous comment. Nay! more; he would be liable to
certain legal penalties. And yet his conduct would be morally
indistinguishable from that of the railway company which, having accepted
a first-class fare, inflicts upon the passenger that kind of company
which he has paid to avoid. But the corporate conscience, as Herbert
Spencer was wont to explain, is an altogether inferior product to that of
the individual.

Such were the reflections of Mr. Rufus Pembury when, as the train was
about to move out of Maidstone (West) station, a coarse and burly man
(clearly a denizen of the third-class) was ushered into his compartment
by the guard. He had paid the higher fare, not for cushioned seats, but
for seclusion or, at least, select companionship. The man's entry had
deprived him of both, and he resented it.

But if the presence of this stranger involved a breach of contract, his
conduct was a positive affront--an indignity; for, no sooner had the
train started than he fixed upon Mr. Pembury a gaze of impertinent
intensity, and continued thereafter to regard him with a stare as steady
and unwinking as that of a Polynesian idol.

It was offensive to a degree, and highly disconcerting withal. Mr.
Pembury fidgeted in his seat with increasing discomfort and rising
temper. He looked into his pocket-book, read one or two letters and
sorted a collection of visiting-cards. He even thought of opening his
umbrella. Finally, his patience exhausted and his wrath mounting to
boiling-point, he turned to the stranger with frosty remonstrance.

"I imagine, sir, that you will have no difficulty in recognizing me,
should we ever meet again--which God forbid."

"I should recognize you among ten thousand," was the reply, so unexpected
as to leave Mr. Pembury speechless.

"You see," the stranger continued impressively, "I've got the gift of
faces. I never forget."

"That must be a great consolation," said Pembury.

"It's very useful to me," said the stranger, "at least, it used to be,
when I was a warder at Portland--you remember me, I dare say: my name is
Pratt. I was assistant-warder in your time. God-forsaken hole, Portland,
and mighty glad I was when they used to send me up to town on
reckernizing duty. Holloway was the house of detention then, you
remember; that was before they moved to Brixton."

Pratt paused in his reminiscences, and Pembury, pale and gasping with
astonishment, pulled himself together.

"I think," said he, "you must be mistaking me for some one else."

"I don't," replied Pratt. "You're Francis Dobbs, that's who you are.
Slipped away from Portland one evening about twelve years ago. Clothes
washed up on the Bill next day. No trace of fugitive. As neat a mizzle as
ever I heard of. But there are a couple of photographs and a set of
fingerprints at the Habitual Criminals Register. P'r'aps you'd like to
come and see 'em?"

"Why should I go to the Habitual Criminals Register?" Pembury demanded
faintly.

"Ah! Exactly. Why should you? When you are a man of means, and a little
judiciously invested capital would render it unnecessary?"

Pembury looked out of the window, and for a minute or more preserved a
stony silence. At length he turned suddenly to Pratt. "How much?" he
asked.

"I shouldn't think a couple of hundred a year would hurt you," was the
calm reply.

Pembury reflected awhile. "What makes you think I am a man of means?" he
asked presently.

Pratt smiled grimly. "Bless you, Mr. Pembury," said he, "I know all about
you. Why, for the last six months I have been living within half-a-mile
of your house."

"The devil you have!"

"Yes. When I retired from the service, General O'Gorman engaged me as a
sort of steward or caretaker of his little place at Baysford--he's very
seldom there himself--and the very day after I came down, I met you and
spotted you, but, naturally, I kept out of sight myself. Thought I'd find
out whether you were good for anything before I spoke, so I've been
keeping my ears open and I find you are good for a couple of hundred."

There was an interval of silence, and then the ex-warder resumed--
"That's what comes of having a memory for faces. Now there's Jack Ellis,
on the other hand; he must have had you under his nose for a couple of
years, and yet he's never twigged--he never will either," added Pratt,
already regretting the confidence into which his vanity had led him.

"Who is Jack Ellis?" Pembury demanded sharply.

"Why, he's a sort of supernumerary at the Baysford Police Station; does
odd jobs; rural detective, helps in the office and that sort of thing. He
was in the Civil Guard at Portland, in your time, but he got his left
forefinger chopped off, so they pensioned him, and, as he was a Baysford
man, he got this billet. But he'll never reckernize you, don't you fear."

"Unless you direct his attention to me," suggested Pembury.

"There's no fear of that," laughed Pratt. "You can trust me to sit quiet
on my own nest-egg. Besides, we're not very friendly. He came nosing
round our place after the parlourmaid--him a married man, mark you! But
I soon boosted him out, I can tell you; and Jack Ellis don't like me
now."

"I see," said Pembury reflectively; then, after a pause, he asked: "Who
is this General O'Gorman? I seem to know the name."

"I expect you do," said Pratt. "He was governor of Dartmoor when I was
there--that was my last billet--and, let me tell you, if he'd been at
Portland in your time, you'd never have got away."

"How is that?"

"Why, you see, the general is a great man on bloodhounds. He kept a pack
at Dartmoor and, you bet, those lags knew it. There were no attempted
escapes in those days. They wouldn't have had a chance."

"He has the pack still, hasn't he?" asked Pembury.

"Rather. Spends any amount of time on training 'em, too. He's always
hoping there'll be a burglary or a murder in the neighbourhood so as he
can try 'em, but he's never got a chance yet. P'r'aps the crooks have
heard about 'em. But, to come back to our little arrangement: what do you
say to a couple of hundred, paid quarterly, if you like?"

"I can't settle the matter off-hand," said Pembury. "You must give me
time to think it over."

"Very well," said Pratt. "I shall be back at Baysford tomorrow evening.
That will give you a clear day to think it over. Shall I look in at your
place to-morrow night?"

"No," replied Pembury; "you'd better not be seen at my house, nor I at
yours. If I meet you at some quiet spot, where we shan't be seen, we can
settle our business without any one knowing that we have met. It won't
take long, and we can't be too careful."

"That's true," agreed Pratt. "Well, I'll tell you what. There's an avenue
leading up to our house; you know it, I expect. There's no lodge, and the
gates are always ajar, excepting at night. Now I shall be down by the
six-thirty at Baysford. Our place is a quarter of an hour from the
station. Say you meet me in the avenue at a quarter to seven."

"That will suit me," said Pembury; "that is, if you are sure the
bloodhounds won't be straying about the grounds."

"Lord bless you, no!" laughed Pratt. "D'you suppose the general lets his
precious hounds stray about for any casual crook to feed with poisoned
sausage? No, they're locked up safe in the kennels at the back of the
house. Hallo! This'll be Swanley, I expect. I'll change into a smoker
here and leave you time to turn the matter over in your mind. So long.
To-morrow evening in the avenue at a quarter to seven. And, I say, Mr.
Pembury, you might as well bring the first installment with you--fifty,
in small notes or gold."

"Very well," said Mr. Pembury. He spoke coldly enough, but there was a
flush on his cheeks and an angry light in his eyes, which, perhaps, the
ex-warder noticed; for when he had stepped out and shut the door, he
thrust his head in at the window and said threateningly -

"One more word, Mr. Pembury-Dobbs: no hanky-panky, you know. I'm an old
hand and pretty fly, I am. So don't you try any chickery-pokery on me.
That's all." He withdrew his head and disappeared, leaving Pembury to his
reflections.

The nature of those reflections, if some telepathist? transferring his
attention for the moment from hidden courtyards or missing thimbles to
more practical matters--could have conveyed them into the mind of Mr.
Pratt, would have caused that quondam official some surprise and,
perhaps, a little disquiet. For long experience of the criminal, as he
appears when in durance, had produced some rather misleading ideas as to
his behaviour when at large. In fact, the ex-warder had considerably
under-estimated the ex-convict.

Rufus Pembury, to give his real name--for Dobbs was literally a nom de
guerre--was a man of strong character and intelligence. So much so that,
having tried the criminal career and found it not worth pursuing, he had
definitely abandoned it. When the cattle-boat that picked him up off
Portland Bill had landed him at an American port, he brought his entire
ability and energy to bear on legitimate commercial pursuits, and with
such success that, at the end of ten years, he was able to return to
England with a moderate competence. Then he had taken a modest house near
the little town of Baysford, where he had lived quietly on his savings
for the last two years, holding aloof without much difficulty from the
rather exclusive local society; and here he might have lived out the rest
of his life in peace but for the unlucky chance that brought the man
Pratt into the neighbourhood. With the arrival of Pratt his security was
utterly destroyed.

There is something eminently unsatisfactory about a blackmailer. No
arrangement with him has any permanent validity. No undertaking that he
gives is binding. The thing which he has sold remains in his possession
to sell over again. He pockets the price of emancipation, but retains the
key of the fetters. In short, the blackmailer is a totally impossible
person.

Such were the considerations that had passed through the mind of Rufus
Pembury, even while Pratt was making his proposals; and those proposals
he had never for an instant entertained. The ex-warder's advice to him to
"turn the matter over in his mind" was unnecessary. For his mind was
already made up. His decision was arrived at in the very moment when
Pratt had disclosed his identity. The conclusion was self-evident. Before
Pratt appeared he was living in peace and security. While Pratt remained,
his liberty was precarious from moment to moment. If Pratt should
disappear, his peace and security would return. Therefore Pratt must be
eliminated.

It was a logical consequence.

The profound meditations, therefore, in which Pembury remained immersed
for the remainder of the journey, had nothing whatever to do with the
quarterly allowance; they were concerned exclusively with the elimination
of ex-warder Pratt.

Now Rufus Pembury was not a ferocious man. He was not even cruel. But he
was gifted with a certain magnanimous cynicism which ignored the
trivialities of sentiment and regarded only the main issues. If a wasp
hummed over his tea-cup, he would crush that wasp; but not with his bare
hand. The wasp carried the means of aggression. That was the wasp's
look-out. His concern was to avoid being stung.

So it was with Pratt. The man had elected, for his own profit, to
threaten Pembury's liberty. Very well. He had done it at his own risk.
That risk was no concern of Pembury's. His concern was his own safety.

When Pembury alighted at Charing Cross, he directed his steps (after
having watched" Pratt's departure from the station) to Buckingham Street,
Strand, where he entered a quiet private hotel. He was apparently
expected, for the manageress greeted him by his name as she handed him
his key.

"Are you staying in town, Mr. Pembury?" she asked.

"No," was the reply. "I go back to-morrow morning, but I may be coming up
again shortly. By the way, you used to have an encyclopaedia in one of
the rooms. Could I see it for a moment?"

"It is in the drawing-room," said the manageress. "Shall I show you--but
you know the way, don't you?"

Certainly Mr. Pembury knew the way. It was on the first floor; a pleasant
old-world room looking on the quiet old street; and on a shelf, amidst a
collection of novels, stood the sedate volumes of Chambers's
Encyclopaedia.

That a gentleman from the country should desire to look up the subject of
"hounds" would not, to a casual observer, have seemed unnatural. But when
from hounds the student proceeded to the article on blood, and thence to
one devoted to perfumes, the observer might reasonably have felt some
surprise; and this surprise might have been augmented if he had followed
Mr. Pembury's subsequent proceedings, and specially if he had considered
them as the actions of a man whose immediate aim was the removal of a
superfluous unit of the population.

Having deposited his bag and umbrella in his room, Pembury set forth from
the hotel as one with a definite purpose; and his footsteps led, in the
first place, to an umbrella shop on the Strand, where he selected a thick
rattan cane. There was nothing remarkable in this, perhaps; but the cane
was of an uncomely thickness and the salesman protested. "I like a thick
cane," said Pembury.

"Yes, sir; but for a gentleman of your height" (Pembury was a small,
slightly-built man) "I would venture to suggest -?"

"I like a thick cane," repeated Pembury. "Cut it down to the proper
length and don't rivet the ferrule on. I'll cement it on when I get
home."

His next investment would have seemed more to the purpose, though
suggestive of unexpected crudity of method. It was a large Norwegian
knife. But not content with this he went on forthwith to a second
cutler's and purchased a second knife, the exact duplicate of the first.
Now, for what purpose could he want two identically similar knives? And
why not have bought them both at the same shop? It was highly mysterious.

Shopping appeared to be a positive mania with Rufus Pembury. In the
course of the next half-hour he acquired a cheap hand-bag, an artist's
black-japanned brush-case, a; three-cornered file, a stick of elastic
glue and a pair of iron crucible-tongs. Still insatiable, he repaired to
an old-fashioned chemist's shop in a by-street, where he further enriched
himself with a packet of absorbent cotton-wool and an ounce of
permanganate of potash; and, as the chemist wrapped up these articles,
with the occult and necromantic air peculiar to chemists, Pembury watched
him impassively.

"I suppose you don't keep musk?" he asked carelessly.

The chemist paused in the act of heating a stick of sealing-wax, and
appeared as if about to mutter an incantation. But he merely replied:
"No, sir. Not the solid musk; it's so very costly. But I have the
essence."

"That isn't as strong as the pure stuff, I suppose?"

"No," replied the chemist, with a cryptic smile, "not so strong, but
strong enough. These animal perfumes are so very penetrating, you know;
and so lasting. Why, I venture to say that if you were to sprinkle a
table-spoonful of the essence in the middle of St. Paul's, the place
would smell of it six months hence."

"You don't say so!" said Pembury. "Well, that ought to be enough for
anybody. I'll take a small quantity, please, and, for goodness' sake, see
that there isn't any on the outside of the bottle. The stuff isn't for
myself, and I don't want to go about smelling like a civet cat."

"Naturally you don't, sir," agreed the chemist. He then produced an ounce
bottle, a small glass funnel and a stoppered bottle labelled "Ess.
Moschi," with which he proceeded to perform a few trifling feats of
legerdemain.

"There, sir," said he, when he had finished the performance, "there is
not a drop on the outside of the bottle, and, if I fit it with a rubber
cork, you will be quite secure."

Pembury's dislike of musk appeared to be excessive, for, when the chemist
had retired into a secret cubicle as if to hold converse with some
familiar spirit (but actually to change half-a-crown), he took the
brush-case from his bag, pulled off its lid, and then, with the
crucible-tongs, daintily lifted the bottle off the counter, slid it
softly into the brush-case, and, replacing the lid, returned the case and
tongs to the bag. The other two packets he took from the counter and
dropped into his pocket, and, when the presiding wizard, having
miraculously transformed a single half-crown into four pennies, handed
him the product, he left the shop and walked thoughtfully back towards
the Strand. Suddenly a new idea seemed to strike him. He halted,
considered for a few moments and then strode away northward to make the
oddest of all his purchases.

The transaction took place in a shop in the Seven Dials, whose strange
stock-in-trade ranged the whole zoological gamut, from water-snails to
Angora cats. Pembury looked at a cage of guinea-pigs in the window and
entered the shop.

"Do you happen to have a dead guinea-pig?" he asked.

"No; mine are all alive," replied the man, adding, with a sinister grin:
"But they're not immortal, you know."

Pembury looked at the man distastefully. There is an appreciable
difference between a guinea-pig and a blackmailer. "Any small mammal
would do," he said.

"There's a dead rat in that cage, if he's any good," said the man. "Died
this morning, so he's quite fresh."

"I'll take the rat," said Pembury; "he'll do quite well."

The little corpse was accordingly made into a parcel and deposited in the
bag, and Pembury, having tendered a complimentary fee, made his way back
to the hotel.

After a modest lunch he went forth and spent the remainder of the day
transacting the business which had originally brought him to town. He
dined at a restaurant and did not return to his hotel until ten o'clock,
when he took his key, and tucking under his arm a parcel that he had
brought in with him, retired for the night. But before undressing--and
after locking his door--he did a very strange and unaccountable thing.
Having pulled off the loose ferrule from his newly-purchased cane, he
bored a hole in the bottom of it with the spike end of the file. Then,
using the latter as a broach, he enlarged the hole until only a narrow
rim of the bottom was left. He next rolled up a small ball of cottonwool
and pushed it into the ferrule; and having smeared the end of the cane
with elastic glue, he replaced the ferrule, warming it over the gas to
make the glue stick.

When he had finished with the cane, he turned his attention to one of the
Norwegian knives. First, he carefully removed with the file most of the
bright, yellow varnish from the wooden case or handle.

Then he opened the knife, and, cutting the string of the parcel that he
had brought in, took from it the dead rat which he had bought at the
zoologist's. Laying the animal on a sheet of paper, he cut off its head,
and, holding it up by the tail, allowed the blood that oozed from the
neck to drop on the knife, spreading it over both sides of the blade and
handle with his finger.

Then he laid the knife on the paper and softly opened the window. From
the darkness below came the voice of a cat, apparently perfecting itself
in the execution of chromatic scales; and in that direction Pembury flung
the body and head of the rat, and closed the window. Finally, having
washed his hands and stuffed the paper from the parcel into the
fire-place, he went to bed.

But his proceedings in the morning were equally mysterious. Having
breakfasted betimes, he returned to his bedroom and locked himself in.
Then he tied his new cane, handle downwards, to the leg of the
dressing-table. Next, with the crucible-tongs, he drew the little bottle
of musk from the brush-case, and, having assured himself, by sniffing at
it, that the exterior was really free from odour, he withdrew the rubber
cork. Then, slowly and with infinite care, he poured a few drops--
perhaps half-a-teaspoonful--of the essence on the cotton-wool that
bulged through the hole in the ferrule, watching the absorbent material
narrowly as it soaked up the liquid. When it was saturated he proceeded
to treat the knife in the same fashion, letting fall a drop of the
essence on the wooden handle--which soaked it up readily. This done, he
slid up the window and looked out. Immediately below was a tiny yard in
which grew, or rather survived, a couple of faded laurel bushes. The body
of the rat was nowhere to be seen; it had apparently been spirited away
in the night. Holding out the bottle, which he still held, he dropped it
into the bushes, flinging the rubber cork after it.

His next proceeding was to take a tube of vaseline from his dressing-bag
and squeeze a small quantity onto his fingers. With this he thoroughly
smeared the shoulder of the brush-case and the inside of the lid, so as
to ensure an air-tight joint. Having wiped his fingers, he picked the
knife up with the crucible-tongs, and, dropping it into the brush-case,
immediately pushed on the lid. Then he heated the tips of the tongs in
the gas flame to destroy the scent, packed the tongs and brush-case in
the bag, untied the cane--carefully avoiding contact with the ferrule--
and, taking up the two bags, went out, holding the cane by its middle.

There was no difficulty in finding an empty compartment, for first-class
passengers were few at that time in the morning. Pembury waited on the
platform until the guard's whistle sounded, when he stepped into the
compartment, shut the door and laid the cane on the seat with its ferrule
projecting out of the off-side window, in which position it remained
until the train drew up in Baysford station.

Pembury left his dressing-bag at the cloak-room, and, still grasping the
cane by its middle, he sallied forth. The town of Baysford lay some
half-a-mile to the east of the station; his own house was a mile along
the road to the west; and half-way between his house and the station was
the residence of General O'Gorman. He knew the place well. Originally a
farmhouse, it stood on the edge of a great expanse of flat meadows and
communicated with the road by an avenue, nearly three hundred yards long,
of ancient trees. The avenue was shut off from the road by a pair of iron
gates, but these were merely ornamental, for the place was unenclosed and
accessible from the surrounding meadows--indeed, an indistinct footpath
crossed the meadows and intersected the avenue about half-way up.

On this occasion Pembury, whose objective was the avenue, elected to
approach it by the latter route; and at each stile or fence that he
surmounted, he paused to survey the country. Presently the avenue arose
before him, lying athwart the narrow track, and, as he entered it between
two of the trees, he halted and looked about him.

He stood listening for a while. Beyond the faint rustle of leaves no
sound was to be heard. Evidently there was no one about, and, as Pratt
was at large, it was probable that the general was absent.

And now Pembury began to examine the adjacent trees with more than a
casual interest. The two between which he had entered were respectively
an elm and a great pollard oak, the latter being an immense tree whose
huge, warty bole divided about seven feet from the ground into three
limbs, each as large as a fair-sized tree, of which the largest swept
outward in a great curve half-way across the avenue. On this patriarch
Pembury bestowed especial attention, walking completely round it and
finally laying down his bag and cane (the latter resting on the bag with
the ferrule off the ground) that he might climb up, by the aid of the
warty outgrowths, to examine the crown; and he had just stepped up into
the space between the three limbs, when the creaking of the iron gates
was followed by a quick step in the avenue. Hastily he let himself down
from the tree, and, gathering up his possessions, stood close behind the
great bole.

"Just as well not to be seen," was his reflection, as he hugged the tree
closely and waited, peering cautiously round the trunk. Soon a streak of
moving shadow heralded the stranger's approach, and he moved round to
keep the trunk between himself and the intruder. On the footsteps came,
until the stranger was abreast of the tree; and when he had passed
Pembury peeped round at the retreating figure. It was only the postman,
but then the man knew him, and he was glad he had kept out of sight.

Apparently the oak did not meet his requirements, for he stepped out and
looked up and down the avenue. Then, beyond the elm, he caught sight of
an ancient pollard hornbeam--a strange, fantastic tree whose trunk
widened out trumpet-like above into a broad crown, from the edge of which
multitudinous branches uprose like the limbs of some weird hamadryad.

That tree he approved at a glance, but he lingered behind the oak until
the postman, returning with brisk step and cheerful whistle, passed down
the avenue and left him once more in solitude. Then he moved on with a
resolute air to the hornbeam.

The crown of the trunk was barely six feet from the ground. He could
reach it easily, as he found on trying. Standing the cane against the
tree--ferrule downwards, this time--he took the brush-case from the
bag, pulled off the lid, and, with the crucible-tongs, lifted out the
knife and laid it on the crown of the tree, just out of sight, leaving
the tongs? also invisible--still grasping the knife. He was about to
replace the brush-case in the bag, when he appeared-to alter his mind.
Sniffing at it, and finding it reeking with the sickly perfume, he pushed
the lid on again and threw the case up into the tree, where he heard it
roll down into the central hollow of the crown. Then he closed the bag,
and, taking the cane by its handle, moved slowly away in the direction
whence he had come, passing out of the avenue between the elm and the
oak.

His mode of progress was certainly peculiar. He walked with excessive
slowness, trailing the cane along the ground, and every few paces he
would stop and press the ferrule firmly against the earth, so that, to
any one who should have observed him, he would have appeared to be
wrapped in an absorbing reverie.

Thus he moved on across the fields, not, however, returning to the high
road, but crossing another stretch of fields until he emerged into a
narrow lane that led out into the High Street. Immediately opposite to
the lane was the police station, distinguished from the adjacent cottages
only by its lamp, its open door and the notices pasted up outside.
Straight across the road Pembury walked, still trailing the cane, and
halted at the station door to read the notices, resting his cane on the
doorstep as he did so. Through the open doorway he could see a man
writing at a desk. The man's back was towards him, but, presently, a
movement brought his left hand into view, and Pembury noted that the
forefinger was missing. This, then, was Jack Ellis, late of the Civil
Guard at Portland.

Even while he was looking the man turned his head, and Pembury recognized
him at once. He had frequently met him on the road between Baysford and
the adjoining village of Thorpe, and always at the same time. Apparently
Ellis paid a daily visit to Thorpe--perhaps to receive a report from the
rural constable--and he started between three and four and returned
between seven and a quarter past.

Pembury looked at his watch. It was a quarter past three. He moved away
thoughtfully (holding his cane, now, by the middle), and began to walk
slowly in the direction of Thorpe--westward.

For a while he was deeply meditative, and his face wore a puzzled frown.
Then, suddenly, his face cleared and he strode forward at a brisker pace.
Presently he passed through a gap in the hedge, and, walking in a field
parallel with the road, took out his purse--a small pigskin pouch.

Having frugally emptied it of its contents, excepting a few shillings, he
thrust the ferrule of his cane into the small compartment ordinarily
reserved for gold or notes.

And thus he continued to walk on slowly, carrying the cane by the middle
and the purse jammed on the end.

At length he reached a sharp double curve in the road whence he could see
back for a considerable distance; and here opposite a small opening, he
sat down to wait. The hedge screened him effectually from the gaze of
passers-by--though these were few enough--without interfering with his
view.

A quarter of an hour passed. He began to be uneasy. Had he been mistaken?
Were Ellis's visits only occasional instead of daily, as he had thought?
That would be tiresome though not actually disastrous. But at this point
in his reflections a figure came into view, advancing along the road with
a steady swing. He recognized the figure. It was Ellis.

But there was another figure advancing from the opposite direction: a
labourer, apparently. He prepared to shift his ground, but another glance
showed him that the labourer would pass first. He waited. The labourer
came on and, at length, passed the opening, and, as he did so, Ellis
disappeared for a moment in a bend of the road. Instantly Pembury passed
his cane through the opening in the hedge, shook off the purse and pushed
it into the middle of the foot-way. Then he crept forward, behind the
hedge, towards the approaching official, and again sat down to wait. On
came the steady tramp of the unconscious Ellis, and, as it passed,
Pembury drew aside an obstructing branch and peered out at the retreating
figure. The question now was, would Ellis see the purse? It was not a
very conspicuous object.

The footsteps stopped abruptly. Looking out, Pembury saw the police
official stoop, pick up the purse, examine its contents and finally stow
it in his trousers pocket. Pembury heaved a sigh of relief; and, as the
dwindling figure passed out of sight round a curve in the road, he rose,
stretched himself and strode away briskly.

Near the gap was a group of ricks, and, as he passed them, a fresh idea
suggested itself. Looking round quickly he passed to the farther side of
one and, thrusting his cane deeply into it, pushed it home with a piece
of stick that he picked up near the rick, until the handle was lost among
the straw. The bag was now all that was left, and it was empty--for his
other purchases were in the dressing-bag, which, by the way, he must
fetch from the station. He opened it and smelt the interior, but, though
he could detect no odour, he resolved to be rid of it if possible.

As he emerged from the gap a wagon jogged slowly past. It was piled high
with sacks, and the tail-board Was down. Stepping into the road, he
quickly overtook the wagon, and, having glanced round, laid the bag
lightly on the tail-board. Then he set off for the station.

On arriving home he went straight up to his bedroom, and, ringing for his
housekeeper, ordered a substantial meal. Then he took off his clothes and
deposited them, even to his shirt, socks and necktie, in a trunk, wherein
his summer clothing was stored with a plentiful sprinkling of naphthol to
preserve it from the moth. Taking the packet of permanganate of potash
from his dressing-bag, he passed into the adjoining bathroom, and,
tipping the crystals into the bath, turned on the water. Soon the bath
was filled with a pink solution of the salt, and into this he plunged,
immersing his entire body and thoroughly soaking his hair. Then he
emptied the bath and rinsed himself in clear water, and, having dried
himself, returned to the bedroom and dressed himself in fresh clothing.
Finally he took a hearty meal, and then lay down on the sofa to rest
until it should be time to start for the rendezvous.

Half-past six found him lurking in the shadow by the station-approach,
within sight of the solitary lamp. He heard the train come in, saw the
stream of passengers emerge, and noted one figure detach itself from the
throng and turn on to the Thorpe road. It was Pratt, as the lamplight
showed him; Pratt, striding forward to the meeting-place with an air of
jaunty satisfaction and an uncommonly creaky pair of boots.

Pembury followed him at a safe distance, and rather by sound than sight,
until he was well past the stile at the entrance to the footpath.
Evidently he was going on to the gates. Then Pembury vaulted over the
stile and strode away swiftly across the dark meadows.

When he plunged into the deep gloom of the avenue, his first act was to
grope his way to the hornbeam and slip his hand up onto the crown and
satisfy himself that the tongs were as he had left them. Reassured by the
touch of his fingers on the iron loops, he turned and walked slowly down
the avenue. The duplicate knife--ready opened--was in his left inside
breast-pocket, and he fingered its handle as he walked.

Presently the iron gate squeaked mournfully, and then the rhythmical
creak of a pair of boots was audible, coming up the avenue. Pembury
walked forward slowly until a darker smear emerged from the surrounding
gloom, when he called out -

"Is that you, Pratt?"

"That's me," was the cheerful, if ungrammatical response, and, as he drew
nearer, the ex-warder asked: "Have you brought the rhino, old man?"

The insolent familiarity of the man's tone was agreeable to Pembury: it
strengthened his nerve and hardened his heart. "Of course," he replied;
"but we must have a definite understanding, you know."

"Look here," said Pratt, "I've got no time for jaw. The General will be
here presently; he's riding over from Bingfield with a friend. You hand
over the dibs and we'll talk some other time."

"That is all very well," said Pembury, "but you must understand -?" He
paused abruptly and stood still. They were now close to the hornbeam,
and, as he stood, he stared up into the dark mass of foliage.

"What's the matter?" demanded Pratt. "What are you staring at?" He, too,
had halted and stood gazing intently into the darkness.

Then, in an instant, Pembury whipped out the knife and drove it, with all
his strength, into the broad back of the ex-warder, below the left
shoulder-blade.

With a hideous yell Pratt turned and grappled with his assailant. A
powerful man and a competent wrestler, too, he was far more than a match
for Pembury unarmed, and, in a moment, he had him by the throat. But
Pembury clung to him tightly, and, as they trampled to and fro and round
and round, he stabbed again and again with the viciousness of a scorpion,
while Pratt's cries grew more gurgling and husky. Then they fell heavily
to the ground, Pembury underneath. But the struggle was over. With a last
bubbling groan, Pratt relaxed his hold and in a moment grew limp and
inert. Pembury pushed him off and rose, trembling and breathing heavily.

But he wasted no time. There had been more noise than he had bargained
for. Quickly stepping up to the hornbeam, he reached up for the tongs.
His fingers slid into the looped handles; the tongs grasped the knife,
and he lifted it out from its hiding-place and carried it to where the
corpse lay, depositing it on the ground a few feet from the body. Then he
went back to the tree and carefully pushed the tongs over into the hollow
of the crown.

At this moment a woman's voice sounded shrilly from the top of the
avenue.

"Is that you, Mr. Pratt?" it called.

Pembury started and then stepped back quickly, on tiptoe, to the body.
For there was the duplicate knife. He must take that away at all costs.

The corpse was lying on its back. The knife was underneath it, driven in
to the very haft. He had to use both hands to lift the body, and even
then he had some difficulty in disengaging the weapon. And, meanwhile,
the voice, repeating its question, drew nearer.

At length he succeeded in drawing out the knife and thrust it into his
breast-pocket. The corpse fell back, and he stood up gasping.

"Mr. Pratt! Are you there?" The nearness of the voice startled Pembury,
and, turning sharply, he saw a light twinkling between the trees. And
then the gates creaked loudly and he heard the crunch of a horse's hoofs
on the gravel.

He stood for an instant bewildered--utterly taken by surprise. He had
not reckoned on a horse. His intended flight across the meadows towards
Thorpe was now impracticable. If he were overtaken he was lost, for he
knew there was blood on his clothes and his hands were wet and slippery--
to say nothing of the knife in his pocket.

But his confusion lasted only for an instant. He remembered the oak tree;
and, turning out of the avenue, he ran to it, and, touching it as little
as he could with his bloody hands, climbed quickly up into the crown. The
great horizontal limb was nearly three feet in diameter, and, as he lay
out on it, gathering his coat closely round him, he was quite invisible
from below.

He had hardly settled himself when the light which he had seen came into
full view, revealing a woman advancing with a stable lantern in her hand.
And, almost at the same moment, a streak of brighter light burst from the
opposite direction. The horseman was accompanied by a man on a bicycle.

The two men came on apace, and the horseman, sighting the woman, called
out: "Anything the matter, Mrs. Parton?" But, at that moment, the light
of the bicycle lamp fell full on the prostrate corpse. The two men
uttered a simultaneous cry of horror; the woman shrieked aloud: and then
the horseman sprang from the saddle and ran forward to the body.

"Why," he exclaimed, stooping over it, "it's Pratt;" and, as the cyclist
came up and the glare of his lamp shone on a great pool of blood, he
added: "There's been foul play here, Hanford."

Hanford flashed his lamp around the body, lighting up the ground for
several yards.

"What is that behind you, O'Gorman?" he said suddenly; "isn't it a
knife?" He was moving quickly towards it when O'Gorman held up his hand.

"Don't touch it!" he exclaimed. "We'll put the hounds onto it. They'll
soon track the scoundrel, whoever he is. By God! Hanford, this fellow has
fairly delivered himself into our hands." He stood for a few moments
looking down at the knife with something uncommonly like exultation, and
then, turning quickly to his friend, said: "Look here, Hanford; you ride
off to the police station as hard as you can pelt. It is only
three-quarters of a mile; you'll do it in five minutes. Send or bring an
officer and I'll scour the meadows meanwhile. If I haven't got the
scoundrel when you come back, we'll put the hounds onto this knife and
run the beggar down."

"Right," replied Hanford, and without another word he wheeled his machine
about, mounted and rode away into the darkness.

"Mrs. Parton," said O'Gorman, "watch that knife. See that nobody touches
it while I go and examine the meadows."

"Is Mr. Pratt dead, sir?" whimpered Mrs. Parton.

"Gad! I hadn't thought of that," said the general. "You'd better have a
look at him; but mind! nobody is to touch that knife or they will confuse
the scent."

He scrambled into the saddle and galloped away across the meadows in the
direction of Thorpe; and, as Pembury listened to the diminuendo of the
horse's hoofs, he was glad that he had not attempted to escape; for that
was the direction in which he had meant to go, and he would surely have
been overtaken.

As soon as the general was gone, Mrs. Parton, with many a terror-stricken
glance over her shoulder, approached the corpse and held the lantern
close to the dead face. Suddenly she stood up, trembling violently, for
footsteps were audible coming down the avenue. A familiar voice reassured
her.

"Is anything wrong, Mrs. Parton?" The question proceeded from one of the
maids who had come in search of the elder woman, escorted by a young man,
and the pair now came out into the circle of light.

"Good God!" ejaculated the man. "Who's that?"

"It's Mr. Pratt," replied Mrs. Parton. "He's been murdered."

The girl screamed, and then the two domestics approached on tiptoe,
staring at the corpse with the fascination of horror.

"Don't touch that knife," said Mrs. Parton, for the man was about to pick
it up. "The general's going to put the bloodhounds onto it."

"Is the general here, then?" asked the man; and, as he spoke, the
drumming of hoofs, growing momentarily louder, answered him from the
meadow.

O'Gorman reined in his horse as he perceived the group of servants
gathered about the corpse. "Is he dead, Mrs. Parton?" he asked.

"I am afraid so, sir," was the reply.

"Ha! Somebody ought to go for the doctor; but not you, Bailey. I want you
to get the hounds ready and wait with them at the top of the avenue until
I call you."

He was off again into the Baysford meadows, and Bailey hurried away,
leaving the two women staring at the body and talking in whispers.

Pembury's position was cramped and uncomfortable. He dared not move,
hardly dared to breathe, for the women below him were not a dozen yards
away; and it was with mingled feelings of relief and apprehension that he
presently saw from his elevated station a group of lights approaching
rapidly along the road from Baysford. Presently they were hidden by the
trees, and then, after a brief interval, the whirr of wheels sounded on
the drive and streaks of light on the tree-trunks announced the new
arrivals. There were three bicycles, ridden respectively by Mr. Hanford,
a police inspector and a sergeant; and, as they drew up, the general came
thundering back into the avenue.

"Is Ellis with you?" he asked, as he pulled up.

"No, sir," was the reply. "He hadn't come in from Thorpe when we left.
He's rather late to-night."

"Have you sent for a doctor?"

"Yes, sir, I've sent for Dr. Hills," said the inspector, resting his
bicycle against the oak. Pembury could smell the reek of the lamp as he
crouched. "Is Pratt dead?"

"Seems to be," replied O'Gorman, "but we'd better leave that to the
doctor. There's the murderer's knife. Nobody has touched it. I'm going to
fetch the bloodhounds now."

"Ah! that's the thing," said the inspector. "The man can't be far away."
He rubbed his hands with a satisfied air as O'Gorman cantered away up the
avenue.

In less than a minute there came out from the darkness the deep baying of
a hound followed by quick footsteps on the gravel. Then into the circle
of light emerged three sinister shapes, loose-limbed and gaunt, and two
men advancing at a shambling trot.

"Here, inspector," shouted the general, "you take one; I can't hold 'em
both."

The inspector ran forward and seized one of the leashes, and the general
led his hound up to the knife, as it lay on the ground. Pembury, peering
cautiously round the bough, watched the great brute with almost
impersonal curiosity; noted its high poll, its wrinkled forehead and
melancholy face as it stooped to snuff suspiciously at the prostrate
knife.

For some moments the hound stood motionless, sniffing at the knife; then
it turned away and walked to and fro with its muzzle to the ground.
Suddenly it lifted its head, bayed loudly, lowered its muzzle and started
forward between the oak and the elm, dragging the general after it at a
run.

The inspector next brought his hound to the knife, and was soon bounding
away to the tug of the leash in the general's wake.

"They don't make no mistakes, they don't," said Bailey, addressing the
gratified sergeant, as he brought forward the third hound; "you'll see
-?" But his remark was cut short by a violent jerk of the leash, and the
next moment he was flying after the others, followed by Mr. Hanford.

The sergeant daintily picked the knife up by its ring, wrapped it in his
handkerchief and bestowed it in his pocket. Then he ran off after the
hounds.

Pembury smiled grimly. His scheme was working out admirably in spite of
the unforeseen difficulties. If those confounded women would only go
away, he could come down and take himself off while the course was clear.
He listened to the baying of the hounds, gradually growing fainter in the
increasing distance, and cursed the dilatoriness of the doctor. Confound
the fellow! Didn't he realize that this was a case of life or death?

Suddenly his ear caught the tinkle of a bicycle bell; a fresh light
appeared coming up the avenue and then a bicycle swept up swiftly to the
scene of the tragedy, and a small elderly man jumped down by the side of
the body. Giving his machine to Mrs. Parton, he stooped over the dead
man, felt the wrist, pushed back an eyelid, held a match to the eye and
then rose. "This is a shocking affair, Mrs. Parton," said he. "The poor
fellow is quite dead. You had better help me to carry him to the house.
If you two take the feet I will take the shoulders."

Pembury watched them raise the body and stagger away with it up the
avenue. He heard their shuffling steps die away and the door of the house
shut. And still he listened. From far away in the meadows came, at
intervals, the baying of the hounds. Other sounds there was none.
Presently the doctor would come back for his bicycle, but, for the
moment, the coast was clear. Pembury rose stiffly. His hands had stuck to
the tree where they had pressed against it, and they were still sticky
and damp. Quickly he let himself down to the ground, listened again for a
moment, and then, making a small circuit to avoid the lamplight, softly
crossed the avenue and stole away across the Thorpe meadows.

The night was intensely dark, and not a soul was stirring in the meadows.
He strode forward quickly, peering into the darkness and stopping now and
again to listen; but no sound came to his ears, save the now faint baying
of the distant hounds. Not far from his house, he remembered, was a deep
ditch spanned by a wooden bridge, and towards this he now made his way;
for he knew that his appearance was such as to convict him at a glance.
Arrived at the ditch, he stooped to wash his hands and wrists; and, as he
bent forward, the knife fell from his breast-pocket into the shallow
water at the margin. He groped for it, and, having found it, drove it
deep into the mud as far out as he could reach. Then he wiped his hands
on some water-weed, crossed the bridge and started homewards.

He approached his house from the rear, satisfied himself that his
housekeeper was in the kitchen, and, letting himself in very quietly with
his key, went quickly up to his bedroom. Here he washed thoroughly--in
the bath, so that he could get rid of the discoloured water--changed his
clothes and packed those that he took off in a portmanteau.

By the time he had done this the gong sounded for supper. As he took his
seat at the table, spruce and fresh in appearance, quietly cheerful in
manner, he addressed his housekeeper. "I wasn't able to finish my
business in London," he said. "I shall have to go up again tomorrow."

"Shall you come home the same day?" asked the housekeeper.

"Perhaps," was the reply, "and perhaps not. It will depend on
circumstances."

He did not say what the circumstances might be, nor did the housekeeper
ask. Mr. Pembury was not addicted to confidences. He was an eminently
discreet man: and discreet men say little.


PART II. RIVAL SLEUTH-HOUNDS


(Related by Christopher Jervis, M.D.)

The half-hour that follows breakfast, when the fire has, so to speak, got
into its stride, and the morning pipe throws up its clouds of incense,
is, perhaps, the most agreeable in the whole day. Especially so when a
sombre sky, brooding over the town, hints at streets pervaded by the
chilly morning air, and hoots from protesting tugs upon the river tell of
lingering mists, the legacy of the lately-vanished night.

The autumn morning was raw: the fire burned jovially. I thrust my
slippered feet towards the blaze and meditated, on nothing in particular,
with cat-like enjoyment. Presently a disapproving grunt from Thorndyke
attracted my attention, and I looked round lazily. He was extracting,
with a pair of office shears, the readable portions of the morning paper,
and had paused with a small cutting between his finger and thumb.
"Bloodhounds again," said he. "We shall be hearing presently of the
revival of the ordeal by fire."

"And a deuced comfortable ordeal, too, on a morning like this," I said,
stroking my legs ecstatically. "What is the case?"

He was about to reply when a sharp rat-tat from the little brass knocker
announced a disturber of our peace. Thorndyke stepped over to the door
and admitted a police inspector in uniform, and I stood up, and,
presenting my dorsal aspect to the fire, prepared to combine bodily
comfort with attention to business.

"I believe I am speaking to Dr. Thorndyke," said the officer, and, as
Thorndyke nodded, he went on: "My name, sir, is Fox, Inspector Fox of the
Baysford Police. Perhaps you've seen the morning paper?"

Thorndyke held up the cutting, and, placing a chair by the fire, asked
the inspector if he had breakfasted.

"Thank you, sir, I have," replied Inspector Fox. "I came up to town by
the late train last night so as to be here early, and stayed at an hotel.
You see, from the paper, that we have had to arrest one of our own men.
That's rather awkward, you know, sir."

"Very," agreed Thorndyke.

"Yes; it's bad for the force and bad for the public too. But we had to do
it. There was no way out that we could see. Still, we should like the
accused to have every chance, both for our sake and his own, so the chief
constable thought he'd like to have your opinion on the case, and he
thought that, perhaps, you might be willing to act for the defence."

"Let us have the particulars," said Thorndyke, taking a writing-pad from
a drawer and dropping into his armchair. "Begin at the beginning," he
added, "and tell us all you know."

"Well," said the inspector, after a preliminary cough, "to begin with the
murdered man: his name is Pratt. He was a retired prison warder, and was
employed as steward by General O'Gorman, who is a retired prison governor
--you may have heard of him in connection with his pack of bloodhounds.
Well, Pratt came down from London yesterday evening by a train arriving
at Baysford at six-thirty. He was seen by the guard, the ticket collector
and the outside porter. The porter saw him leave the station at
six-thirty-seven. General O'Gorman's house is about half-a-mile from the
station. At five minutes to seven the general and a gentleman named
Hanford and the general's housekeeper, a Mrs. Parton, found Pratt lying
dead in the avenue that leads up to the house. He had apparently been
stabbed, for there was a lot of blood about, and a knife--a Norwegian
knife--was lying on the ground near the body. Mrs. Parton had thought
she heard some one in the avenue calling out for help, and, as Pratt was
just due, she came out with a lantern. She met the general and Mr.
Hanford, and all three seem to have caught sight of the body at the same
moment. Mr. Hanford cycled down to us, at once, with the news; we sent
for a doctor, and I went back with Mr. Hanford and took a sergeant with
me. We arrived at twelve minutes past seven, and then the general, who
had galloped his horse over the meadows each side of the avenue without
having seen anybody, fetched out his bloodhounds and led them up to the
knife. All three hounds took up the scent at once--I held the leash of
one of them--and they took us across the meadows without a pause or a
falter, over stiles and fences, along a lane, out into the town, and
then, one after the other, they crossed the road in a bee-line to the
police station, bolted in at the door, which stood open, and made
straight for the desk, where a supernumerary officer, named Ellis, was
writing. They made a rare to-do, struggling to get at him, and it was as
much as we could manage to hold them back. As for Ellis, he turned as
pale as a ghost."

"Was any one else in the room?" asked Thorndyke.

"Oh, yes. There were two constables and a messenger. We led the hounds up
to them, but the brutes wouldn't take any notice of them. They wanted
Ellis."

"And what did you do?"

"Why, we arrested Ellis, of course. Couldn't do anything else--
especially with the general there."

"What had the general to do with it?" asked Thorndyke.

"He's a J.P. and a late governor of Dartmoor, and it was his hounds that
had run the man down. But we must have arrested Ellis in any case."

"Is there anything against the accused man?"

"Yes, there is. He and Pratt were on distinctly unfriendly terms. They
were old comrades, for Ellis was in the Civil Guard at Portland when
Pratt was warder there--he was pensioned off from the service because he
got his left forefinger chopped off--but lately they had had some
unpleasantness about a woman, a parlourmaid of the general's. It seems
that Ellis, who is a married man, paid the girl too much attention--or
Pratt thought he did--and Pratt warned Ellis off the premises. Since
then they had not been on speaking terms."

"And what sort of a man is Ellis?"

"A remarkably decent fellow he always seemed; quiet, steady,
good-natured; I should have said he wouldn't have hurt a fly. We all
liked him--better than we liked Pratt, in fact; poor Pratt was what
you'd call an old soldier--sly, you know, sir--and a bit of a sneak."

"You searched and examined Ellis, of course?"

"Yes. There was nothing suspicious about him except that he had two
purses. But he says he picked up one of them? a small, pigskin pouch--on
the footpath of the Thorpe road yesterday afternoon; and there's no
reason to disbelieve him. At any rate, the purse was not Pratt's."

Thorndyke made a note on his pad, and then asked: "There were no
blood-stains or marks on his clothing?"

"No. His clothing was not marked or disarranged in any way."

"Any cuts, scratches or bruises on his person?"

"None whatever," replied the inspector.

"At what time did you arrest Ellis?"

"Half-past seven exactly."

"Have you ascertained what his movements were? Had he been near the scene
of the murder?"

"Yes; he had been to Thorpe and would pass the gates of the avenue on his
way back. And he was later than usual in returning, though not later than
he has often been before."

"And now, as to the murdered man: has the body been examined?"

"Yes; I had Dr. Hills's report before I left. There were no less than
seven deep knife-wounds, all on the left side of the back. There was a
great deal of blood on the ground, and Dr. Hills thinks Pratt must have
bled to death in a minute or two."

"Do the wounds correspond with the knife that was found?"

"I asked the doctor that, and he said 'Yes,' though he wasn't going to
swear to any particular knife. However, that point isn't of much
importance. The knife was covered with blood, and it was found close to
the body."

"What has been done with it, by the way?" asked Thorndyke.

"The sergeant who was with me picked it up and rolled it in his
handkerchief to carry in his pocket. I took it from him, just as it was,
and locked it in a dispatch-box."

"Has the knife been recognized as Ellis's property?"

"No, sir, it has not."

"Were there any recognizable footprints or marks of a struggle?"
Thorndyke asked.

The inspector grinned sheepishly. "I haven't examined the spot, of
course, sir," said he, "but, after the general's horse and the
bloodhounds and the general on foot and me and the gardener and the
sergeant and Mr. Hanford had been over it twice, going and returning,
why, you see, sir -?"

''Exactly, exactly," said Thorndyke. "Well, inspector, I shall be pleased
to act for the defence; it seems to me that the case against Ellis is in
some respects rather inconclusive."

The inspector was frankly amazed. "It certainly hadn't struck me in that
light, sir," he said.

"No? Well, that is my view; and I think the best plan will be for me to
come down with you and investigate matters on the spot."

The inspector assented cheerfully, and, when we had provided him with a
newspaper, we withdrew to the laboratory to consult time-tables and
prepare for the expedition.

"You are coming, I suppose, Jervis?" said Thorndyke.

"If I shall be of any use," I replied.

"Of course you will," said he. "Two heads are better than one, and, by
the look of things, I should say that ours will be the only ones with any
sense in them. We will take the research case, of course, and we may as
well have a camera with us. I see there is a train from Charing Cross in
twenty minutes."

For the first half-hour of the journey Thorndyke sat in his corner,
alternately conning over his notes and gazing with thoughtful eyes out of
the window. I could see that the case pleased him, and was careful not to
break in upon his train of thought. Presently, however, he put away his
notes and began to fill his pipe with a more companionable air, and then
the inspector, who had been wriggling with impatience, opened fire.

"So you think, sir, that you see a way out for Ellis?"

"I think there is a case for the defence," replied Thorndyke. "In fact, I
call the evidence against him rather flimsy."

The inspector gasped. "But the knife, sir? What about the knife?"

"Well," said Thorndyke, "what about the knife? Whose knife was it? You
don't know. It was covered with blood. Whose blood? You don't know. Let
us assume, for the sake of argument, that it was the murderer's knife.
Then the blood on it was Pratt's blood. But if it was Pratt's blood, when
the hounds had smelt it they should have led you to Pratt's body, for
blood gives a very strong scent. But they did not. They ignored the body.
The inference seems to be that the blood on the knife was not Pratt's
blood."

The inspector took off his cap and gently scratched the back of his head.
"You're perfectly right, sir," he said. "I'd never thought of that. None
of us had."

"Then," pursued Thorndyke, "let us assume that the knife was Pratt's. If
so, it would seem to have been used in self-defence. But this was a
Norwegian knife, a clumsy tool--not a weapon at all--which takes an
appreciable time to open and requires the use of two free hands. Now, had
Pratt both hands free? Certainly not after the attack had commenced.
There were seven wounds, all on the left side of the back; which
indicates that he held the murderer locked in his arms and that the
murderer's arms were around him. Also, incidentally, that the murderer is
right-handed. But, still, let us assume that the knife was Pratt's. Then
the blood on it was that of the murderer. Then the murderer must have
been wounded. But Ellis was not wounded. Then Ellis is not the murderer.
The knife doesn't help us at all."

The inspector puffed out his cheeks and blew softly. "This is getting out
of my depth," he said. "Still, sir, you can't get over the bloodhounds.
They tell us distinctly that the knife is Ellis's knife and I don't see
any answer to that."

"There is no answer because there has been no statement. The bloodhounds
have told you nothing. You have drawn certain inferences from their
actions, but those inferences may be totally wrong and they are certainly
not evidence."

"You don't seem to have much opinion of bloodhounds," the inspector
remarked.

"As agents for the detection of crime," replied Thorndyke, "I regard them
as useless. You cannot put a bloodhound in the witness-box. You can get
no intelligible statement from it. If it possesses any knowledge, it has
no means of communicating it. The fact is," he continued, "that the
entire system of using bloodhounds for criminal detection is based on a
fallacy. In the American plantations these animals were used with great
success for tracking runaway slaves. But the slave was a known
individual. All that was required was to ascertain his whereabouts. That
is not the problem that is presented in the detection of a crime. The
detective is not concerned in establishing the whereabouts of a known
individual, but in discovering the identity of an unknown individual. And
for this purpose bloodhounds are useless. They may discover such
identity, but they cannot communicate their knowledge. If the criminal is
unknown, they cannot identify him: if he is known, the police have no
need of the bloodhound.

"To return to our present case," Thorndyke resumed, after a pause; "we
have employed certain agents--the hounds--with whom we are not en
rapport, as the spiritualists would say; and we have no 'medium.' The
hound possesses a special sense--the olfactory--which in man is quite
rudimentary. He thinks, so to speak, in terms of smell, and his thoughts
are untranslatable to beings in whom the sense of smell is undeveloped.
We have presented to the hound a knife, and he discovers in it certain
odorous properties; he discovers similar or related odorous properties in
a tract of land and a human individual--Ellis. We cannot verify his
discoveries or ascertain their nature. What remains? All that we can say
is that there appears to exist some odorous relation between the knife
and the man Ellis. But until we can ascertain the nature of that
relation, we cannot estimate its evidential value or bearing. All the
other 'evidence' is the product of your imagination and that of the
general. There is, at present, no case against Ellis."

"He must have been pretty close to the place when the murder happened,"
said the inspector.

"So. probably, were many other people," answered Thorndyke; "but had he
time to wash and change? Because he would have needed it."

"I suppose he would," the inspector agreed dubiously.

"Undoubtedly. There were seven wounds which would have taken some time to
inflict. Now we can't suppose that Pratt stood passively while the other
man stabbed him? indeed, as I have said, the position of the wounds shows
that he did not. There was a struggle. The two men were locked together.
One of the murderer's hands was against Pratt's back; probably both hands
were, one clasping and the other stabbing. There must have been blood on
one hand and probably on both. But you say there was no blood on Ellis,
and there doesn't seem to have been time or opportunity for him to wash."

"Well, it's a mysterious affair," said the inspector; "but I don't see
how you are going to get over the bloodhounds."

Thorndyke shrugged his shoulders impatiently. "The bloodhounds are an
obsession," he said. "The whole problem really centres around the knife.
The questions are, Whose knife was it? and what was the connection
between it and Ellis? There is a problem, Jervis," he continued, turning
to me, "that I submit for your consideration. Some of the possible
solutions are exceedingly curious."

As we set out from Baysford station, Thorndyke looked at his watch and
noted the time. "You will take us the way that Pratt went," he said.

"As to that," said the inspector, "he may have gone by the road or by the
footpath; but there's very little difference in the distance."

Turning away from Baysford, we walked along the road westward, towards
the village of Thorpe, and presently passed on our right a stile at the
entrance to a footpath.

"That path," said the inspector, "crosses the avenue about half-way up.
But we'd better keep to the road." A quarter of a mile further on we came
to a pair of rusty iron gates one of which stood open, and, entering, we
found ourselves in a broad drive bordered by two rows of trees, between
the trunks of which a long stretch of pasture meadows could be seen on
either hand. It was a fine avenue, and, late in the year as it was, the
yellowing foliage clustered thickly overhead.

When we had walked about a hundred and fifty yards from the gates, the
inspector halted.

"This is the place," he said; and Thorndyke again noted the time.

"Nine minutes exactly," said he. "Then Pratt arrived here about fourteen
minutes to seven, and his body was found at five minutes to seven--nine
minutes after his arrival. The murderer couldn't have been far away
then."

"No, it was a pretty fresh scent," replied the inspector. "You'd like to
see the body first, I think you said, sir?"

"Yes; and the knife, if you please."

"I shall have to send down to the station for that. It's locked up in the
office."

He entered the house, and, having dispatched a messenger to the police
station, came out and conducted us to the outbuilding where the corpse
had been deposited. Thorndyke made a rapid examination of the wounds and
the holes in the clothing, neither of which presented anything
particularly suggestive. The weapon used had evidently been a
thick-backed, single-edged knife similar to the one described, and the
discolouration around the wounds indicated that the weapon had a definite
shoulder like that of a Norwegian knife, and that it had been driven in
with savage violence.

"Do you find anything that throws any light on the case?" the inspector
asked, when the examination was concluded.

"That is impossible to say until we have seen the knife," replied
Thorndyke; "but while we are waiting for it, we may as well go and look
at the scene of the tragedy. These are Pratt's boots, I think?" He lifted
a pair of stout laced boots from the table and turned them up to inspect
the soles.

"Yes, those are his boots," replied Fox, "and pretty easy they'd have
been to track, if the case had been the other way about. Those Blakey's
protectors are as good as a trademark."

"We'll take them, at any rate," said Thorndyke; and, the inspector having
taken the boots from him, we went out and retraced our steps down the
avenue.

The place where the murder had occurred was easily identified by a large
dark stain on the gravel at one side of the drive, half-way between two
trees--an ancient pollard hornbeam and an elm. Next to the elm was a
pollard oak with a squat, warty bole about seven feet high, and three
enormous limbs, of which one slanted half-way across the avenue; and
between these two trees the ground was covered with the tracks of men and
hounds superimposed upon the hoof-prints of a horse.

"Where was the knife found?" Thorndyke asked.

The inspector indicated a spot near the middle of the drive, almost
opposite the hornbeam and Thorndyke, picking up a large stone, laid it on
the spot. Then he surveyed the scene thoughtfully, looking up and down
the drive and at the trees that bordered it, and, finally, walked slowly
to the space between the elm and the oak, scanning the ground as he went.
"There is no dearth of footprints," he remarked grimly, as he looked down
at the trampled earth.

"No, but the question is, whose are they?" said the inspector.

"Yes, that is the question," agreed Thorndyke; "and we will begin the
solution by identifying those of Pratt."

"I don't see how that will help us," said the inspector. "We know he was
here."

Thorndyke looked at him in surprise, and I must confess that the foolish
remark astonished me too, accustomed as I was to the quick-witted
officers from Scotland Yard.

"The hue and cry procession," remarked Thorndyke, "seems to have passed
out between the elm and the oak; elsewhere the ground seems pretty
clear." He walked round the elm, still looking earnestly at the ground,
and presently continued: "Now here, in the soft earth bordering the turf,
are the prints of a pair of smallish feet wearing pointed boots; a rather
short man, evidently, by the size of foot and length of stride, and he
doesn't seem to have belonged to the procession. But I don't see any of
Pratt's; he doesn't seem to have come off the hard gravel." He continued
to walk slowly towards the hornbeam with his eyes fixed on the ground.
Suddenly he halted and stooped with an eager look at the earth; and, as
Fox and I approached, he stood up and pointed. "Pratt's footprints--
faint and fragmentary, but unmistakable. And now, inspector, you see
their importance. They furnish the time factor in respect of the other
footprints. Look at this one and then look at that." He pointed from one
to another of the faint impressions of the dead man's foot.

"You mean that there are signs of a struggle?" said Fox.

"I mean more than that," replied Thorndyke. "Here is one of Pratt's
footprints treading into the print of a small, pointed foot; and there at
the edge of the gravel is another of Pratt's nearly obliterated by the
tread of a pointed foot. Obviously the first pointed footprint was made
before Pratt's, and the second one after his; and the necessary inference
is that the owner of the pointed foot was here at the same time as
Pratt."

"Then he must have been the murderer!" exclaimed Fox.

"Presumably," answered Thorndyke; "but let us see whither he went. You
notice, in the first place, that the man stood close to this tree"--he
indicated the hornbeam--"and that he went towards the elm. Let us follow
him. He passes the elm, you see, and you will observe that these tracks
form a regular series leading from the hornbeam and not mixed up with the
marks of the struggle. They were, therefore, probably made after the
murder had been perpetrated. You will also notice that they pass along
the backs of the trees--outside the avenue, that is; what does that
suggest to you?"

"It suggests to me," I said, when the inspector had shaken his head
hopelessly, "that there was possibly some one in the avenue when the man
was stealing off."

"Precisely," said Thorndyke. "The body was found not more than nine
minutes after Pratt arrived here. But the murder must have taken some
time. Then the housekeeper thought she heard some one calling and came
out with a lantern, and, at the same time, the general and Mr. Hanford
came up the drive. The suggestion is that the man sneaked along outside
the trees to avoid being seen. However, let us follow the tracks. They
pass the elm and they pass on behind the next tree; but wait! There is
something odd here." He passed behind the great pollard oak and looked
down at the soft earth by its roots. "Here is a pair of impressions much
deeper than the rest, and they are not a part of the track since their
toes point towards the tree. What do you make of that?" Without waiting
for an answer he began closely to scan the bole of the tree and
especially a large, warty protuberance about three feet from the ground.
On the bark above this was a vertical mark, as if something had scraped
down the tree, and from the wart itself a dead twig had been newly broken
off and lay upon the ground. Pointing to these marks Thorndyke set his
foot on the protuberance, and, springing up, brought his eye above the
level of the crown, whence the great boughs branched off.

"Ah!" he exclaimed. "Here is something much more definite." With the aid
of another projection, he scrambled up into the crown of the tree, and,
having glanced quickly round, beckoned to us. I stepped up on the
projecting lump and, as my eyes rose above the crown, I perceived the
brown, shiny impression of a hand on the edge. Climbing into the crown, I
was quickly followed by the inspector, and we both stood up by Thorndyke
between the three boughs. From where we stood we looked on the upper side
of the great limb that swept out across the avenue; and there on its
lichen-covered surface, we saw the imprints in reddish-brown of a pair of
open hands.

"You notice," said Thorndyke, leaning out upon the bough, "that he is a
short man; I cannot conveniently place my hands so low. You also note
that he has both forefingers intact, and so is certainly not Ellis."

"If you mean to say, sir, that these marks were made by the murderer,"
said Fox, "I say it's impossible. Why, that would mean that he was here
looking down at us when we were searching for him with the hounds. The
presence of the hounds proves that this man could not have been the
murderer."

"On the contrary," said Thorndyke, "the presence of this man with bloody
hands confirms the other evidence, which all indicates that the hounds
were never on the murderer's trail at all. Come now, inspector, I put it
to you: Here is a murdered man; the murderer has almost certainly blood
upon his hands; and here is a man with bloody hands, lurking in a tree
within a few feet of the corpse and within a few minutes of its discovery
(as is shown by the footprints); what are the reasonable probabilities?"

"But you are forgetting the bloodhounds, sir, and the murderer's knife,"
urged the inspector.

"Tut, tut, man!" exclaimed Thorndyke; "those bloodhounds are a positive
obsession. But I see a sergeant coming up the drive, with the knife, I
hope. Perhaps that will solve the riddle for us."

The sergeant, who carried a small dispatch-box, halted opposite the tree
in some surprise while we descended, when he came forward with a military
salute and handed the box to the inspector, who forthwith unlocked it,
and, opening the lid, displayed an object wrapped in a
pocket-handkerchief.

"There is the knife, sir," said he, "just as I received it. The
handkerchief is the sergeant's."

Thorndyke unrolled the handkerchief and took from it a large-sized
Norwegian knife, which he looked at critically and then handed to me.
While I was inspecting the blade, he shook out the handkerchief and,
having looked it over on both sides, turned to the sergeant.

"At what time did you pick up this knife?" he asked.

"About seven-fifteen, sir; directly after the hounds had started. I was
careful to pick it up by the ring, and I wrapped it in the handkerchief
at once."

"Seven-fifteen," said Thorndyke. "Less than half-an-hour after the
murder. That is very singular. Do you observe the state of this
handkerchief? There is not a mark on it. Not a trace of any bloodstain;
which proves that when the knife was picked up, the blood on it was
already dry. But things dry slowly, if they dry at all, in the saturated
air of an autumn evening. The appearances seem to suggest that the blood
on the knife was dry when it was thrown down. By the way, sergeant, what
do you scent your handkerchief with?"

"Scent, sir!" exclaimed the astonished officer in indignant accents; "me
scent my handkerchief! No, sir, certainly not. Never used scent in my
life, sir."

Thorndyke held out the handkerchief, and the sergeant sniffed at it
incredulously. "It certainly does seem to smell of scent," he admitted,
"but it must be the knife." The same idea having occurred to me, I
applied the handle of the knife to my nose and instantly detected the
sickly-sweet odour of musk.

"The question is," said the inspector, when the two articles had been
tested by us all, "was it the knife that scented the Handkerchief or the
handkerchief that scented the knife?"

"You heard what the sergeant said," replied Thorndyke. "There was no
scent on the handkerchief when the knife was wrapped in it. Do you know,
inspector, this scent seems to me to offer a very curious suggestion.
Consider the facts of the case: the distinct trail leading straight to
Ellis, who is, nevertheless, found to be without a scratch or a spot of
blood; the inconsistencies in the case that I pointed out in the train,
and now this knife, apparently dropped with dried blood on it and scented
with musk. To me it suggests a carefully-planned, coolly-premeditated
crime. The murderer knew about the general's bloodhounds and made use of
them as a blind. He planted this knife, smeared with blood and tainted
with musk, to furnish a scent. No doubt some object, also scented with
musk, would be drawn over the ground to give the trail. It is only a
suggestion, of course, but it is worth considering."

"But, sir," the inspector objected eagerly, "if the murderer had handled
the knife, it would have scented him too."

"Exactly; so, as we are assuming that the man is not a fool, we may
assume that he did not handle it. He will have left it here in readiness,
hidden in some place whence he could knock it down, say, with a stick,
without touching it."

"Perhaps in this very tree, sir," suggested the sergeant, pointing to the
oak.


"No," said Thorndyke, "he would hardly have hidden in the tree where the
knife had been. The hounds might have scented the place instead of
following the trail at once. The most likely hiding-place for the knife
is the one nearest the spot where it was found." He walked over to the
stone that marked the spot, and looking round, continued: "You see, that
hornbeam is much the nearest, and its flat crown would be very convenient
for the purpose--easily reached even by a short man, as he appears to
be. Let us see if there are any traces of it. Perhaps you will give me a
'back up', sergeant, as we haven't a ladder."

The sergeant assented with a faint grin, and stooping beside the tree in
an attitude suggesting the game of leapfrog, placed his hands firmly on
his knees. Grasping a stout branch, Thorndyke swung himself up on the
sergeant's broad back, whence he looked down into the crown of the tree.
Then, parting the branches, he stepped onto the ledge and disappeared
into the central hollow.

When he re-appeared he held in his hands two very singular objects: a
pair of iron crucible-tongs and an artist's brush-case of black-japanned
tin. The former article he handed down to me, but the brush-case he held
carefully by its wire handle as he dropped to the ground.

"The significance of these things is, I think, obvious," he said. "The
tongs were used to handle the knife with and the case to carry it in, so
that it should not scent his clothes or bag. It was very carefully
planned."

"If that is so," said the inspector, "the inside of the case ought to
smell of musk."

"No doubt," said Thorndyke; "but before we open it, there is a rather
important matter to be attended to. Will you give me the Vitogen powder,
Jervis?"

I opened the canvas-covered "research case" and took from it an object
like a diminutive pepper-caster--an iodo-form dredger in fact--and
handed it to him. Grasping the brush-case by its wire handle, he
sprinkled the pale yellow powder from the dredger freely all round the
pull-off lid, tapping the top with his knuckles to make the fine
particles spread. Then he blew off the superfluous powder, and the two
police officers gave a simultaneous gasp of joy; for now, on the black
background, there stood out plainly a number of finger-prints, so clear
and distinct that the ridge-pattern could be made out with perfect ease.

"These will probably be his right hand," said Thorndyke. "Now for the
left." He treated the body of the case in the same way, and, when he had
blown off the powder, the entire surface was spotted with yellow, oval
impressions. "Now, Jervis," said he, "if you will put on a glove and pull
off the lid, we can test the inside."

There was no difficulty in getting the lid off, for the shoulder of the
case had been smeared with vaseline--apparently to produce an airtight
joint--and, as it separated with a hollow sound, a faint, musky odour
exhaled from its interior.

"The remainder of the inquiry," said Thorndyke, when I pushed the lid on
again, "will be best conducted at the police station, where, also, we can
photograph these fingerprints."

"The shortest way will be across the meadows," said Fox; "the way the
hounds went."

By this route we accordingly travelled, Thorndyke carrying the brush-case
tenderly by its handle.

"I don't quite see where Ellis comes in in this job," said the inspector,
as we walked along, "if the fellow had a grudge against Pratt. They
weren't chums."

"I think I do," said Thorndyke. "You say that both men were prison
officers at Portland at the same time. Now doesn't it seem likely that
this is the work of some old convict who had been identified--and
perhaps blackmailed--by Pratt, and possibly by Ellis too? That is where
the value of the finger-prints comes in. If he is an old 'lag' his prints
will be at Scotland Yard. Otherwise they are not of much value as a
clue."

"That's true, sir," said the inspector. "I suppose you want to see
Ellis."

"I want to see that purse that you spoke of, first," replied Thorndyke.
"That is probably the other end of the clue."

As soon as we arrived at the station, the inspector unlocked a safe and
brought out a parcel. "These are Ellis's things," said he, as he
unfastened it, "and that is the purse."

He handed Thorndyke a small pigskin pouch, which my colleague opened, and
having smelt the inside, passed to me. The odour of musk was plainly
perceptible, especially in the small compartment at the back.

"It has probably tainted the other contents of the parcel," said
Thorndyke, sniffing at each article in turn, "but my sense of smell is
not keen enough to detect any scent. They all seem odourless to me,
whereas the purse smells quite distinctly. Shall we have Ellis in now?"

The sergeant took a key from a locked drawer and departed for the cells,
whence he presently re-appeared accompanied by the prisoner--a stout,
burly man, in the last stage of dejection.

"Come, cheer up, Ellis," said the inspector. "Here's Dr. Thorndyke come
down to help us and he wants to ask you one or two questions."

Ellis looked piteously at Thorndyke, and exclaimed: "I know nothing
whatever about this affair, sir, I swear to God I don't."

"I never supposed you did," said Thorndyke. "But there are one or two
things that I want you to tell me. To begin with, that purse: where did
you find it?"

"On the Thorpe road, sir. It was lying in the middle of the footway."

"Had any one else passed the spot lately? Did you meet or pass any one?"

"Yes, sir, I met a labourer about a minute before I saw the purse. I
can't imagine why he didn't see it."

"Probably because it wasn't there," said Thorndyke. "Is there a hedge
there?"

"Yes, sir; a hedge on a low bank."

"Ha! Well, now, tell me: is there any one about here whom you knew when
you and Pratt were together at Portland? Any old lag--to put it bluntly
--whom you and Pratt have been putting the screw on."

"No, sir, I swear there isn't. But I wouldn't answer for Pratt. He had a
rare memory for faces."

Thorndyke reflected. "Were there any escapes from Portland in your time?"
he asked.

"Only one--a man named Dobbs. He made off to the sea in a sudden fog and
he was supposed to be drowned. His clothes washed up on the Bill, but not
his body. At any rate, he was never heard of again."

"Thank you, Ellis. Do you mind my taking your fingerprints?"

"Certainly not, sir," was the almost eager reply; and the office
inking-pad being requisitioned, a rough set of finger-prints was
produced; and when Thorndyke had compared them with those on the
brush-case and found no resemblance, Ellis returned to his cell in quite
buoyant spirits.

Having made several photographs of the strange fingerprints, we returned
to town that evening, taking the negatives with us; and while we waited
for our train, Thorndyke gave a few parting injunctions to the inspector.
"Remember," he said, "that the man must have washed his hands before he
could appear in public. Search the banks of every pond, ditch and stream
in the neighbourhood for footprints like those in the avenue; and, if you
find any, search the bottom of the water thoroughly, for he is quite
likely to have dropped the knife into the mud."

The photographs, which we handed in at Scotland Yard that same night,
enabled the experts to identify the fingerprints as those of Francis
Dobbs, an escaped convict. The two photographs--profile and full-face--
which were attached to his record, were sent down to Baysford with a
description of the man, and were, in due course, identified with a
somewhat mysterious individual, who passed by the name of Rufus Pembury
and who had lived in the neighbourhood as a private gentleman for some
two years. But Rufus Pembury was not to be found either at his genteel
house or elsewhere. All that was known was, that on the day after the
murder, he had converted his entire "personalty" into "bearer
securities," and then vanished from mortal ken. Nor has he ever been
heard of to this day.

"And, between ourselves," said Thorndyke, when we were discussing the
case some time after, "he deserved to escape. It was clearly a case of
blackmail, and to kill a blackmailer--when you have no other defence
against him--is hardly murder. As to Ellis, he could never have been
convicted, and Dobbs, or Pembury, must have known it. But he would have
been committed to the Assizes, and that would have given time for all
traces to disappear. No, Dobbs was a man of courage, ingenuity and
resource; and, above all, he knocked the bottom out of the great
bloodhound superstition."



THE ECHO OF A MUTINY


PART I. DEATH ON THE GIRDLER


Popular belief ascribes to infants and the lower animals certain occult
powers of divining character denied to the reasoning faculties of the
human adult; and is apt to accept their judgment as finally overriding
the pronouncements of mere experience.

Whether this belief rests upon any foundation other than the universal
love of paradox it is unnecessary to inquire. It is very generally
entertained, especially by ladies of a certain social status; and by Mrs.
Thomas Solly it was loyally maintained as an article of faith.

"Yes," she moralized, "it's surprisin' how they know, the little children
and the dumb animals. But they do. There's no deceivin' them. They can
tell the gold from the dross in a moment, they can, and they reads the
human heart like a book. Wonderful, I call it. I suppose it's instinct."

Having delivered herself of this priceless gem of philosophic thought,
she thrust her arms elbow-deep into the foaming wash-tub and glanced
admiringly at her lodger as he sat in the doorway, supporting on one knee
an obese infant of eighteen months and on the other a fine tabby cat.

James Brown was an elderly seafaring man, small and slight in build and
in manner suave, insinuating and perhaps a trifle sly. But he had all the
sailor's love of children and animals, and the sailor's knack of making
himself acceptable to them, for, as he sat with an empty pipe wobbling in
the grasp of his toothless gums, the baby beamed with humid smiles, and
the cat, rolled into a fluffy ball and purring like a stocking-loom,
worked its fingers ecstatically as if it were trying on a new pair of
gloves.

"It must be mortal lonely out at the lighthouse," Mrs. Solly resumed.
"Only three men and never a neighbour to speak to; and, Lord! what a
muddle they must be in with no woman to look after them and keep 'em
tidy. But you won't be overworked, Mr. Brown, in these long days;
daylight till past nine o'clock. I don't know what you'll do to pass the
time."

"Oh, I shall find plenty to do, I expect," said Brown, "what with
cleanin' the lamps and glasses and paintin' up the ironwork. And that
reminds me," he added, looking round at the clock, "that time's getting
on. High water at half-past ten, and here it's gone eight o'clock."

Mrs. Solly, acting on the hint, began rapidly to fish out the washed
garments and wring them out into the form of short ropes. Then, having
dried her hands on her apron, she relieved Brown of the protesting baby.

"Your room will be ready for you, Mr. Brown," said she, "when your turn
comes for a spell ashore; and main glad me and Tom will be to see you
back."

"Thank you, Mrs. Solly, ma'am," answered Brown, tenderly placing the cat
on the floor; "you won't be more glad than what I will." He shook hands
warmly with his landlady, kissed the baby, chucked the cat under the
chin, and, picking up his little chest by its becket, swung it onto his
shoulder and strode out of the cottage.

His way lay across the marshes, and, like the ships in the offing, he
shaped his course by the twin towers of Reculver that stood up
grotesquely on the rim of the land; and as he trod the springy turf, Tom
Solly's fleecy charges looked up at him with vacant stares and
valedictory bleatings. Once, at a dyke-gate, he paused to look back at
the fair Kentish landscape: at the grey tower of St. Nicholas-at-Wade
peeping above the trees and the faraway mill at Sarre, whirling slowly in
the summer breeze; and, above all, at the solitary cottage where, for a
brief spell in his stormy life, he had known the homely joys of
domesticity and peace. Well, that was over for the present, and the
lighthouse loomed ahead. With a half-sigh he passed through the gate and
walked on towards Reculver.

Outside the whitewashed cottages with their official black chimneys a
petty-officer of the coast-guard was adjusting the halyards of the
flagstaff. He looked round as Brown approached, and hailed him cheerily.

"Here you are, then," said he, "all figged out in your new togs, too. But
we're in a bit of a difficulty, d'ye see. We've got to pull up to
Whitstable this morning, so I can't send a man out with you and I can't
spare a boat."

"Have I got to swim out, then?" asked Brown.

The coast-guard grinned. "Not in them new clothes, mate," he answered.
"No, but there's old Willett's boat; he isn't using her to-day; he's
going over to Minster to see his daughter, and he'll let us have the loan
of the boat. But there's no one to go with you, and I'm responsible to
Willett."

"Well, what about it?" asked Brown, with the deep-sea sailor's (usually
misplaced) confidence in his power to handle a sailing-boat. "D'ye think
I can't manage a tub of a boat? Me what's used the sea since I was a kid
of ten?"

"Yes," said the coast-guard; "but who's to bring her back?"

"Why, the man that I'm going to relieve," answered Brown. "He don't want
to swim no more than what I do."

The coast-guard reflected with his telescope pointed at a passing barge.
"Well, I suppose it'll be all right," he concluded; "but it's a pity they
couldn't send the tender round. However, if you undertake to send the
boat back, we'll get her afloat. It's time you were off."

He strolled away to the back of the cottages, whence he presently
returned with two of his mates, and the four men proceeded along the
shore to where Willett's boat lay just above high-water mark.

The Emily was a beamy craft of the type locally known as a "half-share
skiff," solidly built of oak, with varnished planking and fitted with
main and mizzen lugs. She was a good handful for four men, and, as she
slid over the soft chalk rocks with a hollow rumble, the coast-guards
debated the advisability of lifting out the bags of shingle with which
she was ballasted. However, she was at length dragged down, ballast and
all, to the water's edge, and then, while Brown stepped the mainmast, the
petty-officer gave him his directions. "What you've got to do," said he,
"is to make use of the flood-tide. Keep her nose nor'-east, and with this
trickle of nor'-westerly breeze you ought to make the light-house in one
board. Anyhow don't let her get east of the lighthouse, or, when the ebb
sets in, you'll be in a fix."

To these admonitions Brown listened with jaunty indifference as he
hoisted the sails and watched the incoming tide creep over the level
shore. Then the boat lifted on the gentle swell. Putting out an oar, he
gave a vigorous shove off that sent the boat, with a final scrape, clear
of the beach, and then, having dropped the rudder onto its pintles, he
seated himself and calmly belayed the main-sheet.

"There he goes," growled the coast-guard; "makin' fast his sheet. They
will do it" (he invariably did it himself), "and that's how accidents
happen. I hope old Willett'll see his boat back all right."

He stood for some time watching the dwindling boat as it sidled across
the smooth water; then he turned and followed his mates towards the
station.

Out on the south-western edge of the Girdler Sand, just inside the
two-fathom line, the spindle-shanked lighthouse stood a-straddle on its
long screw-piles like some uncouth red-bodied wading bird. It was now
nearly half flood tide. The highest shoals were long since covered, and
the lighthouse rose above the smooth sea as solitary as a slaver becalmed
in the "middle passage."

On the gallery outside the lantern were two men, the entire staff of the
building, of whom one sat huddled in a chair with his left leg propped up
with pillows on another, while his companion rested a telescope on the
rail and peered at the faint grey line of the distant land and the two
tiny points that marked the twin spires of Reculver.

"I don't see any signs of the boat, Harry," said he.

The other man groaned. "I shall lose the tide," he complained, "and then
there's another day gone."

"They can pull you down to Birchington and put you in the train," said
the first man.

"I don't want no trains," growled the invalid. "The boat'll be bad
enough. I suppose there's nothing coming our way, Tom?"

Tom turned his face eastward and shaded his eyes. "There's a brig coming
across the tide from the north," he said. "Looks like a collier." He
pointed his telescope at the approaching vessel, and added: "She's got
two new cloths in her upper fore top-sail, one on each leech."

The other man sat up eagerly. "What's her trysail like, Tom?" he asked.

"Can't see it," replied Tom. "Yes, I can, now: it's tanned. Why, that'll
be the old Utopia, Harry; she's the only brig I know that's got a tanned
trysail."

"Look here, Tom," exclaimed the other, "If that's the Utopia, she's going
to my home and I'm going aboard of her. Captain Mockett'll give me a
passage, I know."

"You oughtn't to go until you're relieved, you know, Barnett," said Tom
doubtfully; "it's against regulations to leave your station."

"Regulations be blowed!" exclaimed Barnett. "My leg's more to me than the
regulations. I don't want to be a cripple all my life. Besides, I'm no
good here, and this new chap, Brown, will be coming out presently. You
run up the signal, Tom, like a good comrade, and hail the brig."

"Well, it's your look-out," said Tom, "and I don't mind saying that if I
was in your place I should cut off home and see a doctor, if I got the
chance." He sauntered off to the flag-locker, and, selecting the two
code-flags, deliberately toggled them onto the halyards. Then, as the
brig swept up within range, he hoisted the little balls of bunting to the
flagstaff-head and jerked the halyards, when the two flags blew out
making the signal "Need assistance."

Promptly a coal-soiled answering pennant soared to the brig's main-truck;
less promptly the collier went about, and, turning her nose down stream,
slowly drifted stern-forwards towards the lighthouse. Then a boat slid
out through her gangway, and a couple of men plied the oars vigorously.

"Lighthouse ahoy!" roared one of them, as the boat came within hail.
"What's amiss?"

"Harry Barnett has broke his leg," shouted the lighthouse keeper, "and he
wants to know if Captain Mockett will give him a passage to Whitstable."

The boat turned back to the brig, and after a brief and bellowed
consultation, once more pulled towards the lighthouse.

"Skipper says yus," roared the sailor, when he was within ear-shot, "and
he says look alive, 'cause he don't want to miss his tide."

The injured man heaved a sigh of relief. "That's good news," said he,
"though, how the blazes I'm going to get down the ladder is more than I
can tell. What do you say, Jeffreys?"

"I say you'd better let me lower you with the tackle," replied Jeffreys.
"You can sit in the bight of a rope and I'll give you a line to steady
yourself with."

"Ah, that'll do, Tom," said Barnett; "but, for the Lord's sake, pay out
the fall-rope gently."

The arrangements were made so quickly that by the time the boat was fast
alongside everything was in readiness, and a minute later the injured
man, dangling like a gigantic spider from the end of the tackle, slowly
descended, cursing volubly to the accompaniment of the creaking of the
blocks. His chest and kit-bag followed, and, as soon as these were
unhooked from the tackle, the boat pulled off to the brig, which was now
slowly creeping stern-foremost past the lighthouse. The sick man was
hoisted up the side, his chest handed up after him, and then the brig was
put on her course due south across the Kentish Flats.

Jeffreys stood on the gallery watching the receding vessel and listening
to the voices of her crew as they grew small and weak in the increasing
distance. Now that his gruff companion was gone, a strange loneliness had
fallen on the lighthouse. The last of the homeward-bound ships had long
since passed up the Princes Channel and left the calm sea desolate and
blank. The distant buoys, showing as tiny black dots on the glassy
surface, and the spindly shapes of the beacons which stood up from
invisible shoals, but emphasized the solitude of the empty sea, and the
tolling of the bell buoy on the Shivering Sand, stealing faintly down the
wind, sounded weird and mournful. The day's work was already done. The
lenses were polished, the lamps had been trimmed, and the little motor
that worked the foghorn had been cleaned and oiled. There were several
odd jobs, it is true, waiting to be done, as there always are in a
lighthouse; but, just now, Jeffreys was not in a working humour. A new
comrade was coming into his life to-day, a stranger with whom he was to
be shut up alone, night! and day, for a month on end, and whose temper
and tastes and habits might mean for him pleasant companionship or
jangling and discord without end. Who was this man Brown? What had he
been? and what was he like? These were the questions that passed,
naturally enough, through the lighthouse keeper's mind and distracted him
from his usual thoughts and occupations.

Presently a speck on the landward horizon caught his eye. He snatched up
the telescope eagerly to inspect it. Yes, it was a boat; but not the
coast-guard's cutter, for which he was looking. Evidently a fisherman's
boat and with only one man in it. He laid down the telescope with a sigh
of disappointment, and, filling his pipe, leaned on the rail with a
dreamy eye bent on the faint grey line of the land.

Three long years had he spent in this dreary solitude, so repugnant to
his active, restless nature: three blank, interminable years, with
nothing to look back on but the endless succession of summer calms,
stormy nights and the chilly fogs of winter, when the unseen steamers
hooted from the void and the fog-horn bellowed its hoarse warning.

Why had he come to this God-forsaken spot? and why did he stay, when the
wide world called to him? And then memory painted him a picture on which
his mind's eye had often looked before and which once again arose before
him, shutting out the vision of the calm sea and the distant land. It was
a brightly-coloured picture. It showed a cloudless sky brooding over the
deep blue tropic sea: and in the middle of the picture, see-sawing gently
on the quiet swell, a white-painted barque.

Her sails were clewed up untidily, her swinging yards jerked at the slack
braces and her untended wheel revolved to and fro to the oscillations of
the rudder.

She was not a derelict, for more than a dozen men were on her deck; but
the men were all drunk and mostly asleep, and there was never an officer
among them.

Then he saw the interior of one of her cabins. The chart-rack, the
tell-tale compass and the chronometers marked it as the captain's cabin.
In it were four men, and two of them lay dead on the deck. Of the other
two, one was a small, cunning-faced man, who was, at the moment, kneeling
beside one of the corpses to wipe a knife upon its coat. The fourth man
was himself.

Again, he saw the two murderers stealing off in a quarter-boat, as the
barque with her drunken crew drifted towards the spouting surf of a
river-bar. He saw the ship melt away in the surf like an icicle in the
sunshine; and, later, two shipwrecked mariners, picked up in an open boat
and set ashore at an American port.

That was why he was here. Because he was a murderer. The other scoundrel,
Amos Todd, had turned Queen's Evidence and denounced him, and he had
barely managed to escape. Since then he had hidden himself from the great
world, and here he must continue to hide, not from the law--for his
person was unknown now that his shipmates were dead--but from the
partner of his crime. It was the fear of Todd that had changed him from
Jeffrey Rorke to Tom Jeffreys and had sent him to the Girdler, a prisoner
for life. Todd might die--might even now be dead--but he would never
hear of it: would never hear the news of his release.

He roused himself and once more pointed his telescope at the distant
boat. She was considerably nearer now and seemed to be heading out
towards the lighthouse. Perhaps the man in her was bringing a message; at
any rate, there was no sign of the coast-guard's cutter.

He went in, and, betaking himself to the kitchen, busied himself with a
few simple preparations for dinner. But there was nothing to cook, for
there remained the cold meat from yesterday's cooking, which he would
make sufficient, with some biscuit in place of potatoes. He felt restless
and unstrung; the solitude irked him, and the everlasting wash of the
water among the piles jarred on his nerves.

When he went out again into the gallery the ebb-tide had set in strongly
and the boat was little more than a mile distant; and now, through the
glass, he could see that the man in her wore the uniform cap of the
Trinity House. Then the man must be his future comrade, Brown; but this
was very extraordinary. What were they to do with the boat? There was no
one to take her back.

The breeze was dying away. As he watched the boat, he saw the man lower
the sail and take to his oars; and something of hurry in the way the man
pulled over the gathering tide, caused Jeffreys to look round the
horizon. And then, for the first time, he noticed a bank of fog creeping
up from the east and already so near that the beacon on the East Girdler
had faded out of sight. He hastened in to start the little motor that
compressed the air for the fog-horn and waited awhile to see that the
mechanism was running properly. Then, as the deck vibrated to the roar of
the horn, he went out once more into the gallery.

The fog was now all round the lighthouse and the boat was hidden from
view. He listened intently. The enclosing wall of vapour seemed to have
shut out sound as well as vision. At intervals the horn bellowed its note
of warning, and then all was still save the murmur of the water among the
piles below, and, infinitely faint and far away, the mournful tolling of
the bell on the Shivering Sand.

At length there came to his ear the muffled sound of oars working in the
holes; then, at the very edge of the circle of grey water that was
visible, the boat appeared through the fog, pale and spectral, with a
shadowy figure pulling furiously. The horn emitted a hoarse growl; the
man looked round, perceived the lighthouse and altered his course towards
it.

Jeffreys descended the iron stairway, and, walking along the lower
gallery, stood at the head of the ladder earnestly watching the
approaching stranger. Already he was tired of being alone. The yearning
for human companionship had been growing ever since Barnett left. But
what sort of comrade was this stranger who was coming into his life? And
coming to occupy so dominant a place in it.

The boat swept down swiftly athwart the hurrying tide. Nearer it came and
yet nearer: and still Jeffreys could catch no glimpse of his new
comrade's face. At length it came fairly alongside and bumped against the
fender-posts; the stranger whisked in an oar and grabbed a rung of the
ladder, and Jeffreys dropped a coil of rope into the boat. And still the
man's face was hidden.

Jeffreys leaned out over the ladder and watched him anxiously, as he made
fast the rope, unhooked the sail from the traveller and unstepped the
mast. When he had set all in order, the stranger picked up a small chest,
and, swinging it over his shoulder, stepped onto the ladder. Slowly, by
reason of his encumbrance, he mounted, rung by rung, with never an upward
glance, and Jeffreys gazed down at the top of his head with growing
curiosity. At last he reached the top of the ladder and Jeffreys stooped
to lend him a hand. Then, for the first time, he looked up, and Jeffreys
started back with a blanched face.

"God Almighty!" he gasped. "It's Amos Todd!"

As the newcomer stepped on the gallery, the fog-horn emitted a roar like
that of some hungry monster. Jeffreys turned abruptly without a word, and
walked to the stairs, followed by Todd, and the two men ascended with
never a sound but the hollow clank of their footsteps on the iron plates.
Silently Jeffreys stalked into the living-room and, as his companion
followed, he turned and motioned to the latter to set down his chest.

"You ain't much of a talker, mate," said Todd, looking round the room in
some surprise; "ain't you going to say 'good-morning'? We're going to be
good comrades, I hope. I'm Jim Brown, the new hand, I am; what might your
name be?"

Jeffreys turned on him suddenly and led him to the window. "Look at me
carefully, Amos Todd," he said sternly, "and then ask yourself what my
name is."

At the sound of his voice Todd looked up with a start and turned pale as
death. "It can't be," he whispered, "it can't be Jeff Rorke!"

The other man laughed harshly, and leaning forward, said in a low voice:
"Hast thou found me, O mine enemy!"

"Don't say that!" exclaimed Todd. "Don't call me your enemy, Jeff. Lord
knows but I'm glad to see you, though I'd never have known you without
your beard and with that grey hair. I've been to blame, Jeff, and I know
it; but it ain't no use raking up old grudges. Let bygones be bygones,
Jeff, and let us be pals as we used to be." He wiped his face with his
handkerchief and watched his companion apprehensively.

"Sit down," said Rorke, pointing to a shabby rep-covered arm-chair; "sit
down and tell me what you've done with all that money. You've blued it
all, I suppose, or you wouldn't be here."

"Robbed, Jeff," answered Todd; "robbed of every penny. Ah! that was an
unfortunate affair, that job on board the old Sea-flower. But it's over
and done with and we'd best forget it. They're all dead but us, Jeff, so
we're safe enough so long as we keep our mouths shut; all at the bottom
of the sea--and the best place for 'em too."

"Yes," Rorke replied fiercely, "that's the best place for your shipmates
when they know too much; at the bottom of the sea or swinging at the end
of a rope." He paced up and down the little room with rapid strides, and
each time that he approached Todd's chair the latter shrank back with an
expression of alarm.

"Don't sit there staring at me," said Rorke. "Why don't you smoke or do
something?"

Todd hastily produced a pipe from his pocket, and having filled it from a
moleskin pouch, stuck it in his mouth while he searched for a match.
Apparently he carried his matches loose in his pocket, for he presently
brought one forth--a red-headed match, which, when he struck it on the
wall, lighted with a pale-blue flame. He applied it to his pipe, sucking
in his cheeks while he kept his eyes fixed on his companion. Rorke,
meanwhile, halted in his walk to cut some shavings from a cake of hard
tobacco with a large clasp-knife; and, as he stood, he gazed with
frowning abstraction at Todd.

"This pipe's stopped," said the latter, sucking ineffectually at the
mouthpiece. "Have you got such a thing as a piece of wire, Jeff?"

"No, I haven't," replied Rorke; "not up here. I'll get a bit from the
store presently. Here, take this pipe till you can clean your own: I've
got another in the rack there." The sailor's natural hospitality
overcoming for the moment his animosity, he thrust the pipe that he had
just filled towards Todd, who took it with a mumbled "Thank you" and an
anxious eye on the open knife. On the wall beside the chair was a
roughly-carved pipe-rack containing: several pipes, one of which Rorke
lifted out; and, as he leaned over the chair to reach it, Todd's face
went several shades paler.

"Well, Jeff," he said, after a pause, while Rorke cut a fresh "fill" of
tobacco, "are we going to be pals same as what we used to be?"

Rorke's animosity lighted up afresh. "Am I going to be pals with the man
that tried to swear away my life?" he said sternly; and after a pause he
added: "That wants thinking about, that does; and meantime I must go and
look at the engine."

When Rorke had gone the new hand sat, with the two pipes in his hands,
reflecting deeply. Abstractedly he stuck the fresh pipe into his mouth,
and, dropping the stopped one into the rack, felt for a match. Still with
an air of abstraction he lit the pipe, and having smoked for a minute or
two, rose from the chair and began softly to creep across the room,
looking about him and listening intently. At the door he paused to look
out into the fog, and then, having again listened attentively, he stepped
on tip-toe out onto the gallery and along towards the stairway. Of a
sudden the voice of Rorke brought him up with a start.

"Hallo, Todd! where are you off to?"

"I'm just going down to make the boat secure," was the reply.

"Never you mind about the boat," said Rorke. "I'll see to her."

"Right-o, Jeff," said Todd, still edging towards the stairway. "But, I
say, mate, where's the other man--the man that I'm to relieve?"

"There ain't any other man," replied Rorke; "he went off aboard a
collier."

Todd's face suddenly became grey and haggard. "Then there's no one here
but us two!" he gasped; and then, with an effort to conceal his fear, he
asked: "But who's going to take the boat back?"

"We'll see about that presently," replied Rorke; "you get along in and
unpack your chest."

He came out on the gallery as he spoke, with a lowering frown on his
face. Todd cast a terrified glance at him, and then turned and ran for
his life towards the stairway.

"Come back!" roared Rorke, springing forward along the gallery; but
Todd's feet were already clattering down the iron steps. By the time
Rorke reached the head of the stairs, the fugitive was near the bottom;
but here, in his haste, he stumbled, barely saving himself by the
handrail, and when he recovered his balance Rorke was upon him. Todd
darted to the head of the ladder, but, as he grasped the stanchion, his
pursuer seized him by the collar. In a moment he had turned with his hand
under his coat. There was a quick blow, a loud curse from Rorke, an
answering yell from Todd, and a knife fell spinning through the air and
dropped into the fore-peak of the boat below.

"You murderous little devil!" said Rorke in an ominously quiet voice,
with his bleeding hand gripping his captive by the throat. "Handy with
your knife as ever, eh? So you were off to give information, were you?"

"No, I wasn't Jeff," replied Todd in a choking voice; "I wasn't, s'elp
me, God. Let go, Jeff. I didn't mean no harm. I was only--" With a
sudden wrench he freed one hand and struck out frantically at his
captor's face. But Rorke warded off the blow, and, grasping the other
wrist, gave a violent push and let go. Todd staggered backward a few
paces along the staging, bringing up at the extreme edge; and here, for a
sensible time, he stood with wide-open mouth and starting eye-balls,
swaying and clutching wildly at the air. Then, with a shrill scream, he
toppled backwards and fell, striking a pile in his descent and rebounding
into the water.

In spite of the audible thump of his head on the pile, he was not
stunned, for when he rose to the surface, he struck out vigorously,
uttering short, stifled cries for help. Rorke watched him with set teeth
and quickened breath, but made no move. Smaller and still smaller grew
the head with its little circle of ripples, swept away on the swift
ebb-tide, and fainter the bubbling cries that came across the smooth
water. At length as the small black spot began to fade in the fog, the
drowning man, with a final effort, raised his head clear of the surface
and sent a last, despairing shriek towards the lighthouse. The fog-horn
sent back an answering bellow; the head sank below the surface and was
seen no more; and in the dreadful stillness that settled down upon the
sea there sounded faint and far away the muffled tolling of a bell.

Rorke stood for some minutes immovable, wrapped in thought. Presently the
distant hoot of a steamer's whistle aroused him. The ebb-tide shipping
was beginning to come down and the fog might lift at any moment; and
there was the boat still alongside. She must be disposed of at once. No
one had seen her arrive and no one must see her made fast to the
lighthouse. Once get rid of the boat and all traces of Todd's visit would
be destroyed. He ran down the ladder and stepped into the boat. It was
simple. She was heavily ballasted, and would go down if she filled.

He shifted some of the bags of shingle, and, lifting the bottom boards,
pulled out the plug. Instantly a large jet of water spouted up into the
bottom. Rorke looked at it critically, and, deciding that it would fill
her in a few minutes, replaced the bottom boards; and having secured the
mast and sail with a few turns of the sheet round a thwart, to prevent
them from floating away, he cast off the mooring-rope and stepped on the
ladder.

As the released boat began to move away on the tide, he ran up and
mounted to the upper gallery to watch her disappearance. Suddenly he
remembered Todd's chest. It was still in the room below. With a hurried
glance around into the fog, he ran down to the room, and snatching up the
chest, carried it out on the lower gallery. After another nervous glance
around to assure himself that no craft was in sight, he heaved the chest
over the handrail, and, when it fell with a loud splash into the sea, he
waited to watch it float away after its owner and the sunken boat. But it
never rose; and presently he returned to the upper gallery.

The fog was thinning perceptibly now, and the boat remained plainly
visible as she drifted away. But she sank more slowly than he had
expected, and presently as she drifted farther away, he fetched the
telescope and peered at her with growing anxiety. It would be unfortunate
if any one saw her; if she should be picked up here, with her plug out,
it would be disastrous.

He was beginning to be really alarmed. Through the glass he could see
that the boat was now rolling in a sluggish, water-logged fashion, but
she still showed some inches of free-board, and the fog was thinning
every moment.

Presently the blast of a steamer's whistle sounded close at hand. He
looked round hurriedly and, seeing nothing, again pointed the telescope
eagerly at the dwindling boat. Suddenly he gave a gasp of relief. The
boat had rolled gunwale under; had staggered back for a moment and then
rolled again, slowly, finally, with the water pouring in over the
submerged gunwale.

In a few more seconds she had vanished. Rorke lowered the telescope and
took a deep breath. Now he was safe. The boat had sunk unseen. But he was
better than safe: he was free. His evil spirit, the standing menace of
his life, was gone, and the wide world, the world of life, of action, of
pleasure, called to him.

In a few minutes the fog lifted. The sun shone brightly on the
red-funnelled cattle-boat whose whistle had startled him just now, the
summer blue came back to sky and sea, and the land peeped once more over
the edge of the horizon.

He went in, whistling cheerfully, and stopped the motor; returned to coil
away the rope that he had thrown to Todd; and, when he had hoisted a
signal for assistance, he went in once more to eat his solitary meal in
peace and gladness.


PART II. "THE SINGING BONE"


(Related by Christopher Jervis, M.D.)

In every kind of scientific work a certain amount of manual labour
naturally appertains, labour that cannot be performed by the scientist
himself, since art is long but life is short. A chemical analysis
involves a laborious "clean up" of apparatus and laboratory, for which
the chemist has no time; the preparation of a skeleton--the maceration,
bleaching, "assembling," and riveting together of bones--must be carried
out by some one whose time is not too precious. And so with other
scientific activities. Behind the man of science with his outfit of
knowledge is the indispensable mechanic with his outfit of manual skill.

Thorndyke's laboratory assistant, Polton, was a fine example of the
latter type, deft, resourceful, ingenious and untiring. He was somewhat
of an inventive genius, too; and it was one of his inventions that
connected us with the singular case that I am about to record.

Though by trade a watchmaker, Polton was, by choice, an optician. Optical
apparatus was the passion of his life; and when, one day, he produced for
our inspection an improved prism for increasing the efficiency of
gas-buoys, Thorndyke at once brought the invention to the notice of a
friend at the Trinity House.

As a consequence, we three--Thorndyke, Polton and I--found ourselves
early on a fine July morning making our way down Middle Temple Lane bound
for the Temple Pier. A small oil-launch lay alongside the pontoon, and,
as we made our appearance, a red-faced, white-whiskered gentleman stood
up in the cockpit.

"Here's a delightful morning, doctor," he sang out in a fine, brassy,
resonant, sea-faring voice; "sort of day for a trip to the lower river,
hey? Hallo, Polton! Coming down to take the bread out of our mouths, are
you? Ha, ha!" The cheery laugh rang out over the river and mingled with
the throb of the engine as the launch moved off from the pier.

Captain Grumpass was one of the Elder Brethren of the Trinity House.
Formerly a client of Thorndyke's he had subsided, as Thorndyke's clients
were apt to do, into the position of a personal friend, and his hearty
regard included our invaluable assistant.

"Nice state of things," continued the captain, with a chuckle, "when a
body of nautical experts have got to be taught their business by a parcel
of lawyers or doctors, what? I suppose trade's slack and 'Satan findeth
mischief still,' hey, Polton?"

"There isn't much doing on the civil side, sir," replied Polton, with a
quaint, crinkly smile, "but the criminals are still going strong."

"Ha! mystery department still flourishing, what? And, by Jove! talking of
mysteries, doctor, our people have got a queer problem to work out;
something quite in your line--quite. Yes, and, by the Lord Moses, since
I've got y»u here, why shouldn't I suck your brains?"

"Exactly," said Thorndyke. "Why shouldn't you?"

"Well, then, I will," said the captain, "so here goes. All hands to the
pump!" He lit a cigar, and, after a few preliminary puffs, began: "The
mystery, shortly stated, is this: one of our lighthousemen has
disappeared--vanished off the face of the earth and left no trace. He
may have bolted, he may have been drowned accidentally or he may have
been murdered. But I'd rather give you the particulars in order. At the
end of last week a barge brought into Ramsgate a letter from the
screw-pile lighthouse on the Girdler. There are only two men there, and
it seems that one of them, a man named Barnett, had broken his leg, and
he asked that the tender should be sent to bring him ashore. Well, it
happened that the local tender, the Warden, was up on the slip in
Ramsgate Harbour, having a scrape down, and wouldn't be available for a
day or two, so, as the case was urgent, the officer at Ramsgate sent a
letter to the lighthouse by one of the pleasure steamers saying that the
man should be relieved by boat on the following morning, which was
Saturday. He also wrote to a new hand who had just been taken on, a man
named James Brown, who was lodging near Reculver, waiting his turn,
telling him to go out on Saturday morning in the coast-guard's boat; and
he sent a third letter to the coast-guard at Reculver asking him to take
Brown out to the lighthouse and bring Barnett ashore. Well, between them,
they made a fine muddle of it. The coast-guard couldn't spare either a
boat or a man, so they borrowed a fisherman's boat, and in this the man
Brown started off alone, like an idiot, on the chance that Barnett would
be able to sail the boat back in spite of his broken leg.

"Meanwhile Barnett, who is a Whitstable man, had signalled a collier
bound for his native town, and got taken off; so that the other keeper,
Thomas Jeffreys, was left alone until Brown should turn up.

"But Brown never did turn up. The coast-guard helped him to put off and
saw him well out to sea, and the keeper, Jeffreys, saw a sailing-boat
with one man in her making for the lighthouse. Then a bank of fog came up
and hit the boat, and when the fog cleared she was nowhere to be seen.
Man and boat had vanished and left no sign."

"He may have been run down," Thorndyke suggested.

"He may," agreed the captain, "but no accident has been reported. The
coast-guards think he may have capsized in a squall--they saw him make
the sheet fast. But there weren't any squalls; the weather was quite
calm."

"Was he all right and well when he put off?" inquired Thorndyke.

"Yes," replied the captain, "the coast-guards' report is highly
circumstantial; in fact, it's full of silly details that have no bearing
on anything. This is what they say." He pulled out an official letter and
read: "'When last seen, the missing man was seated in the boat's stern to
windward of the helm. He had belayed the sheet. He was holding a pipe and
tobacco-pouch in his hands and steering with his elbow. He was filling
the pipe from the tobacco-pouch.' There! 'He was holding the pipe in his
hand,' mark you! not with his toes; and he was filling it from a
tobacco-pouch, whereas you'd have expected him to fill it from a
coalscuttle or a feeding-bottle. Bah!" The captain rammed the letter back
in his pocket and puffed scornfully at his cigar.

"You are hardly fair to the coast-guard," said Thorndyke, laughing at the
captain's vehemence. "The duty of a witness is to give all the facts, not
a judicious selection."

"But, my dear sir," said Captain Grumpass, "what the deuce can it matter
what the poor devil filled his pipe from?"

"Who can say?" answered Thorndyke. "It may turn out to be a highly
material fact. One never knows beforehand. The value of a particular fact
depends on its relation to the rest of the evidence."

"I suppose it does," grunted the captain; and he continued to smoke in
reflective silence until we opened Black-wall Point, when he suddenly
stood up.

"There's a steam trawler alongside our wharf," he announced. "Now what
the deuce can she be doing there?" He scanned the little steamer
attentively, and continued:

"They seem to be landing something, too. Just pass me those glasses,
Polton. Why, hang me! it's a dead body! But why on earth are they landing
it on our wharf? They must have known you were coming, doctor."

As the launch swept alongside the wharf, the captain sprang up lightly
and approached the group gathered round the body. "What's this?" he
asked. "Why have they brought this thing here?"

The master of the trawler, who had superintended the landing, proceeded
to explain.

"It's one of your men, sir," said he. "We saw the body lying on the edge
of the South Shingles Sand, close to the beacon, as we passed at low
water, so we put off the boat and fetched it aboard. As there was nothing
to identify the man by, I had a look in his pockets and found this
letter."

He handed the captain an official envelope addressed to: "Mr. J. Brown,
co Mr. Solly, Shepherd, Reculver, Kent."

"Why, this is the man we were speaking about, doctor," exclaimed Captain
Grumpass. "What a very singular coincidence. But what are we to do with
the body?"

"You will have to write to the coroner," replied Thorndyke. "By the way,
did you turn out all the pockets?" he asked, turning to the skipper of
the trawler.

"No, sir," was the reply. "I found the letter in the first pocket that I
felt in, so I didn't examine any of the others. Is there anything more
that you want to know, sir?"

"Nothing but your name and address, for the coroner," replied Thorndyke,
and the skipper, having given this information and expressed the hope
that the coroner would not keep him "hanging about," returned to his
vessel and pursued his way to Billingsgate.

"I wonder if you would mind having a look at the body of this poor devil,
while Polton is showing us his contraptions," said Captain Grumpass.

"I can't do much without a coroner's order," replied Thorndyke; "but if
it will give you any satisfaction, Jervis and I will make a preliminary
inspection with pleasure."

"I should be glad if you would," said the captain. "We should like to
know that the poor beggar met his end fairly."

The body was accordingly moved to a shed, and, as Polton was led away,
carrying the black bag that contained his precious model, we entered the
shed and commenced our investigation.

The deceased was a small, elderly man, decently dressed in a somewhat
nautical fashion. He appeared to have been dead only two or three days,
and the body, unlike the majority of sea-borne corpses, was uninjured by
fish or crabs. There were no fractured bones or other gross injuries, and
no wounds, excepting a rugged tear in the scalp at the back of the head.

"The general appearance of the body," said Thorndyke, when he had noted
these particulars, "suggests death by drowning, though, of course, we
can't give a definite opinion until a post mortem has been made."

"You don't attach any significance to that scalp-wound, then?" I asked.

"As a cause of death? No. It was obviously inflicted during life, but it
seems to have been an oblique blow that spent its force on the scalp,
leaving the skull uninjured. But it is very significant in another way."

"In what way?" I asked.

Thorndyke took out his pocket-case and extracted a pair of forceps.
"Consider the circumstances," said he. "This man put off from the shore
to go to the lighthouse, but never arrived there. The question is, where
did he arrive?" As he spoke he stooped over the corpse and turned back
the hair round the wound with the beak of the forceps. "Look at those
white objects among the hair, Jervis, and inside the wound. They tell us
something, I think."

I examined, through my lens, the chalky fragments to which he pointed.
"These seem to be bits of shells and the tubes of some marine worm," I
said.

"Yes," he answered; "the broken shells are evidently those of the acorn
barnacle, and the other fragments are mostly pieces of the tubes of the
common serpula. The inference that these objects suggest is an important
one. It is that this wound was produced by some body encrusted by acorn
barnacles and serpula; that is to say, by a body that is periodically
submerged. Now, what can that body be, and how can the deceased have
knocked his head against it?"

"It might be the stem of a ship that ran him down," I suggested.

"I don't think you would find many serpulae on the stem of a ship," said
Thorndyke. "The combination rather suggests some stationary object
between tidemarks, such as a beacon. But one doesn't see how a man could
knock his head against a beacon, while, on the other hand, there are no
other stationary objects out in the estuary to knock against except
buoys, and a buoy presents a flat surface that could hardly have produced
this wound. By the way, we may as well see what there is in his pockets,
though it is not likely that robbery had anything to do with his death."

''No," I agreed, "and I see his watch is in his pocket; quite a good
silver one," I added, taking it out. "It has stopped at 12.13."

"That may be important," said Thorndyke, making a note of the fact; "but
we had better examine the pockets one at a time, and put the things back
when we have looked at them."

The first pocket that we turned out was the left hip-pocket of the monkey
jacket. This was apparently the one that the skipper had rifled, for we
found in it two letters, both bearing the crest of the Trinity House.
These, of course, we returned without reading, and then passed on to the
right pocket. The contents of this were common-place enough, consisting
of a briar pipe, a moleskin pouch and a number of loose matches.

"Rather a casual proceeding, this," I remarked, "to carry matches loose
in the pocket, and a pipe with them, too."

"Yes," agreed Thorndyke; "especially with these very inflammable matches.
You notice that the sticks had been coated at the upper end with sulphur
before the red phosphorous heads were put on. They would light with a
touch, and would be very difficult to extinguish; which, no doubt, is the
reason that this type of match is so popular among seamen, who have to
light their pipes in all sorts of weather." As he spoke he picked up the
pipe and looked at it reflectively, turning it over in his hand and
peering into the bowl. Suddenly he glanced from the pipe to the dead
man's face and then, with the forceps, turned back the lips to look into
the mouth.

"Let us see what tobacco he smokes," said he.

I opened the sodden pouch and displayed a mass of dark, fine-cut tobacco.
"It looks like shag," I said.

"Yes, it is shag," he replied; "and now we will see what is in the pipe.
It has been only half-smoked out." He dug out the "dottle" with his
pocket-knife onto a sheet of paper, and we both inspected it. Clearly it
was not shag, for it consisted of coarsely-cut shreds and was nearly
black.

"Shavings from a cake of 'hard,'" was my verdict, and Thorndyke agreed as
he shot the fragments back into the pipe.

The other pockets yielded nothing of interest, except a pocket-knife,
which Thorndyke opened and examined closely. There was not much money,
though as much as one would expect, and enough to exclude the idea of
robbery.

"Is there a sheath-knife on that strap?" Thorndyke asked, pointing to a
narrow leather belt. I turned back the jacket and looked.

"There is a sheath," I said, "but no knife. It must have dropped out."

"That is rather odd," said Thorndyke. "A sailor's sheath-knife takes a
deal of shaking out as a rule. It is intended to be used in working on
the rigging when the man is aloft, so that he can get it out with one
hand while he is holding on with the other. It has to be and usually is
very secure, for the sheath holds half the handle as well as the blade.
What makes one notice the matter in this case is that the man, as you
see, carried a pocket-knife; and, as this would serve all the ordinary
purposes of a knife, it seems to suggest that the sheath-knife was
carried for defensive purposes: as a weapon, in fact. However, we can't
get much further in the case without a post mortem, and here comes the
captain."

Captain Grumpass entered the shed and looked down commiseratingly at the
dead seaman.

"Is there anything, doctor, that throws any light on the man's
disappearance?" he asked.

"There are one or two curious features in the case," Thorndyke replied;
"but, oddly enough, the only really important point arises out of that
statement of the coastguard's, concerning which you were so scornful."

"You don't say so!" exclaimed the captain.

"Yes," said Thorndyke; "the coast-guard states that when last seen
deceased was filling his pipe from his tobacco-pouch. Now his pouch
contains shag; but the pipe in his pocket contains hard cut."

"Is there no cake tobacco in any of the pockets?"

"Not a fragment. Of course, it is possible that he might have had a piece
and used it up to fill the pipe; but there is no trace of any on the
blade of his pocket-knife, and you know how this juicy black cake stains
a knife-blade. His sheath-knife is missing, but he would hardly have used
that to shred tobacco when he had a pocket-knife."

"No," assented the captain; "but are you sure he hadn't a second pipe?"

"There was only one pipe," replied Thorndyke, "and that was not his own."

"Not his own!" exclaimed the captain, halting by a huge, chequered buoy,
to stare at my colleague. "How do you know it was not his own?"

"By the appearance of the vulcanite mouthpiece," said Thorndyke. "It
showed deep tooth-marks; in fact, it was nearly bitten through. Now a man
who bites through his pipe usually presents certain definite physical
peculiarities, among which is, necessarily, a fairly good set of teeth.
But the dead man had not a tooth in his head."

The captain cogitated a while, and then remarked: "I don't quite see the
bearing of this."

"Don't you?" said Thorndyke. "It seems to me highly suggestive. Here is a
man who, when last seen, was filling his pipe with a particular kind of
tobacco. He is picked up dead, and his pipe contains a totally different
kind of tobacco. Where did that tobacco come from? The obvious suggestion
is that he had met some one."

"Yes, it does look like it," agreed the captain.

"Then," continued Thorndyke, "there is the fact that his sheath-knife is
missing. That may mean nothing, but we have to bear it in mind. And there
is another curious circumstance: there is a wound on the back of the head
caused by a heavy bump against some body that was covered with acorn
barnacles and marine worms. Now there are no piers or stages out in the
open estuary. The question is, what could he have struck?"

"Oh, there is nothing in that," said the captain. "When a body has been
washing about in a tide-way for close on three days--"

"But this is not a question of a body," Thorndyke interrupted. "The wound
was made during life."

"The deuce it was!" exclaimed the captain. "Well, all I can suggest is
that he must have fouled one of the beacons in the fog, stove in his boat
and bumped his head, though, I must admit, that's rather a lame
explanation." He stood for a minute gazing at his toes with a cogitative
frown and then looked up at Thorndyke.

"I have an idea," he said. "From what you say, this matter wants looking
into pretty carefully. Now, I am going down on the tender to-day to make
inquiries on the spot. What do you say to coming with me as adviser--as
a matter of business, of course--you and Dr. Jervis? I shall start about
eleven; we shall be at the lighthouse by three o'clock, and you can get
back to town to-night, if you want to. What do you say?"

"There's nothing to hinder us," I put in eagerly, for even at Bugsby's
Hole the river looked very alluring on this summer morning.

"Very well," said Thorndyke, "we will come. Jervis is evidently hankering
for a sea-trip, and so am I, for that matter."

"It's a business engagement, you know," the captain stipulated.

"Nothing of the kind," said Thorndyke; "it's unmitigated pleasure; the
pleasure of the voyage and your high well-born society."

"I didn't mean that," grumbled the captain, "but, if you are coming as
guests, send your man for your nightgear and let us bring you back
to-morrow evening."

"We won't disturb Polton," said my colleague; "we can take the train from
Blackwall and fetch our things ourselves. Eleven o'clock, you said?"

"Thereabouts," said Captain Grumpass; "but don't put yourselves out."

The means of communication in London have reached an almost undesirable
state of perfection. With the aid of the snorting train and the tinkling,
two-wheeled "gondola," we crossed and re-crossed the town with such
celerity that it was barely eleven when we re-appeared on Trinity Wharf
with a joint Gladstone and Thorndyke's little green case.

The tender had hauled out of Bow Creek, and now lay alongside the wharf
with a great striped can buoy dangling from her derrick, and Captain
Grumpass stood at the gangway, his jolly, red face beaming with pleasure.
The buoy was safely stowed forward, the derrick hauled up to the mast,
the loose shrouds rehooked to the screw-lanyards, and the steamer, with
four jubilant hoots, swung round and shoved her sharp nose against the
incoming tide.

For near upon four hours the ever-widening stream of the "London River"
unfolded its moving panorama. The smoke and smell of Woolwich Reach gave
place to lucid air made soft by the summer haze; the grey huddle of
factories fell away and green levels of cattle-spotted marsh stretched
away to the high land bordering the river valley. Venerable training
ships displayed their chequered hulls by the wooded shore, and whispered
of the days of oak and hemp, when the tall three-decker, comely and
majestic, with her soaring heights of canvas, like towers of ivory, had
not yet given place to the mud-coloured saucepans that fly the white
ensign now-a-days and devour the substance of the British taxpayer: when
a sailor was a sailor and not a mere seafaring mechanic. Sturdily
breasting the flood tide, the tender threaded her way through the endless
procession of shipping; barges, billy-boys, schooners, brigs; lumpish
Black-seamen, blue-funnelled China tramps, rickety Baltic barques with
twirling windmills, gigantic liners, staggering under a mountain of
top-hamper. Erith, Purfleet, Greenhithe, Grays greeted us and passed
astern. The chimneys of Northfleet, the clustering roofs of Gravesend,
the populous anchorage and the lurking batteries, were left behind, and,
as we swung out of the Lower Hope, the wide expanse of sea reach spread
out before us like a great sheet of blue-shot satin.

About half-past twelve the ebb overtook us and helped us on our way, as
we could see by the speed with which the distant land slid past, and the
freshening of the air as we passed through it.

But sky and sea were hushed in a summer calm. Balls of fleecy cloud hung
aloft, motionless in the soft blue; the barges drifted on the tide with
drooping sails, and a big, striped bell buoy--surmounted by a staff and
cage and labelled, "Shivering Sand"--sat dreaming in the sun above its
motionless reflection, to rouse for a moment as it met our wash, nod its
cage drowsily, utter a solemn ding-dong, and fall asleep again.

It was shortly after passing the buoy that the gaunt shape of a
screw-pile lighthouse began to loom up ahead, its dull-red paint turned
to vermilion by the early afternoon sun. As we drew nearer, the name
Girdler, painted in huge, white letters, became visible, and two men
could be seen in the gallery around the lantern, inspecting us through a
telescope.

"Shall you be long at the lighthouse, sir?" the master of the tender
inquired of Captain Grumpass; "because we're going down, to the
North-East Pan Sand to fix this new buoy and take up the old one."

"Then you'd better put us off at the lighthouse and come back for us when
you've finished the job," was the reply. "I don't know how long we shall
be."

The tender was brought to, a boat lowered, and a couple of hands pulled
us across the intervening space of water.

"It will be a dirty climb for you in your shore-going clothes," the
captain remarked--he was as spruce as a new pin himself, "but the stuff
will all wipe off." We looked up at the skeleton shape. The falling tide
had exposed some fifteen feet of the piles, and piles and ladder alike
were swathed in sea-grass and encrusted with barnacles and worm-tubes.
But we were not such town-sparrows as the captain seemed to think, for we
both followed his lead without difficulty up the slippery ladder,
Thorndyke clinging tenaciously to his little green case, from which he
refused to be separated even for an instant.

"These gentlemen and I," said the captain, as we stepped on the stage at
the head of the ladder, "have come to make inquiries about the missing
man, James Brown. Which of you is Jeffreys?"

"I am, sir," replied a tall, powerful, square-jawed, beetle-browed man,
whose left hand was tied up in a rough bandage.

"What have you been doing to your hand?" asked the captain.

"I cut it while I was peeling some potatoes," was the reply. "It isn't
much of a cut, sir."

"Well, Jeffreys," said the captain, "Brown's body has been picked up and
I want particulars for the inquest. You'll be summoned as a witness, I
suppose, so come in and tell us all you know."

We entered the living-room and seated ourselves at the table. The captain
opened a massive pocket-book, while Thorndyke, in his attentive,
inquisitive fashion, looked about the odd, cabin-like room as if making a
mental inventory of its contents.

Jeffreys' statement added nothing to what we already knew. He had seen a
boat with one man in it making for the lighthouse. Then the fog had
drifted up and he had lost sight of the boat. He started the fog-horn and
kept a bright look-out, but the boat never arrived. And that was all he
knew. He supposed that the man must have missed the lighthouse and been
carried away on the ebb-tide, which was running strongly at the time.

"What time was it when you last saw the boat?" Thorndyke asked.

"About half-past eleven," replied Jeffreys.

"What was the man like?" asked the captain.

"I don't know, sir; he was rowing, and his back was towards me."

"Had he any kit-bag or chest with him?" asked Thorndyke.

"He'd got his chest with him," said Jeffreys.

"What sort of chest was it?" inquired Thorndyke.

"A small chest, painted green, with rope beckets."

"Was it corded?"

"It had a single cord round, to hold the lid down."

"Where was it stowed?"

"In the stern-sheets, sir."

"How far off was the boat when you last saw it?"

"About half-a-mile."

"Half-a-mile!" exclaimed the captain. "Why, how the deuce could you see
that chest half-a-mile away?"

The man reddened and cast a look of angry suspicion at Thorndyke. "I was
watching the boat through the glass, sir," he replied sulkily.

"I see," said Captain Grumpass. "Well, that will do, Jeffreys. We shall
have to arrange for you to attend the inquest. Tell Smith I want to see
him."

The examination concluded, Thorndyke and I moved our chairs to the
window, which looked out over the sea to the east. But it was not the sea
or the passing ships that engaged my colleague's attention. On the wall,
beside the window, hung a rudely-carved pipe-rack containing five pipes.
Thorndyke had noted it when we entered the room, and now, as we talked, I
observed him regarding it from time to time with speculative interest.

"You men seem to be inveterate smokers," he remarked to the keeper,
Smith, when the captain had concluded the arrangements for the "shift."

"Well, we do like our bit of 'baccy, sir, and that's a fact," answered
Smith. "You see, sir," he continued, "it's a lonely life, and tobacco's
cheap out here."

"How is that?" asked Thorndyke.

"Why, we get it given to us. The small craft from foreign, especially the
Dutchmen, generally heave us a cake or two when they pass close. We're
not ashore, you see, so there's no duty to pay."

"So you don't trouble the tobacconists much? Don't go in for cut
tobacco?"

"No, sir; we'd have to buy it, and then the cut stuff wouldn't keep. No,
it's hard-tack to eat out here and hard tobacco to smoke."

"I see you've got a pipe-rack, too, quite a stylish affair."

"Yes," said Smith, "I made it in my off-time. Keeps the place tidy and
looks more ship-shape than letting the pipes lay about anywhere."

"Some one seems to have neglected his pipe," said Thorndyke, pointing to
one at the end of the rack which was coated with green mildew.

"Yes; that's Parsons, my mate. He must have left it when he went off near
a month ago. Pipes do go mouldy in the damp air out here."

"How soon does a pipe go mouldy if it is left untouched?" Thorndyke
asked.

"It's according to the weather," said Smith. "When it's warm and damp
they'll begin to go in about a week. Now here's Barnett's pipe that he's
left behind--the man that broke his leg, you know, sir--it's just
beginning to spot a little. He couldn't have used it for a day or two
before he went."

"And are all these other pipes yours?"

"No, sir. This here one is mine. The end one is Jeffreys', and I suppose
the middle one is his too, but I don't know it."

"You're a demon for pipes, doctor," said the captain, strolling up at
this moment; "you seem to make a special study of them."

"'The proper study of mankind is man,'" replied Thorndyke, as the keeper
retired, "and 'man' includes those objects on which his personality is
impressed. Now a pipe is a very personal thing. Look at that row in the
rack. Each has its own physiognomy which, in a measure, reflects the
peculiarities of the owner. There is Jeffreys' pipe at the end, for
instance. The mouth-piece is nearly bitten through, the bowl scraped to a
shell and scored inside and the brim battered and chipped. The whole
thing speaks of rude strength and rough handling. He chews the stem as he
smokes, he scrapes the bowl violently, and he bangs the ashes out with
unnecessary force. And the man fits the pipe exactly: powerful,
square-jawed and, I should say, violent on occasion."

"Yes, he looks a tough customer, does Jeffreys," agreed the captain.

"Then," continued Thorndyke, "there is Smith's pipe, next to it; 'coked'
up until the cavity is nearly filled and burnt all round the edge; a
talker's pipe, constantly going out and being relit. But the one that
interests me most is the middle one."

"Didn't Smith say that was Jeffreys' too?" I said.

"Yes," replied Thorndyke, "but he must be mistaken. It is the very
opposite of Jeffreys' pipe in every respect. To begin with, although it
is an old pipe, there is not a sign of any tooth-mark on the mouth-piece.
It is the only one in the rack that is quite unmarked. Then the brim is
quite uninjured: it has been handled gently, and the silver band is
jet-black, whereas the band on Jeffreys' pipe is quite bright."

"I hadn't noticed that it had a band," said the captain. "What has made
it so black?"

Thorndyke lifted the pipe out of the rack and looked at it closely.
"Silver sulphide," said he, "the sulphur no doubt derived from something
carried in the pocket."

"I see," said Captain Grumpass, smothering a yawn and gazing out of the
window at the distant tender. "Incidentally it's full of tobacco. What
moral do you draw from that?"

Thorndyke turned the pipe over and looked closely at the mouth-piece.
"The moral is," he replied, "that you should see that your pipe is clear
before you fill it." He pointed to the mouth-piece, the bore of which was
completely stopped up with fine fluff.

"An excellent moral too," said the captain, rising with another yawn. "If
you'll excuse me a minute I'll just go and see what the tender is up to.
She seems to be crossing to the East Girdler." He reached the telescope
down from its brackets and went out onto the gallery.

As the captain retreated, Thorndyke opened his pocket-knife, and,
sticking the blade into the bowl of the pipe, turned the tobacco out into
his hand.

"Shag, by Jove!" I exclaimed.

"Yes," he answered, poking it back into the bowl. "Didn't you expect it
to be shag?"

"I don't know that I expected anything," I admitted. "The silver band was
occupying my attention."

"Yes, that is an interesting point,'' said Thorndyke, "but let us see
what the obstruction consists of." He opened the green case, and, taking
out a dissecting needle, neatly extracted a little ball of fluff from the
bore of the pipe. Laying this on a glass slide, he teased it out in a
drop of glycerine and put on a cover-glass while I set up the microscope.

"Better put the pipe back in the rack," he said, as he laid the slide on
the stage of the instrument. I did so and then turned, with no little
excitement, to watch him as he examined the specimen. After a brief
inspection he rose and waved his hand towards the microscope.

"Take a look at it, Jervis," he said.

I applied my eye to the instrument, and, moving the slide about,
identified the constituents of the little mass of fluff. The ubiquitous
cotton fibre was, of course, in evidence, and a few fibres of wool, but
the most remarkable objects were two or three hairs--very minute hairs
of a definite zigzag shape and having a flat expansion near the free end
like the blade of a paddle.

"These are the hairs of some small animal," I said; "not a mouse or rat
or any rodent, I should say. Some small insectivorous animal, I fancy.
Yes! Of course! They are the hairs of a mole." I stood up, and, as the
importance of the discovery flashed on me, I looked at my colleague in
silence.

"Yes," he said, "they are unmistakable; and they furnish the keystone of
the argument."

"You think that this is really the dead man's pipe, then?" I said.

"According to the law of multiple evidence," he replied, "it is
practically a certainty. Consider the facts in sequence. Since there is
no sign of mildew on it, this pipe can have been here only a short time,
and must belong either to Barnett, Smith, Jeffreys or Brown. It is an old
pipe, but it has no tooth-marks on it. Therefore it has been used by a
man who has no teeth. But Barnett, Smith and Jeffreys all have teeth and
mark their pipes, whereas Brown has no teeth. The tobacco in it is shag.
But these three men do not smoke shag, whereas Brown had shag in his
pouch. The silver band is encrusted with sulphide; and Brown carried
sulphur-tipped matches loose in his pocket with his pipe. We find hairs
of a mole in the bore of the pipe; and Brown carried a moleskin pouch in
the pocket in which he appears to have carried his pipe. Finally, Brown's
pocket contained a pipe which was obviously not his and which closely
resembled that of Jeffreys; it contained tobacco similar to that which
Jeffreys smokes and different from that in Brown's pouch. It appears to
me quite conclusive, especially when we add to this evidence the other
items that are in our possession."

"What items are they?" I asked.

"First there is the fact that the dead man had knocked his head heavily
against some periodically submerged body covered with acorn barnacles and
serpulae. Now the piles of this lighthouse answer to the description
exactly, and there are no other bodies in the neighbourhood that do: for
even the beacons are too large to have produced that kind of wound. Then
the dead man's sheath-knife is missing, and Jeffreys has a knife-wound on
his hand. You must admit that the circumstantial evidence is
overwhelming."

At this moment the captain bustled into the room with the telescope in
his hand. "The tender is coming up towing a strange boat," he said. "I
expect it's the missing one, and, if it is, we may learn something. You'd
better pack up your traps and get ready to go on board."

We packed the green case and went out into the gallery, where the two
keepers were watching the approaching tender; Smith frankly curious and
interested, Jeffreys restless, fidgety and noticeably pale. As the
steamer came opposite the lighthouse, three men dropped into the boat and
pulled across, and one of them--the mate of the tender--came climbing
up the ladder.

"Is that the missing boat?" the captain sang out.

"Yes, sir," answered the officer, stepping onto the staging and wiping
his hands on the reverse aspect of his trousers, "we saw her lying on the
dry patch of the East Girdler. There's been some hanky-panky in this job,
sir."

"Foul play, you think, hey?"

"Not a doubt of it, sir. The plug was out and lying loose in the bottom,
and we found a sheath-knife sticking into the kelson forward among the
coils of the painter. It was stuck in hard as if it had dropped from a
height."

"That's odd," said the captain. "As to the plug, it might have got out by
accident."

"But it hadn't sir," said the mate. "The ballast-bags had been shifted
along to get the bottom boards up. Besides, sir, a seaman wouldn't let
the boat fill; he'd have put the plug back and baled out."

"That's true," replied Captain Grumpass; "and certainly the presence of
the knife looks fishy. But where the deuce could it have dropped from,
out in the open sea? Knives don't drop from the clouds--fortunately.
What do you say, doctor?"

"I should say that it is Brown's own knife, and that it probably fell
from this staging."

Jeffreys turned swiftly, crimson with wrath. "What d'ye mean?" he
demanded. "Haven't I said that the boat never came here?"

"You have," replied Thorndyke; "but if that is so, how do you explain the
fact that your pipe was found in the dead man's pocket and that the dead
man's pipe is at this moment in your pipe-rack?"

The crimson flush on Jeffreys' face faded as quickly as it had come. "I
don't know what you're talking about," he faltered.

"I'll tell you," said Thorndyke. "I will relate what happened and you
shall check my statements. Brown brought his boat alongside and came up
into the living-room, bringing his chest with him. He filled his pipe and
tried to light it, but it was stopped and wouldn't draw. Then you lent
him a pipe of yours and filled it for him. Soon afterwards you came out
on this staging and quarrelled. Brown defended himself with his knife,
which dropped from his hand into the boat. You pushed him off the staging
and he fell, knocking his head on one of the piles. Then you took the
plug out of the boat and sent her adrift to sink, and you flung the chest
into the sea. This happened about ten minutes past twelve. Am I right?"

Jeffreys stood staring at Thorndyke, the picture of amazement and
consternation; but he uttered no word in reply. "Am I right?" Thorndyke
repeated. "Strike me blind!" muttered Jeffreys. "Was you here, then? You
talk as if you had been. Anyhow," he continued, recovering somewhat, "you
seem to know all about it. But you're wrong about one thing. There was no
quarrel. This chap, Brown, didn't take to me and he didn't mean to stay
out here. He was going to put off and go ashore again and I wouldn't let
him. Then he hit out at me with his knife and I knocked it out of his
hand and he staggered backwards and went overboard."

"And did you try to pick him up?" asked the captain.

"How could I," demanded Jeffreys, "with the tide racing down and me alone
on the station? I'd never have got back."

"But what about the boat, Jeffreys? Why did you scuttle her?"

"The fact is," replied Jeffreys, "I got in a funk, and I thought the
simplest plan was to send her to the cellar and know nothing about it.
But I never shoved him over. It was an accident, sir; I swear it!"

"Well, that sounds a reasonable explanation," said the captain. "What do
you say, doctor?"

"Perfectly reasonable," replied Thorndyke, "and, as to its truth, that is
no affair of ours."

"No. But I shall have to take you off, Jeffreys, and hand you over to the
police. You understand that?"

"Yes, sir, I understand," answered Jeffreys.

"That was a queer case, that affair on the Girdler," remarked Captain
Grumpass, when he was spending an evening with us some six months later.
"A pretty easy let off for Jeffreys, too--eighteen months, wasn't it?"

"Yes, it was a very queer case indeed," said Thorndyke. "There was
something behind that 'accident,' I should say. Those men had probably
met before."

"So I thought," agreed the captain. "But the queerest part of it to me
was the way you nosed it all out. I've had a deep respect for briar pipes
since then. It was a remarkable case," he continued. "The way in which
you made that pipe tell the story of the murder seems to me like sheer
enchantment."

"Yes," said I, "it spoke like the magic pipe--only that wasn't a
tobacco-pipe--in the German folk-story of the 'Singing Bone.' Do you
remember it? A peasant found the bone of a murdered man and fashioned it
into a pipe. But when he tried to play on it, it burst into a song of its
own -

'My brother slew me and buried my bones

Beneath the sand and under the stones.' "

"A pretty story," said Thorndyke, "and one with an excellent moral. The
inanimate things around us have each of them a song to sing to us if we
are but ready with attentive ears."



A WASTREL'S ROMANCE


PART I. THE SPINSTERS' GUEST


The lingering summer twilight was fast merging into night as a solitary
cyclist, whose evening-dress suit was thinly disguised by an overcoat,
rode slowly along a pleasant country road. From time to time he had been
overtaken and passed by a carriage, a car or a closed cab from the
adjacent town, and from the festive garb of the occupants he had made
shrewd guesses at their destination. His own objective was a large house,
standing in somewhat extensive grounds just off the road, and the
peculiar circumstances that surrounded his visit to it caused him to ride
more and more slowly as he approached his goal.

Willowdale--such was the name of the house--was, tonight, witnessing a
temporary revival of its past glories. For many months it had been empty
and a notice-board by the gate-keeper's lodge had silently announced its
forlorn state; but to-night, its rooms, their bare walls clothed in flags
and draperies, their floors waxed or carpeted, would once more echo the
sound of music and cheerful voices and vibrate to the tread of many feet.
For on this night the spinsters of Raynesford were giving a dance; and
chief amongst the spinsters was Miss Halliwell, the owner of Willowdale.

It was a great occasion. The house was large and imposing; the spinsters
were many and their purses were long. The guests were numerous and
distinguished, and included no less a person than Mrs. Jehu B. Chater.
This was the crowning triumph of the function, for the beautiful American
widow was the lion (or should we say lioness?) of the season. Her wealth
was, if not beyond the dreams of avarice, at least beyond the powers of
common British arithmetic, and her diamonds were, at once, the glory and
the terror of her hostesses.

All these attractions notwithstanding, the cyclist approached the
vicinity of Willowdale with a slowness almost hinting at reluctance; and
when, at length, a curve of the road brought the gates into view, he
dismounted and halted irresolutely. He was about to do a rather risky
thing, and, though by no means a man of weak nerve, he hesitated to make
the plunge.

The fact is, he had not been invited.

Why, then, was he going? And how was he to gain admittance? To which
questions the answer involves a painful explanation.

Augustus Bailey lived by his wits. That is the common phrase, and a
stupid phrase it is. For do we not all live by our wits, if we have any?
And does it need any specially brilliant wits to be a common rogue?
However, such as his wits were, Augustus Bailey lived by them, and he had
not hitherto made a fortune.

The present venture arose out of a conversation overheard at a restaurant
table and an invitation-card carelessly laid down and adroitly covered
with the menu. Augustus had accepted the invitation that he had not
received (on a sheet of Hotel Cecil notepaper that he had among his
collection of stationery) in the name of Geoffrey Harrington-Baillie; and
the question that exercised his mind at the moment was, would he or would
he not be spotted? He had trusted to the number of guests and the
probable inexperience of the hostesses. He knew that the cards need not
be shown, though there was the awkward ceremony of announcement.

But perhaps it wouldn't get as far as that. Probably not, if his
acceptance had been detected as emanating from an uninvited stranger.

He walked slowly towards the gates with growing discomfort. Added to his
nervousness as to the present were certain twinges of reminiscence. He
had once held a commission in a line regiment--not for long, indeed; his
"wits" had been too much for his brother officers--but there had been a
time when he would have come to such a gathering as this an invited
guest. Now, a common thief, he was sneaking in under a false name, with a
fair prospect of being ignominiously thrown out by the servants.

As he stood hesitating, the sound of hoofs on the road was followed by
the aggressive bellow of a motor-horn. The modest twinkle of carriage
lamps appeared round the curve and then the glare of acetylene
headlights. A man came out of the lodge and drew open the gates; and Mr.
Bailey, taking his courage in both hands, boldly trundled his machine up
the drive.

Half-way up--it was quite a steep incline--the car whizzed by; a large
Napier filled with a bevy of young men who economized space by sitting on
the backs of the seats and on one another's knees. Bailey looked at them
and decided that this was his chance, and, pushing forward, he saw his
bicycle safely bestowed in the empty coach-house and then hurried on to
the cloak-room. The young men had arrived there before him and, as he
entered, were gaily peeling off their overcoats and flinging them down on
a table. Bailey followed their example, and, in his eagerness to enter
the reception-room with the crowd, let his attention wander from the
business of the moment, and, as he pocketed the ticket and hurried away,
he failed to notice that the bewildered attendant had put his hat with
another man's coat and affixed his duplicate to them both.

"Major Podbury, Captain Barker-Jones, Captain Sparker, Mr. Watson, Mr.
Goldsmith, Mr. Smart, Mr. Harrington-Baillie!"

As Augustus swaggered up the room, hugging the party of officers and
quaking inwardly, he was conscious that his hostesses glanced from one
man to another with more than common interest.

But at that moment the footman's voice rang out, sonorous and clear -

"Mrs. Chater, Colonel Grumpier!" and, as all eyes were turned towards the
new arrivals, Augustus made his bow and passed into the throng. His
little game of bluff had "come off," after all.

He withdrew modestly into the more crowded portion of the room, and there
took up a position where he would be shielded from the gaze of his
hostesses. Presently, he reflected, they would forget him, if they had
really thought about him at all, and then he would see what could be done
in the way of business. He was still rather shaky, and wondered how soon
it would be decent to steady his nerves with a "refresher." Meanwhile he
kept a sharp look-out over the shoulders of neighbouring guests, until a
movement in the crowd of guests disclosed Mrs. Chater shaking hands with
the presiding spinster. Then Augustus got a most uncommon surprise.

He knew her at the first glance. He had a good memory for faces, and Mrs.
Chater's face was-one to remember. Well did he recall the frank and
lovely American girl with whom he had danced at the regimental ball years
ago. That was in the old days when he was a subaltern, and before that
little affair of the pricked court-cards that brought his military career
to an end. They had taken a mutual liking, he remembered, that
sweet-faced Yankee maid and he; had danced many dances and had sat out
others, to talk mystical nonsense which, in their innocence, they had
believed to be philosophy. He had never seen her since. She had come into
his life and gone out of it again, and he had forgotten her name, if he
had ever known it. But here she was, middle-aged now, it was true, but
still beautiful and a great personage withal. And, ye gods! what
diamonds! And here was he, too, a common rogue, lurking in the crowd that
he might, perchance, snatch a pendant or "pinch" a loose brooch.

Perhaps she might recognize him. Why not? He had recognized her. But that
would never do. And thus reflecting, Mr. Bailey slipped out to stroll on
the lawn and smoke a cigarette. Another man, somewhat older than himself,
was pacing to and fro thoughtfully, glancing from time to time through
the open windows into the brilliantly-lighted rooms. When they had passed
once or twice, the stranger halted and addressed him.

"This is the best place on a night like this," he remarked; "it's getting
hot inside already. But perhaps you're keen on dancing."

"Not so keen as I used to be," replied Bailey; and then, observing the
hungry look that the other man was bestowing on his cigarette, he
produced his case and offered it.

"Thanks awfully!" exclaimed the stranger, pouncing with avidity on the
open case. "Good Samaritan, by Jove. Left my case in my overcoat. Hadn't
the cheek to ask, though I was starving for a smoke." He inhaled
luxuriously, and, blowing out a cloud of smoke, resumed: "These chits
seem to be running the show pretty well, h'm? Wouldn't take it for an
empty house to look at it, would you?"

"I have hardly seen it," said Bailey; "only just come, you know."

"We'll have a look round, if you like," said the genial stranger, "when
we've finished our smoke, that is. Have a drink too; may cool us a bit.
Know many people here?"

"Not a soul," replied Bailey. "My, hostess doesn't seem to have turned
up."

"Well, that's easily remedied," said the stranger. "My daughter's one of
the spinsters--Granby, my name; when we've had a drink, I'll make her
find you a partner--that is, if you care for the light fantastic."

"I should like a dance or two," said Bailey, "though I'm getting a bit
past it now, I suppose. Still, it doesn't do to chuck up the sponge
prematurely."

"Certainly not," Granby agreed jovially; "a man's as young as he feels.
Well, come and have a drink and then we'll hunt up my little girl." The
two men flung away the stumps of their cigarettes and headed for the
refreshments.

The spinsters' champagne was light, but it was well enough if taken in
sufficient quantity; a point to which Augustus? and Granby too--paid
judicious attention; and when he had supplemented the wine with a few
sandwiches, Mr. Bailey felt in notably better spirits. For, to tell the
truth, his diet, of late, had been somewhat meagre. Miss Granby, when
found, proved to be a blonde and guileless "flapper" of some seventeen
summers, childishly eager to play her part of hostess with due dignity;
and presently Bailey found himself gyrating through the eddying crowd in
company with a comely matron of thirty or thereabouts.

The sensations that this novel experience aroused rather took him by
surprise. For years past he had been living a precarious life of mean and
sordid shifts that oscillated between mere shabby trickery and downright
crime; now conducting a paltry swindle just inside the pale of the law,
and now, when hard pressed, descending to actual theft; consorting with
shady characters, swindlers and knaves and scurvy rogues like himself;
gambling, borrowing, cadging and, if need be, stealing, and always
slinking abroad with an apprehensive eye upon "the man in blue."

And now, amidst the half-forgotten surroundings, once so familiar; the
gaily-decorated rooms, the rhythmic music, the twinkle of jewels, the
murmur of gliding feet and the rustle of costly gowns, the moving vision
of honest gentlemen and fair ladies; the shameful years seemed to drop
away and leave him to take up the thread of his life where it had snapped
so disastrously. After all, these were his own people. The seedy knaves
in whose steps he had walked of late were but aliens met by the way.

He surrendered his partner, in due course, with regret--which was mutual
--to an inarticulate subaltern, and was meditating another pilgrimage to
the refreshment-room, when he felt a light touch upon his arm. He turned
swiftly. A touch on the arm meant more to him than to some men. But it
was no wooden-faced plain-clothes man that he confronted; it was only a
lady. In short, it was Mrs. Chater, smiling nervously and a little
abashed by her own boldness.

"I expect you've forgotten me," she began apologetically, but Augustus
interrupted her with an eager disclaimer.

"Of course I haven't," he said; "though I have forgotten your name, but I
remember that Portsmouth dance as well as if it were yesterday; at least
one incident in it--the only one that was worth remembering. I've often
hoped that I might meet you again, and now, at last, it has happened."

"It's nice of you to remember," she rejoined. "I've often and often
thought of that evening and all the wonderful things that we talked
about. You were a nice boy then; I wonder what you are like now. What a
long time ago it is!"

"Yes," Augustus agreed gravely, "it is a long time. I know it myself; but
when I look at you, it seems as if it could only have been last season."

"Oh, fie!" she exclaimed. "You are not simple as you used to be. You
didn't flatter then; but perhaps there wasn't the need." She spoke with
gentle reproach, but her pretty face flushed with pleasure nevertheless,
and there was a certain wistfulness in the tone of her concluding
sentence.

"I wasn't flattering," Augustus replied, quite sincerely; "I knew you
directly you entered the room and marvelled that Time had been so gentle
with you. He hasn't been as kind to me."

"No. You have gotten a few grey hairs, I see, but after all, what are
grey hairs to a man? Just the badges of rank, like the crown on your
collar or the lace on your cuffs, to mark the steps of your promotion--
for I guess you'll be a colonel by now."

"No," Augustus answered quickly, with a faint flush, "I left the army
some years ago."

"My! what a pity!" exclaimed Mrs. Chater. "You must tell me all about it
--but not now. My partner will be looking for me. We will sit out a dance
and have a real gossip. But I've forgotten your name--never could recall
it, in fact, though that didn't prevent me from remembering you; but, as
our dear W. S. remarks, 'What's in a name--' "

"Ah, indeed," said Mr. Harrington-Baillie; and apropos of that sentiment,
he added: "Mine is Rowland--Captain Rowland. You may remember it now."

Mrs. Chater did not, however, and said so. "Will number six do?" she
asked, opening her programme; and, when Augustus had assented, she
entered his provisional name, remarking complacently: "We'll sit out and
have a right-down good talk, and you shall tell me all about yourself and
if you still think the same about free-will and personal responsibility.
You had very lofty ideals, I remember, in those days, and I hope you have
still. But one's ideals get rubbed down rather faint in the friction of
life. Don't you think so?"

"Yes, I am afraid you're right," Augustus assented gloomily. "The wear
and tear of life soon fetches the gilt off the gingerbread. Middle age is
apt to find us a bit patchy, not to say naked."

"Oh, don't be pessimistic," said Mrs. Chater; "that is the attitude of
the disappointed idealist, and I am sure you have no reason, really, to
be disappointed in yourself. But I must run away now. Think over all the
things you have to tell me, and don't forget that it is number six." With
a bright smile and a friendly nod she sailed away, a vision of glittering
splendour, compared with which Solomon in all his glory was a mere matter
of commonplace bullion.

The interview, evidently friendly and familiar, between the unknown guest
and the famous American widow had by no means passed unnoticed; and in
other circumstances, Bailey might have endeavoured to profit by the
reflected glory that enveloped him. But he was not in search of
notoriety; and the same evasive instinct that had led him to sink Mr.
Harrington-Baillie in Captain Rowland, now advised him to withdraw his
dual personality from the vulgar gaze. He had come here on very definite
business. For the hundredth time he was "stony-broke," and it was the
hope of picking up some "unconsidered trifles" that had brought him. But,
somehow, the atmosphere of the place had proved unfavourable. Either
opportunities were lacking or he failed to seize them. In any case, the
game pocket that formed an unconventional feature of his dress-coat was
still empty, and it looked as if a pleasant evening and a good supper
were all that he was likely to get. Nevertheless, be his conduct never so
blameless, the fact remained that he was an uninvited guest, liable at
any moment to be ejected as an impostor, and his recognition by the widow
had not rendered this possibility any the more remote.

He strayed out onto the lawn, whence the grounds fell away on all sides.
But there were other guests there, cooling themselves after the last
dance, and the light from the rooms streamed through the windows,
illuminating their figures, and among them, that of the too-companionable
Granby. Augustus quickly drew away from the lighted area, and, chancing
upon a narrow path, strolled away along it in the direction of a copse or
shrubbery that he saw ahead. Presently he came to an ivy-covered arch,
lighted by one or two fairy lamps, and, passing through this, he entered
a winding path, bordered by trees and shrubs and but faintly lighted by
an occasional coloured lamp suspended from a branch.

Already he was quite clear of the crowd; indeed, the deserted condition
of the pleasant retreat rather surprised him, until he reflected that to
couples desiring seclusion there were whole ranges of untenanted rooms
and galleries available in the empty house.

The path sloped gently downwards for some distance; then came a long
flight of rustic steps and, at the bottom, a seat between two trees. In
front of the seat the path extended in a straight line, forming a narrow
terrace; on the right the ground sloped up steeply towards the lawn; on
the left it fell away still more steeply towards the encompassing wall of
the grounds; and on both sides it was covered with trees and shrubs.

Bailey sat down on the seat to think over the account of himself that he
should present to Mrs. Chater. It was a comfortable seat, built into the
trunk of an elm, which formed one end and part of the back. He leaned
against the tree, and, taking out his silver case, selected a cigarette.
But it remained unlighted between his fingers as he sat and meditated
upon his unsatisfactory past and the melancholy tale of what might have
been. Fresh from the atmosphere of refined opulence that pervaded the
dancing-rooms, the throng of well-groomed men and dainty women, his mind
travelled back to his sordid little flat in Bermondsey, encompassed by
poverty and squalor, jostled by lofty factories, grimy with the smoke of
the river and the reek from the great chimneys. It was a hideous
contrast. Verily the way of the transgressor was not strewn with flowers.

At that point in his meditations he caught the sound of voices and
footsteps on the path above and rose to walk on along the path. He did
not wish to be seen wandering alone in the shrubbery. But now a woman's
laugh sounded from somewhere down the path. There were people approaching
that way too. He put the cigarette back in the case and stepped round
behind the seat, intending to retreat in that direction, but here the
path ended, and beyond was nothing but a rugged slope down to the wall
thickly covered with bushes. And while he was hesitating, the sound of
feet descending the steps and the rustle of a woman's dress left him to
choose between staying where he was or coming out to confront the
new-comers. He chose the former, drawing up close behind the tree to wait
until they should have passed on.

But they were not going to pass on. One of them--a woman--sat down on
the seat, and then a familiar voice smote on his ear.

"I guess I'll rest here quietly for a while; this tooth of mine is aching
terribly; and, see here, I want you to go and fetch me something. Take
this ticket to the cloak-room and tell the woman to give you my little
velvet bag. You'll find in it a bottle of chloroform and a packet of
cotton-wool."

"But I can't leave you here all alone, Mrs. Chater," her partner
expostulated.

"I'm not hankering for society just now," said Mrs. Chater. "I want that
chloroform. Just you hustle off and fetch it, like a good boy. Here's the
ticket."

The young officer's footsteps retreated rapidly, and the voices of the
couple advancing along the path grew louder. Bailey, cursing the chance
that had placed him in his ridiculous and uncomfortable position, heard
them approach and pass on up the steps; and then all was silent, save for
an occasional moan from Mrs. Chater and the measured creaking of the seat
as she rocked uneasily to and fro. But the young man was uncommonly
prompt in the discharge of his mission, and in a very few minutes Bailey
heard him approaching at a run along the path above and then bounding
down the steps.

"Now I call that real good of you," said the widow gratefully. "You must
have run like the wind. Cut the string of the packet and then leave me to
wrestle with this tooth."

"But I can't leave you here all--"

"Yes, you can," interrupted Mrs. Chater. "There won't be any one about--
the next dance is a waltz. Besides, you must go and find your partners."

"Well, if you'd really rather be alone," the subaltern began; but Mrs.
Chater interrupted him.

"Of course I would, when I'm fixing up my teeth. Now go along, and a
thousand thanks for your kindness."

With mumbled protestations the young officer slowly retired, and Bailey
heard his reluctant feet ascending the steps. Then a deep silence fell on
the place in which the rustle of paper and the squeak of a withdrawn cork
seemed loud and palpable. Bailey had turned with his face towards the
tree, against which he leaned with his lips parted scarcely daring to
breathe. He cursed himself again and again for having thus entrapped
himself for no tangible reason, and longed to get away. But there was no
escape now without betraying himself. He must wait for the woman to go.

Suddenly, beyond the edge of the tree, a hand appeared holding an open
packet of cotton-wool. It laid the wool down on the seat, and, pinching
off a fragment, rolled it into a tiny ball. The fingers of the hand were
encircled by rings, its wrist enclosed by a broad bracelet; and from
rings and bracelet the light of the solitary fairy-lamp, that hung from a
branch of the tree, was reflected in prismatic sparks. The hand was
withdrawn and Bailey stared dreamily at the square pad of cotton-wool.
Then the hand came again into view. This time it held a small phial which
it laid softly on the seat, setting the cork beside it. And again the
light flashed in many-coloured scintillations from the encrusting gems.

Bailey's knees began to tremble, and a chilly moisture broke out upon his
forehead.

The hand drew back, but, as it vanished, Bailey moved his head silently
until his face emerged from behind the tree. The woman was leaning back,
her head resting against the trunk only a few inches away from his face.
The great stones of the tiara flashed in his very eyes. Over her
shoulder, he could even see the gorgeous pendant, rising and falling on
her bosom with ever-changing fires; and both her raised hands were a mass
of glitter and sparkle, only the deeper and richer for the subdued light.

His heart throbbed with palpable blows that drummed aloud in his ears.
The sweat trickled clammily down his face, and he clenched his teeth to
keep them from chattering. An agony of horror--of deadly fear--was
creeping over him? a terror of the dreadful impulse that was stealing
away his reason and his will.

The silence was profound. The woman's soft breathing, the creak of her
bodice, were plainly--grossly--audible; and he checked his own breath
until he seemed on the verge of suffocation.

Of a sudden through the night air was borne faintly the dreamy music of a
waltz. The dance had begun. The distant sound but deepened the sense of
solitude in this deserted spot.

Bailey listened intently. He yearned to escape from the invisible force
that seemed to be clutching at his wrists, and dragging him forward
inexorably to his doom.

He gazed down at the woman with a horrid fascination. He struggled to
draw back out of sight--and struggled in vain.

Then, at last, with a horrible, stealthy deliberation, a clammy, shaking
hand crept forward towards the seat. Without a sound it grasped the wool,
and noiselessly, slowly drew back. Again it stole forth. The fingers
twined snakily around the phial, lifted it from the seat and carried it
back into the shadow.

After a few seconds it reappeared and softly replaced the bottle--now
half empty. There was a brief pause. The measured cadences of the waltz
stole softly through the quiet night and seemed to keep time with the
woman's breathing. Other sound there was none. The place was wrapped in
the silence of the grave.

Suddenly, from the hiding-place, Bailey leaned forward over the back of
the seat. The pad of cotton-wool was in his hand.

The woman was now leaning back as if dozing, and her hands rested in her
lap. There was a swift movement. The pad was pressed against her face and
her head dragged back against the chest of the invisible assailant. A
smothered gasp burst from her hidden lips as her hands flew up to clutch
at the murderous arm; and then came a frightful struggle, made even more
frightful by the gay and costly trappings of the writhing victim. And
still there was hardly a sound; only muffled gasps, the rustle of silk,
the creaking of the seat, the clink of the falling bottle and, afar off,
with dreadful irony, the dreamy murmur of the waltz.

The struggle was but brief. Quite suddenly the jewelled hands dropped,
the head lay resistless on the crumpled shirt-front, and the body, now
limp and inert, began to slip forward off the seat. Bailey, still
grasping the passive head, climbed over the back of the seat and, as the
woman slid gently to the ground, he drew away the pad and stooped over
her. The struggle was over now; the mad fury of the moment was passing
swiftly into the chill of mortal fear.

He stared with incredulous horror into the swollen face, but now so
comely, the sightless eyes that but a little while since had smiled into
his with such kindly recognition.

He had done this! He, the sneaking wastrel, discarded of all the world,
to whom this sweet woman had held out the hand of friendship. She had
cherished his memory, when to all others he was sunk deep under the
waters of oblivion. And he had killed her--for to his ear no breath of
life seemed to issue from those purple lips.

A sudden hideous compunction for this irrevocable thing that he had done
surged through him, and he stood up clutching at his damp hair with a
hoarse cry that was like the cry of the damned.

The jewels passed straightaway out of his consciousness. Everything was
forgotten now but the horror of this unspeakable thing that he had done.
Remorse incurable and haunting fear were all that were left to him.

The sound of voices far away along the path aroused him, and the vague
horror that possessed him materialized into abject bodily fear. He lifted
the limp body to the edge of the path and let it slip down the steep
declivity among the bushes. A soft, shuddering sigh came from the parted
lips as the body turned over, and he paused a moment to listen. But there
was no other sound of life. Doubtless that sigh was only the result of
the passive movement.

Again he stood for an instant as one in a dream, gazing at the huddled
shape half hidden by the bushes, before he climbed back to the path; and
even then he looked back once more, but now she was hidden from sight.
And, as the voices drew nearer, he turned, and ran up the rustic steps.

As he came out on the edge of the lawn the music ceased, and, almost
immediately, a stream of people issued from the house. Shaken as he was,
Bailey yet had wits enough left to know that his clothes and hair were
disordered and that his appearance must be wild. Accordingly he avoided
the dancers, and, keeping to the margin of the lawn, made his way to the
cloak-room by the least frequented route. If he had dared, he would have
called in at the refreshment-room, for he was deadly faint and his limbs
shook as he walked. But a haunting fear pursued him and, indeed, grew
from moment to moment. He found himself already listening for the rumour
of the inevitable discovery.

He staggered into the cloak-room, and, flinging his ticket down on the
table, dragged out his watch. The attendant looked at him curiously and,
pausing with the ticket in his hand, asked sympathetically: "Not feeling
very well, sir?"

"No," said Bailey. "So beastly hot in there."

"You ought to have a glass of champagne, sir, before you start," said the
man.

"No time," replied Bailey, holding out a shaky hand for his coat. "Shall
lose my train if I'm not sharp."

At this hint the attendant reached down the coat and hat, holding up the
former for its owner to slip his arms into the sleeves. But Bailey
snatched it from him, and, flinging it over his arm, put on his hat and
hurried away to the coachhouse. Here, again, the attendant stared at him
in astonishment, which was not lessened when Bailey, declining his offer
to help him on with his coat, bundled the latter under his arm, clicked
the lever of the "variable" on to the ninety gear, sprang onto the
machine and whirled away down the steep drive, a grotesque vision of
flying coat-tails.

"You haven't lit your lamp, sir," roared the attendant; but Bailey's ears
were deaf to all save the clamour of the expected pursuit.

Fortunately the drive entered the road obliquely, or Bailey must have
been flung into the opposite hedge. As it was, the machine, rushing down
the slope, flew out into the road with terrific velocity; nor did its
speed diminish then, for its rider, impelled by mortal terror, trod the
pedals with the fury of a madman. And still, as the machine whizzed along
the dark and silent road, his ears were strained to catch the clatter of
hoofs or the throb of a motor from behind.

He knew the country well, in fact, as a precaution, he had cycled over
the district only the day before; and he was ready, at any suspicious
sound, to slip down any of the lanes or byways, secure of finding his
way. But still he sped on, and still no sound from the rear came to tell
him of the dread discovery.

When he had ridden about three miles, he came to the foot of a steep
hill. Here he had to dismount and push his machine up the incline, which
he did at such speed that he arrived at the top quite breathless. Before
mounting again he determined to put on his coat, for his appearance was
calculated to attract attention, if nothing more. It was only half-past
eleven, and presently he would pass through the streets of a small town.
Also he would light his lamp. It would be fatal to be stopped by a patrol
or rural constable.

Having lit his lamp and hastily put on his coat he once more listened
intently, looking back over the country that was darkly visible from the
summit of the hill. No moving lights were to be seen, no ringing hoofs or
throbbing engines to be heard, and, turning to mount, he instinctively
felt in his overcoat pocket for his gloves.

A pair of gloves came out in his hand, but he was instantly conscious
that they were not his. A silk muffler was there also; a white one. But
his muffler was black.

With a sudden shock of terror he thrust his hand into the ticket-pocket,
where he had put his latch-key. There was no key there; only an amber
cigar-holder, which he had never seen before. He stood for a few moments
in utter consternation. He had taken the wrong coat. Then he had left his
own coat behind. A cold sweat of fear broke out afresh on his face as he
realized this. His Yale latch-key was in its pocket; not that that
mattered very much. He had a duplicate at home, and, as to getting in,
well, he knew his own outside door and his tool-bag contained one or two
trifles not usually found in cyclists' tool-bags. The question was
whether that coat contained anything that could disclose his identity.
And then suddenly he remembered, with a gasp of relief, that he had
carefully turned the pockets out before starting.

No; once let him attain the sanctuary of his grimy little flat, wedged in
as it was between the great factories by the river-side, and he would be
safe: safe from everything but the horror of himself, and the haunting
vision of a jewelled figure huddled up in a silken heap beneath the
bushes.

With a last look round he mounted his machine, and, driving it over the
brow of the hill, swept away into the darkness.


PART II. MUNERA PULVERIS


(Related by Christopher Jervis, M.D.)

It is one of the drawbacks of medicine as a profession that one is never
rid of one's responsibilities. The merchant, the lawyer, the civil
servant, each at the appointed time locks up his desk, puts on his hat
and goes forth a free man with an interval of uninterrupted leisure
before him. Not so the doctor. Whether at work or at play, awake or
asleep, he is the servant of humanity, at the instant disposal of friend
or stranger alike whose need may make the necessary claim.

When I agreed to accompany my wife to the spinsters' dance at Raynesford,
I imagined that, for that evening, at least, I was definitely off duty;
and in that belief I continued until the conclusion of the eighth dance.
To be quite truthful, I was not sorry when the delusion was shattered. My
last partner was a young lady of a slanginess of speech that verged on
the inarticulate. Now it is not easy to exchange ideas in "pidgin"
English; and the conversation of a person to whom all things are either
"ripping" or "rotten" is apt to lack subtlety. In fact, I was frankly
bored; and, reflecting on the utility of the humble sandwich as an aid to
conversation, I was about to entice my partner to the refreshment-room
when I felt some one pluck at my sleeve. I turned quickly and looked into
the anxious and rather frightened face of my wife.

"Miss Halliwell is looking for you," she said. "A lady has been taken
ill. Will you come and see what is the matter?" She took my arm and, when
I had made my apologies to my partner, she hurried me on to the lawn.

"It's a mysterious affair," my wife continued. "The sick lady is a Mrs.
Chater, a very wealthy American widow. Edith Halliwell and Major Podbury
found her lying in the shrubbery all alone and unable to give any account
of herself. Poor Edith is dreadfully upset. She doesn't know what to
think."

"What do you mean?" I began; but at this moment Miss Halliwell, who was
waiting by an ivy-covered rustic arch, espied us and ran forward.

"Oh, do hurry, please, Dr. Jervis," she exclaimed; "such a shocking thing
has happened. Has Juliet told you?" Without waiting for an answer, she
darted through the arch and preceded us along a narrow path at the
curious, flat-footed, shambling trot common to most adult women.
Presently we descended a flight of rustic steps which brought us to a
seat, from whence extended a straight path cut like a miniature terrace
on a steep slope, with a high bank rising to the right and declivity
falling away to the left. Down in the hollow, his head and shoulders
appearing above the bushes, was a man holding in his hand a fairy-lamp
that he had apparently taken down from a tree. I climbed down to him,
and, as I came round the bushes, I perceived a richly-dressed woman lying
huddled on the ground. She was not completely insensible, for she moved
slightly at my approach, muttering a few words in thick, indistinct
accents. I took the lamp from the man, whom I assumed to be Major
Podbury, and, as he delivered it to me with a significant glance and a
faint lift of the eyebrows, I understood Miss Halliwell's agitation.
Indeed--for one horrible moment I thought that she was right--that the
prostrate woman was intoxicated. But when I approached nearer, the
flickering light of the lamp made visible a square reddened patch on her
face, like the impression of a mustard plaster, covering the nose and
mouth; and then I scented mischief of a more serious kind.

"We had better carry her up to the seat," I said, handing the lamp to
Miss Halliwell. "Then we can consider moving her to the house." The major
and I lifted the helpless woman and, having climbed cautiously up to the
path, laid her on the seat.

"What is it, Dr. Jervis?" Miss Halliwell whispered.

"I can't say at the moment," I replied; "but it's not what you feared."

"Thank God for that!" was her fervent rejoinder. "It would have been a
shocking scandal."

I took the dim lamp and once more bent over the half-conscious woman.

Her appearance puzzled me not a little. She looked like a person
recovering from an anaesthetic, but the square red patch on her face,
recalling, as it did, the Burke murders, rather suggested suffocation. As
I was thus reflecting, the light of the lamp fell on a white object lying
on the ground behind the seat, and holding the lamp forward, I saw that
it was a square pad of cotton-wool. The coincidence of its shape and size
with that of the red patch on the woman's face instantly struck me, and I
stooped down to pick it up; and then I saw, lying under the seat, a small
bottle. This also I picked up and held in the lamplight. It was a
one-ounce phial, quite empty, and was labelled "Methylated Chloroform."
Here seemed to be a complete explanation of the thick utterance and
drunken aspect; but it was an explanation that required, in its turn, to
be explained. Obviously no robbery had been committed, for the woman
literally glittered with diamonds. Equally obviously she had not
administered the chloroform to herself.

There was nothing for it but to carry her indoors and await her further
recovery, so, with the major's help, we conveyed her through the
shrubbery and kitchen garden to a side door, and deposited her on a sofa
in a half-furnished room.

Here, under the influence of water dabbed on her face and the plentiful
use of smelling salts', she quickly revived, and was soon able to give an
intelligible account of herself.

The chloroform and cotton-wool were her own. She had used them for an
aching tooth; and she was sitting alone on the seat with the bottle and
the wool beside her when the incomprehensible thing had happened. Without
a moment's warning a hand had come from behind her and pressed the pad of
wool over her nose and mouth. The wool was saturated with chloroform, and
she had lost consciousness almost immediately.

"You didn't see the person, then?" I asked.

"No, but I know he was in evening dress, because I felt my head against
his shirt-front."

"Then," said I, "he is either here still or he has been to the
cloak-room. He couldn't have left the place without an overcoat."

"No, by Jove!" exclaimed the major; "that's true. I'll go and make
inquiries." He strode away all agog, and I, having satisfied myself that
Mrs. Chater could be left safely, followed him almost immediately.

I made my way straight to the cloak-room, and here I found the major and
one or two of his brother officers putting on their coats in a flutter of
gleeful excitement.

"He's gone," said Podbury, struggling frantically into his overcoat;
"went off nearly an hour ago on a bicycle. Seemed in a deuce of a stew,
the attendant says, and no wonder. We're goin' after him in our car. Care
to join the hunt?"

"No, thanks. I must stay with the patient. But how do you know you're
after the right man?"

"Isn't any other. Only one Johnnie's left. Besides--here, confound it!
you've given me the wrong coat!" He tore off the garment and handed it
back to the attendant, who regarded it with an expression of dismay.

"Are you sure, sir?" he asked.

"Perfectly," said the major. "Come, hurry up, my man."

"I'm afraid, sir," said the attendant, "that the gentleman who has gone
has taken your coat. They were on the same peg, I know. I am very sorry,
sir."

The major was speechless with wrath. What the devil was the good of being
sorry; and how the deuce was he to get his coat back -

"But," I interposed, "if the stranger has got your coat, then this coat
must be his."

"I know," said Podbury; "but I don't want his beastly coat."

"No," I replied, "but it may be useful for identification."

This appeared to afford the bereaved officer little consolation, but as
the car was now ready, he bustled away, and I, having directed the man to
put the coat away in a safe place, went back to my patient.

Mrs. Chater was by now fairly recovered, and had developed a highly
vindictive interest in her late assailant. She even went so far as to
regret that he had not taken at least some of her diamonds, so that
robbery might have been added to the charge of attempted murder, and
expressed the earnest hope that the officers would not be foolishly
gentle in their treatment of him when they caught him.

"By the way, Dr. Jervis," said Miss Halliwell, "I think I ought to
mention a rather curious thing that happened in connection with this
dance. We received an acceptance from a Mr. Harrington-Baillie, who wrote
from the Hotel Cecil. Now I am certain that no such name was proposed by
any of the spinsters."

"But didn't you ask them?" I inquired.

"Well, the fact is," she replied, "that one of them, Miss Waters, had to
go abroad suddenly, and we had not got her address; and as it was
possible that she might have invited him, I did not like to move in the
matter. I am very sorry I didn't now. We may have let in a regular
criminal? though why he should have wanted to murder Mrs. Chater I cannot
imagine."

It was certainly a mysterious affair, and the mystery was in no wise
dispelled by the return of the search party an hour later. It seemed that
the bicycle had been tracked for a couple of miles towards London, but
then, at the cross-roads, the tracks had become hopelessly mixed with the
impressions of other machines and the officers, after cruising about
vaguely for a while, had given up the hunt and returned.

"You see, Mrs. Chater," Major Podbury explained apologetically, "the
fellow must have had a good hour's start, and that would have brought him
pretty close to London."

"Do you mean to tell me," exclaimed Mrs. Chater, regarding the major with
hardly-concealed contempt, "that that villain has got off scot-free?"

"Looks rather like it," replied Podbury, "but if I were you I should get
the man's description from the attendants who saw him and go up to
Scotland Yard to-morrow. They may know the Johnny there, and they may
even recognize the coat if you take it with you."

"That doesn't seem very likely," said Mrs. Chater, and it certainly did
not; but since no better plan could be suggested the lady decided to
adopt it; and I supposed that I had heard the last of the matter.

In this, however, I was mistaken. On the following day, just before noon,
as I was drowsily considering the points in a brief dealing with a
question of survivorship, while Thorndyke drafted his weekly lecture, a
smart rat-tat at the door of our chambers announced a visitor. I rose
wearily--I had had only four hours' sleep--and opened the door,
whereupon there sailed into the room no less a person than Mrs. Chater,
followed by Superintendent Miller, with a grin on his face and a
brown-paper parcel under his arm.

The lady was not in the best of tempers, though wonderfully lively and
alert considering the severe shock that she had suffered so recently, and
her disapproval of Miller was frankly obvious.

"Dr. Jervis has probably told you about the attempt to murder me last
night," she said, when I had introduced her to my colleague. "Well, now,
will you believe it? I have been to the police, I have given them a
description of the murderous villain, and I have even shown them the very
coat that he wore, and they tell me that nothing can be done. That, in
short, this scoundrel must be allowed to go his way free and unmolested."

"You will observe, doctor," said Miller, "that this lady has given us a
description that would apply to fifty per cent, of the middle-class men
of the United Kingdom, and has shown us a coat without a single
identifying mark of any kind on it, and expects us to lay our hands on
the owner without a solitary clue to guide us. Now we are not sorcerers
at the Yard; we're only policemen. So I have taken the liberty of
referring Mrs. Chater to you." He grinned maliciously and laid the parcel
on the table.

"And what do you want me to do?" Thorndyke asked quietly.

"Why sir," said Miller, "there is a coat. In the pockets were a pair of
gloves, a muffler, a box of matches, a tram-ticket and a Yale key. Mrs.
Chater would like to know whose coat it is." He untied the parcel with
his eye cocked at our rather disconcerted client, and Thorndyke watched
him with a faint smile.

"This is very kind of you, Miller," said he, "but I think a clairvoyant
would be more to your purpose."

The superintendent instantly dropped his facetious manner.

"Seriously, sir," he said, "I should be glad if you would take a look at
the coat. We have absolutely nothing to go on, and yet we don't want to
give up the case. I have gone through it most thoroughly and can't find
any clue to guide us. Now I know that nothing escapes you, and perhaps
you might notice something that I have overlooked; something that would
give us a hint where to start on, our inquiry. Couldn't you turn the
microscope on it, for instance?" he added, with a deprecating smile.

Thorndyke reflected, with an inquisitive eye on the coat. I saw that the
problem was not without its attractions to him; and when the lady
seconded Miller's request with persuasive eagerness, the inevitable
consequence followed.

"Very well," he said. "Leave the coat with me for an hour or so and I
will look it over. I am afraid there is not the remotest chance of our
learning anything from it, but even so, the examination will have done no
harm. Come back at two o'clock; I shall be ready to report my failure by
then."

He bowed our visitors out and, returning to the table, looked down with a
quizzical smile on the coat and the large official envelope containing
articles from the pockets.

"And what does my learned brother suggest?" he asked, looking up at me.

"I should look at the tram-ticket first," I replied, "and then--well,
Miller's suggestion wasn't such a bad one; to explore the surface with
the microscope."

"I think we will take the latter measure first," said he. "The
tram-ticket might create a misleading bias. A man may take a tram
anywhere, whereas the indoor dust on a man's coat appertains mostly to a
definite locality."

"Yes," I replied; "but the information that it yields is excessively
vague."

"That is true," he agreed, taking up the coat and envelope to carry them
to the laboratory, "and yet, you know, Jervis, as I have often pointed
out, the evidential value of dust is apt to be under-estimated. The
naked-eye appearances? which are the normal appearances--are misleading.
Gather the dust, say, from a table-top, and what have you? A fine powder
of a characterless grey, just like any other dust from any other
table-top. But, under the microscope, this grey powder is resolved into
recognizable fragments of definite substances, which fragments may often
be traced with certainty to the masses from which they have been
detached. But you know all this as well as I do."

"I quite appreciate the value of dust as evidence in certain
circumstances," I replied, "but surely the information that could be
gathered from dust on the coat of an unknown man must be too general to
be of any use in tracing the owner."

"I am afraid you are right," said Thorndyke, laying the coat on the
laboratory bench; "but we shall soon see, if Polton will let us have his
patent dust-extractor."

The little apparatus to which my colleague referred was the invention of
our ingenious laboratory assistant, and resembled in principle the
"vacuum cleaners" used for restoring carpets. It had, however, one
special feature: the receiver was made to admit a microscope-slide, and
on this the dust-laden air was delivered from a jet.

The "extractor" having been clamped to the bench by its proud inventor,
and a wetted slide introduced into the receiver, Thorndyke applied the
nozzle of the instrument to the collar of the coat while Polton worked
the pump. The slide was then removed and, another having been
substituted, the nozzle was applied to the right sleeve near the
shoulder, and the exhauster again worked by Polton. By repeating this
process, half-a-dozen slides were obtained charged with dust from
different parts of the garment, and then, setting up our respective
microscopes, we proceeded to examine the samples.

A very brief inspection showed me that this dust contained matter not
usually met with--at any rate, in appreciable quantities. There were, of
course, the usual fragments of wool, cotton and other fibres derived from
clothing and furniture, particles of straw, husk, hair, various mineral
particles and, in fact, the ordinary constituents of dust from clothing.
But, in addition to these, and in much greater quantity, were a number of
other bodies, mostly of vegetable origin and presenting well-defined
characters in considerable variety, and especially abundant were various
starch granules.

I glanced at Thorndyke and observed he was already busy with a pencil and
a slip of paper, apparently making a list of the objects visible in the
field of the microscope. I hastened to follow his example, and for a time
we worked on in silence. At length my colleague leaned back in his chair
and read over his list.

"This is a highly interesting collection, Jervis," he remarked. "What do
you find on your slides out of the ordinary?"

"I have quite a little museum here," I replied, referring to my list.
"There is, of course, chalk from the road at Raynesford. In addition to
this I find various starches, principally wheat and rice, especially
rice, fragments of the cortices of several seeds, several different
stone-cells, some yellow masses that look like turmeric, black pepper
resin-cells, one 'port wine' pimento cell, and one or two particles of
graphite."

"Graphite!" exclaimed Thorndyke. "I have found no graphite, but I have
found traces of cocoa--spiral vessels and starch grains--and of hops--
one fragment of leaf and several lupulin glands. May I see the graphite?"

I passed him the slide and he examined it with keen interest. "Yes," he
said, "this is undoubtedly graphite, and no less than six particles of
it. We had better go over the coat systematically. You see the importance
of this?"

"I see that this is evidently factory dust and that it may fix a
locality, but I don't see that it will carry us any farther."

"Don't forget that we have a touchstone," said he; and, as I raised my
eyebrows inquiringly, he added, "The Yale latchkey. If we can narrow the
locality down sufficiently, Miller can make a tour of the front doors."

"But can we?" I asked incredulously. "I doubt it."

"We can try," answered Thorndyke. "Evidently some of the substances are
distributed over the entire coat, inside and out, while others, such as
the graphite, are present only on certain parts. We must locate those
parts exactly and then consider what this special distribution means." He
rapidly sketched out on a sheet of paper a rough diagram of the coat,
marking each part with a distinctive letter, and then, taking a number of
labelled slides, he wrote a single letter on each. The samples of
dust taken on the slides could thus be easily referred to the exact
spots whence they had been obtained.

Once more we set to work with the microscope, making, now and again, an
addition to our lists of discoveries, and, at the end of nearly an hour's
strenuous search, every slide had been examined and the lists compared.

"The net result of the examination," said Thorndyke, "is this. The entire
coat, inside and out, is evenly powdered with the following substances:
Rice-starch in abundance, wheat-starch in less abundance, and smaller
quantities of the starches of ginger, pimento and cinnamon; bast fibre of
cinnamon, various seed cortices, stone-cells of pimento, cinnamon, cassia
and black pepper, with other fragments of similar origin, such as
resin-cells and ginger pigment--not turmeric. In addition there are, on
the right shoulder and sleeve, traces of cocoa and hops, and on the back
below the shoulders a few fragments of graphite. Those are the data; and
now, what are the inferences? Remember this is not mere surface dust, but
the accumulation of months, beaten into the cloth by repeated brushing--
dust that nothing but a vacuum apparatus could extract."

"Evidently," I said, "the particles that are all over the coat represent
dust that is floating in the air of the place where the coat habitually
hangs. The graphite has obviously been picked up from a seat and the
cocoa and hops from some factories that the man passes frequently, though
I don't see why they are on the right side only."

"That is a question of time," said Thorndyke, "and incidentally throws
some light on our friend's habits. Going from home, he passes the
factories on his right; returning home, he passes them on his left, but
they have then stopped work. However, the first group of substances is
the more important as they indicate the locality of his dwelling--for he
is clearly not a workman or factory employee. Now rice-starch,
wheat-starch and a group of substances collectively designated 'spices'
suggest a rice-mill, a flour-mill and a spice factory. Polton, may I
trouble you for the Post Office Directory?"

He turned over the leaves of the "Trades" section and resumed: "I see
there are four rice-mills in London, of which the largest is Carbutt's at
Dockhead. Let us look at the spice-factories." He again turned over the
leaves and read down the list of names. "There are six spice-grinders in
London," said he. "One of them, Thomas Williams & Co., is at Dockhead.
None of the others is near any rice-mill. The next question is as to the
flour-mill. Let us see. Here are the names of several flour millers, but
none of them is near either a rice-mill or a spice-grinder, with one
exception: Seth Taylor's, St. Saviour's Flour Mills, Dockhead."

"This is really becoming interesting," said I.

"It has become interesting," Thorndyke retorted. "You observe that at
Dockhead we find the peculiar combination of factories necessary to
produce the composite dust in which this coat has hung; and the directory
shows us that this particular combination exists nowhere else in London.
Then the graphite, the cocoa and the hops tend to confirm the other
suggestions. They all appertain to industries of the locality. The trams
which pass Dockhead, also, to my knowledge, pass at no great distance
from the black-lead works of Pearce Duff & Co. in Rouel Road, and will
probably collect a few particles of black-lead on the seats in certain
states of the wind. I see, too, that there is a cocoa factory--Payne's--
in Goat Street, Horsleydown, which lies to the right of the tram line
going west, and I have noticed several hop warehouses on the right side
of Southwark Street, going west. But these are mere suggestions; the
really important data are the rice and flour mills and the
spice-grinders, which seem to point unmistakably to Dockhead."

"Are there any private houses at Dockhead?" I asked.

"We must look up the 'Street' list," he replied. "The Yale latch-key
rather suggests a flat, and a flat with a single occupant, and the
probable habits of our absent friend offer a similar suggestion." He ran
his eye down the list and presently turned to me with his finger on the
page.

"If the facts that we have elicited--the singular series of agreements
with the required conditions--are only a string of coincidences, here is
another. On the south side of Dockhead, actually next door to the
spice-grinders and opposite to Carbutt's rice-mills, is a block of
workmen's flats, Hanover Buildings. They fulfil the conditions exactly. A
coat hung in a room in those flats, with the windows open (as they would
probably be at this time of year), would be exposed to the air containing
a composite dust of precisely the character of that which we have found.
Of course, the same conditions obtain in other dwellings in this part of
Dockhead, but the probability is in favour of the buildings. And that is
all that we can say. It is no certainty. There may be some radical
fallacy in our reasoning. But, on the face of it, the chances are a
thousand to one that the door that that key will open is in some part of
Dockhead, and most probably in Hanover Buildings. We must leave the
verification to Miller."

"Wouldn't it be as well to look at the tram-ticket?" I asked.

"Dear me!" he exclaimed. "I had forgotten the ticket. Yes, by all means."
He opened the envelope and, turning its contents out on the bench, picked
up the dingy slip of paper. After a glance at it he handed it to me. It
was punched for the journey from Tooley Street to Dockhead.

"Another coincidence," he remarked; "and by yet another, I think I hear
Miller knocking at our door."

It was the superintendent, and, as we let him into the room, the hum of a
motor-car entering from Tudor Street announced the arrival of Mrs.
Chater. We waited for her at the open door, and, as she entered, she held
out her hands impulsively.

"Say, now, Dr. Thorndyke," she exclaimed, "have you gotten something to
tell us?"

"I have a suggestion to make," replied Thorndyke. "I think that if the
superintendent will take this key to Hanover Buildings, Dockhead,
Bermondsey, he may possibly find a door that it will fit."

"The deuce!" exclaimed Miller. "I beg your pardon, madam; but I thought I
had gone through that coat pretty completely. What was it that I had
overlooked, sir? Was there a letter hidden in it, after all?"

"You overlooked the dust on it, Miller; that is all," said Thorndyke.

"Dust!" exclaimed the detective, staring round-eyed at my colleague. Then
he chuckled softly. "Well," said he, "as I said before, I'm not a
sorcerer; I'm only a policeman." He picked up the key and asked: "Are you
coming to see the end of it, sir?"

"Of course he is coming," said Mrs. Chater, "and Dr. Jervis too, to
identify the man. Now that we have gotten the villain we must leave him
no loophole for escape."

Thorndyke smiled dryly. "We will come if you wish it, Mrs. Chater," he
said, "but you mustn't look upon our quest as a certainty. We may have
made an entire miscalculation, and I am, in fact, rather curious to see
if the result works out correctly. But even if we run the man to earth, I
don't see that you have much evidence against him. The most that you can
prove is that he was at the house and that he left hurriedly."

Mrs. Chater regarded my colleague for a moment in scornful silence, and
then, gathering up her skirts, stalked out of the room. If there is one
thing that the average woman detests more than another, it is an entirely
reasonable man.

The big car whirled us rapidly over Blackfriars Bridge into the region of
the Borough, whence we presently turned down Tooley Street towards
Bermondsey.

As soon as Dockhead came into view, the detective, Thorndyke and I,
alighted and proceeded on foot, leaving our client, who was now closely
veiled, to follow at a little distance in the car. Opposite the head of
St. Saviour's Dock, Thorndyke halted and, looking over the wall, drew my
attention to the snowy powder that had lodged on every projection on the
backs of the tall buildings and on the decks of the barges that were
loading with the flour and ground rice. Then, crossing the road, he
pointed to the wooden lantern above the roof of the spice works, the
louvres of which were covered with greyish-buff dust.

"Thus," he moralized, "does commerce subserve the ends of justice--at
least, we hope it does," he added quickly, as Miller disappeared into the
semi-basement of the buildings.

We met the detective returning from his quest as we entered the building.

"No go there," was his report. "We'll try the next floor."

This was the ground-floor, or it might be considered the first floor. At
any rate, it yielded nothing of interest, and, after a glance at the
doors that opened on the landing, he strode briskly up the stone stairs.
The next floor was equally unrewarding, for our eager inspection
disclosed nothing but the gaping keyhole associated with the common type
of night-latch.

"What name was you wanting?" inquired a dusty knight of industry who
emerged from one of the flats.

"Muggs," replied Miller, with admirable promptness.

"Don't know 'im," said the workman. "I expect it's farther up."

Farther up we accordingly went, but still from each door the artless grin
of the invariable keyhole saluted us with depressing monotony. I began to
grow uneasy, and when the fourth floor had been explored with no better
result, my anxiety became acute. A mare's nest may be an interesting
curiosity, but it brings no kudos to its discoverer.

"I suppose you haven't made any mistake, sir?" said Miller, stopping to
wipe his brow.

"It's quite likely that I have." replied Thorndyke, with unmoved
composure. "I only proposed this search as a tentative proceeding, you
know."

The superintendent grunted. He was accustomed--as was I too, for that
matter--to regard Thorndyke's "tentative suggestions" as equal to
another man's certainties.

"It will be an awful suck-in for Mrs. Chater if we don't find him after
all," he growled as we climbed up the last flight. "She's counted her
chickens to a feather." He paused at the head of the stairs and stood for
a few moments looking round the landing. Suddenly he turned eagerly, and,
laying his hand on Thorndyke's arm, pointed to a door in the farthest
corner.

"Yale lock!" he whispered impressively.

We followed him silently as he stole on tip-toe across the landing, and
watched him as he stood for an instant with the key in his land looking
gloatingly at the brass disc. We saw him softly apply the nose of the
fluted key-blade to the crooked slit in the cylinder, and, as we watched,
it slid noiselessly up to the shoulder. The detective looked round with a
grin of triumph, and, silently withdrawing the key, stepped back to us.

"You've run him to earth, sir," he whispered, "but I don't think Mr. Fox
is at home. He can't have got back yet."

"Why not?" asked Thorndyke.

Miller waved his hand towards the door. "Nothing has been disturbed," he
replied. "There's not a mark on the paint. Now he hadn't got the key, and
you can't pick a Yale lock. He'd have had to break in, and he hasn't
broken in."

Thorndyke stepped up to the door and softly pushed in the flap of the
letter-slit, through which he looked into the flat.

"There's no letter-box," said he. "My dear Miller, I would undertake to
open that door in five minutes with a foot of wire and a bit of resined
string."

Miller shook his head and grinned once more. "I am glad you're not on the
lay, sir; you'd be one too many for us. Shall we signal to the lady?"

I went out onto the gallery and looked down at the waiting car., Mrs.
Chater was staring intently up at the building, and the little crowd that
the car had collected stared alternately at the lady and at the object of
her regard. I wiped my face with my handkerchief--the signal agreed upon
--and she instantly sprang out of the car, and in an incredibly short
time she appeared on the landing, purple and gasping, but with the fire
of battle flashing from her eyes.

"We've found his flat, madam," said Miller, "and we're going to enter.
You're not intending to offer any violence, I hope," he added, noting
with some uneasiness the lady's ferocious expression.

"Of course I'm not," replied Mrs. Chater. "In the States ladies don't
have to avenge insults themselves. If you were American men you'd hang
the ruffian from his own bedpost."

"We're riot American men, madam," said the superintendent stiffly. "We
are law-abiding Englishmen, and, moreover, we are all officers of the
law. These gentlemen are barristers and I am a police officer."

With this preliminary caution, he once more inserted the key, and as he
turned it and pushed the door open, we all followed him into the
sitting-room.

"I told you so, sir," said Miller, softly shutting the door; "he hasn't
come back yet."

Apparently he was right. At any rate, there was no one in the flat, and
we proceeded unopposed on our tour of inspection. It was a miserable
spectacle, and, as we wandered from one squalid room to another, a
feeling of pity for the starving wretch into whose lair we were intruding
stole over me and began almost to mitigate the hideousness of his crime.
On all sides poverty--utter, grinding poverty--stared us in the face.
It looked at us hollow-eyed in the wretched sitting-room, with its bare
floor, its solitary chair and tiny deal table; its unfurnished walls and
windows destitute of blind or curtain. A piece of Dutch cheese-rind on
the table, scraped to the thinness of paper, whispered of starvation; and
famine lurked in the gaping cupboard, in the empty bread-tin, in the
tea-caddy with its pinch of dust at the bottom, in the jam-jar, wiped
clean, as a few crumbs testified, with a crust of bread. There was not
enough food in the place to furnish a meal for a healthy mouse.

The bedroom told the same tale, but with a curious variation. A miserable
truckle-bed with a straw mattress and a cheap jute rug for bed-clothes,
an orange-case, stood on end, for a dressing-table, and another, bearing
a tin washing-bowl, formed the wretched furniture. But the suit that hung
from a couple of nails was well-cut and even fashionable, though shabby;
and another suit lay on the floor, neatly folded and covered with a
newspaper; and, most incongruous of all, a silver cigarette-case reposed
on the dressing-table.

"Why on earth does this fellow starve," I exclaimed, "when he has a
silver case to pawn?"

"Wouldn't do," said Miller. "A man doesn't pawn the implements of his
trade."

Mrs. Chater, who had been staring about her with the mute amazement of a
wealthy woman confronted, for the first time, with abject poverty, turned
suddenly to the superintendent. "This can't be the man!" she exclaimed.
"You have made some mistake. This poor creature could never have made his
way into a house like Willowdale."

Thorndyke lifted the newspaper. Beneath it was a dress suit with the
shirt, collar and tie all carefully smoothed out and folded. Thorndyke
unfolded the shirt and pointed to the curiously crumpled front. Suddenly
he brought it close to his eye and then, from the sham diamond stud, he
drew a single hair--a woman's hair.

"That is rather significant," said he, holding it up between his finger
and thumb; and Mrs. Chater evidently thought so too, for the pity and
compunction suddenly faded from her face, and once more her eyes flashed
with vindictive fire.

"I wish he would come," she exclaimed viciously. "Prison won't be much
hardship to him after this", but I want to see him in the dock all the
same."

"No," the detective agreed, "it won't hurt him much to swap this for
Portland. Listen!"

A key was being inserted into the outer door, and as we all stood like
statues, a man entered and closed the door after him. He passed the door
of the bedroom without seeing us, and with the dragging steps of a weary,
dispirited man. Almost immediately we heard him go to the kitchen and
draw water into some vessel. Then he went back to the sitting-room.

"Come along," said Miller, stepping silently towards the door. We
followed closely, and as he threw the door open, we looked in over his
shoulder.

The man had seated himself at the table, on which now lay a hunk of
household bread resting on the paper in which he had brought it, and a
tumbler of water. He half rose as the door opened, and as if petrified
remained staring at Miller with a dreadful expression of terror upon his
livid face.

At this moment I felt a hand on my arm, and Mrs. Chater brusquely pushed
past me into the room. But at the threshold she stopped short; and a
singular change crept over the man's ghastly face, a change so remarkable
that I looked involuntarily from him to our client. She had turned, in a
moment, deadly pale, and her face had frozen into an expression of
incredulous horror.

The dramatic silence was broken by the matter-of-fact voice of the
detective.

"I am a police officer," said he, "and I arrest you for -?"

A peal of hysterical laughter from Mrs. Chater interrupted him, and he
looked at her in astonishment. "Stop, stop!" she cried in a shaky voice.
"I guess we've made a ridiculous mistake. This isn't the man. This
gentleman is Captain Rowland, an old friend of mine."

"I'm sorry he's a friend of yours," said Miller, "because I shall have to
ask you to appear against him."

"You can ask what you please," replied Mrs. Chater. "I tell you he's not
the man."

The superintendent rubbed his nose and looked hungrily at his quarry. "Do
I understand, madam," he asked stiffly, "that you refuse to prosecute?"

"Prosecute!" she exclaimed. "Prosecute my friends for offences that I
know they have not committed? Certainly I refuse."

The superintendent looked at Thorndyke, but my colleague's countenance
had congealed into a state of absolute immobility and was as devoid of
expression as the face of a Dutch clock.

"Very well," said Miller, looking sourly at his watch. "Then we have had
our trouble for nothing. I wish you good afternoon, madam."

"I am sorry I troubled you, now," said Mrs. Chater.

"I am sorry you did," was the curt reply; and the superintendent,
flinging the key on the table, stalked out of the room.

As the outer door slammed the man sat down with an air of bewilderment;
and then, suddenly flinging his arms on the table, he dropped his head on
them and burst into a passion of sobbing.

It was very embarrassing. With one accord Thorndyke and I turned to go,
but Mrs. Chater motioned us to stay. Stepping over to the man, she
touched him lightly on the arm.

"Why did you do it?" she asked in a tone of gentle reproach.

The man sat up and flung out one arm in an eloquent gesture that
comprehended the miserable room and the yawning cupboard.

"It was the temptation of a moment," he said. "I was penniless, and those
accursed diamonds were thrust in my face; they were mine for the taking.
I was mad, I suppose."

"But why didn't you take them?" she said. "Why didn't you?"

"I don't know. The madness passed; and then--when I saw you lying there--?
Oh, God! Why don't you give me up to the police?" He laid his head
down and sobbed afresh.

Mrs. Chater bent over him with tears standing in her pretty grey eyes.
"But tell me," she said, "why didn't you take the diamonds? You could if
you'd liked, I suppose?"

"What good were they to me?" he demanded passionately. "What did any
thing matter to me? I thought you were dead."

"Well, I'm not, you see," she said, with a rather tearful smile; "I'm
just as well as an old woman like me can expect to be. And I want your
address, so that I can write and give you some good advice."

The man sat up and produced a shabby cardcase from his pocket, and, as he
took out a number of cards and spread them out like the "hand" of a whist
player, I caught a twinkle in Thorndyke's eye.

"My name is Augustus Bailey," said the man. He selected the appropriate
card, and, having scribbled his address on it with a stump of lead
pencil, relapsed into his former position.

"Thank you," said Mrs. Chater, lingering for a moment by the table. "Now
we'll go. Good-bye, Mr. Bailey. I shall write to-morrow, and you must
attend seriously to the advice of an old friend."

I held open the door for her to pass out and looked back before I turned
to follow. Bailey still sat sobbing quietly, with his hand resting on his
arms; and a little pile of gold stood on the corner of the table.

"I expect, doctor," said Mrs. Chater, as Thorndyke handed her into the
car, "you've written me down a sentimental fool."

Thorndyke looked at her with an unwonted softening of his rather severe
face and answered quietly, "It is written: Blessed are the Merciful."



THE OLD LAG


PART I. THE CHANGED IMMUTABLE


Among the minor and purely physical pleasures of life, I am disposed to
rank very highly that feeling of bodily comfort that one experiences on
passing from the outer darkness of a wet winter's night to a cheerful
interior made glad by mellow lamplight and blazing hearth. And so I
thought when, on a dreary November night, I let myself into our chambers
in the Temple and found my friend smoking his pipe in slippered ease, by
a roaring fire, and facing an empty arm-chair evidently placed in
readiness for me.

As I shed my damp overcoat, I glanced inquisitively at my colleague, for
he held in his hand an open letter, and I seemed to perceive in his
aspect something meditative and self-communing--something, in short,
suggestive of a new case.

"I was just considering," he said, in answer to my inquiring look,
"whether I am about to become an accessory after the fact. Read that and
give me your opinion."

He handed me the letter, which I read aloud.

"dear sir,--I am in great danger and distress. A warrant has been issued
for my arrest on a charge of which I am entirely innocent. Can I come and
see you, and will you let me leave in safety? The bearer will wait for a
reply."

"I said 'Yes,' of course; there was nothing else to do," said Thorndyke.
"But if I let him go, as I have promised to do, I shall be virtually
conniving at his escape."

"Yes, you are taking a risk," I answered. "When is he coming?"

"He was due five minutes ago--and I rather think--yes, here he is."

A stealthy tread on the landing was followed by a soft tapping on the
outer door.

Thorndyke rose and, flinging open the inner door, unfastened the massive
"oak."

"Dr. Thorndyke?" inquired a breathless, quavering voice.

"Yes, come in. You sent me a letter by hand?"

"I did, sir," was the reply; and the speaker entered, but at the sight of
me he stopped short.

"This is my colleague, Dr. Jervis," Thorndyke explained. "You need have
no -?"

"Oh, I remember him," our visitor interrupted in a tone of relief. "I
have seen you both before, you know, and you have seen me too--though I
don't suppose you recognize me," he added, with: a sickly smile.

"Frank Belfield?" asked Thorndyke, smiling also.

Our visitor's jaw fell and he gazed at my colleague in sudden dismay.

"And I may remark," pursued Thorndyke, "that for a man in your perilous
position, you are running most unnecessary risks. That wig, that false
beard and those spectacles--through which you obviously cannot see--are
enough to bring the entire police force at your heels. It is not wise for
a man who is wanted by the police to make up as though he had just
escaped from a comic opera."

Mr. Belfield seated himself with a groan, and, taking off his spectacles,
stared stupidly from one of us to the other.

"And now tell us about your little affair," said Thorndyke. "You say that
you are innocent?"

"I swear it, doctor," replied Belfield; adding, with great earnestness,
"And you may take it from me, sir, that if I was not, I shouldn't be
here. It was you that convicted me last time, when I thought myself quite
safe, so I know your ways too well to try to gammon you."

"If you are innocent," rejoined Thorndyke, "I will do what I can for you;
and if you are not--well, you would have been wiser to stay away."

"I know that well enough," said Belfield, "and I am only afraid that you
won't believe what I am going to tell you."

"I shall keep an open mind, at any rate," replied Thorndyke.

"If you only will," groaned Belfield, "I shall have a look in, in spite
of them all. You know, sir, that I have been on the crook, but I have
paid in full. That job when you tripped me up was the last of it--it
was, sir, so help me. It was a woman that changed me--the best and
truest woman on God's earth. She said she would marry me when I came out
if I promised her to go straight and live an honest life. And she kept
her promise--and I have kept mine. She found me work as clerk in a
warehouse and I have stuck to it ever since, earning fair wages and
building up a good character as an honest, industrious man. I thought all
was going well, and that I was settled for life, when only this very
morning the whole thing comes tumbling about my ears like a house of
cards."

"What happened this morning, then?" asked Thorndyke.

"Why, I was on my way to work when, as I passed the police station, I
noticed a bill with the heading 'Wanted' and a photograph. I stopped for
a moment to look at it, and you may imagine my feelings when I recognized
my own portrait--taken at Holloway--and read my own name and
description. I did not stop to read the bill through, but ran back home
and told my wife, and she ran down to the station and read the bill
carefully. Good God, sir! What do you think I am wanted for?" He paused
for a moment, and then replied in breathless tones to his own question:
"The Camber-well murder!"

Thorndyke gave a low whistle.

"My wife knows I didn't do it," continued Belfield, "because I was at
home all the evening and night; but what use is a man's wife to prove an
alibi?"

"Not much, I fear," Thorndyke admitted; "and you have no other witness?"

"Not a soul. We were alone all the evening."

"However," said Thorndyke, "if you are innocent--as I am assuming--the
evidence against you must be entirely circumstantial and your alibi may
be quite sufficient. Have you any idea of the grounds of suspicion
against you?"

"Not the faintest. The papers said that the police had an excellent clue,
but they did not say what it was. Probably some one has given false
information for the -?"

A sharp rapping at the outer door cut short the explanation, and our
visitor rose, trembling and aghast, with beads of sweat standing upon his
livid face.

"You had better go into the office, Belfield, while we see who it is,"
said Thorndyke. "The key is on the inside."

The fugitive wanted no second bidding, but hurried into the empty
apartment, and, as the door closed, we heard the key turn in the lock.

As Thorndyke threw open the outer door, he cast a meaning glance at me
over his shoulder which I understood when the newcomer entered the room;
for it was none other than Superintendent Miller of Scotland Yard.

"I have just dropped in," said the superintendent, in his brisk, cheerful
way, "to ask you to do me a favour. Good-evening, Dr. Jervis. I hear you
are reading for the bar; learned counsel soon, sir, hey? Medico-legal
expert. Dr. Thorndyke's mantle going to fall on you, sir?"

"I hope Dr. Thorndyke's mantle will continue to drape his own majestic
form for many a long year yet," I answered; "though he is good enough to
spare me a corner--but what on earth have you got there?" For during
this dialogue the superintendent had been deftly unfastening a
brown-paper parcel, from which he now drew a linen shirt, once white, but
now of an unsavoury grey.

"I want to know what this is," said Miller, exhibiting a brownish-red
stain on one sleeve. "Just look at that, sir, and tell me if it is blood,
and, if so, is it human blood?"

"Really, Miller," said Thorndyke, with a smile, "you flatter me; but I am
not like the wise woman of Bagdad who could tell you how many stairs the
patient had tumbled down by merely looking at his tongue. I must examine
this very thoroughly. When do you want to know?"

"I should like to know to-night," replied the detective.

"Can I cut a piece out to put under the microscope?"

"I would rather you did not," was the reply.

"Very well; you shall have the information in about an hour."

"It's very good of you, doctor," said the detective; and he was taking up
his hat preparatory to departing, when Thorndyke said suddenly--"By the
way, there is a little matter that I was going to speak to you about. It
refers to this Camberwell murder case. I understand you have a clue to
the identity of the murderer?"

"Clue!" exclaimed the superintendent contemptuously. "We have spotted our
man all right, if we could only lay hands on him; but he has given us the
slip for the moment."

"Who is the man?" asked Thorndyke.

The detective looked doubtfully at Thorndyke for some seconds and then
said, with evident reluctance: "I suppose there is no harm in telling you
--especially as you probably know already"--this with a sly grin; "it's
an old crook named Belfield."

"And what is the evidence against him?"

Again the superintendent looked doubtful and again relented.

"Why, the case is as clear as--as cold Scotch," he said (here Thorndyke
in illustration of this figure of speech produced a decanter, a syphon
and a tumbler, which he pushed towards the officer). "You see, sir, the
silly fool went and stuck his sweaty hand on the window; and there we
found the marks--four fingers and a thumb, as beautiful prints as you
could wish to see. Of course we cut out the piece of glass and took it up
to the Finger-print Department; they turned up their files and out came
Mr. Belfield's record, with his finger-prints and photograph all
complete."

"And the finger-prints on the window-pane were identical with those on
the prison form?"

"Identical."

"H'm!" Thorndyke reflected for a while, and the superintendent watched
him foxily over the edge of his tumbler.

"I guess you are retained to defend Belfield," the latter observed
presently.

"To look into the case generally," replied Thorndyke.

"And I expect you know where the beggar is hiding," continued the
detective.

"Belfield's address has not yet been communicated to me," said Thorndyke.
"I am merely to investigate the case--and there is no reason, Miller,
why you and I should be at cross purposes. We are both working at the
case; you want to get a conviction and you want to convict the right
man."

"That's so--and Belfield's the right man--but what do you want of us,
doctor?"

"I should like to see the piece of glass with the finger-prints on it,
and the prison form, and take a photograph of each. And I should like to
examine the room in which the murder took place--you have it locked up,
I suppose?"

"Yes, we have the keys. Well, it's all rather irregular, letting you see
the things. Still, you've always played the game fairly with us, so we
might stretch a point. Yes, I will. I'll come back in an hour for your
report and bring the glass and the form. I can't let them go out of my
custody, you know. I'll be off now--no, thank you, not another drop."

The superintendent caught up his hat and strode away, the personification
of mental alertness and bodily vigour.

No sooner had the door closed behind him than Thorndyke's stolid calm
changed instantaneously into feverish energy. Darting to the electric
bell that rang into the laboratories above, he pressed the button while
he gave me my directions.

"Have a look at that blood-stain, Jervis, while I am finishing with
Belfield. Don't wet it; scrape it into a drop of warm normal saline
solution."

I hastened to reach down the microscope and set out on the table the
necessary apparatus and reagents, and, as I was thus occupied, a
latch-key turned in the outer door and our invaluable helpmate, Polton,
entered the room in his habitual silent, unobtrusive fashion.

"Let me have the finger-print apparatus, please, Polton," said Thorndyke;
"and have the copying camera ready by nine o'clock. I am expecting Mr.
Miller with some documents."

As his laboratory assistant departed, Thorndyke rapped at the office
door.

"It's all clear, Belfield," he called; "you can come out."

The key turned and the prisoner emerged, looking ludicrously woebegone in
his ridiculous wig and beard.

"I am going to take your finger-prints, to compare with some that the
police found on the window."

"Finger-prints!" exclaimed Belfield, in a tone of dismay. "They don't say
they're my finger-prints, do they, sir?"

"They do indeed," replied Thorndyke, eyeing the man narrowly. "They have
compared them with those taken when you were at Holloway, and they say
that they are identical."

"Good God!" murmured Belfield, collapsing into a chair, faint and
trembling. "They must have made some awful mistake. But are mistakes
possible with finger-prints?"

"Now look here, Belfield," said Thorndyke. "Were you in that house that
night, or were you not? It is of no use for you to tell me any lies."

"I was not there, sir; I swear to God I was not."

"Then they cannot be your finger-prints, that is obvious." Here he
stepped to the door to intercept Polton, from whom he received a
substantial box, which he brought in and placed on the table.

"Tell me all you know about this case," he continued, as he set out the
contents of the box on the table.

"I know nothing about it whatever," replied Belfield; "nothing, at least,
except -?"

"Except what?" demanded Thorndyke, looking up sharply as he squeezed a
drop from a tube of finger-print ink onto a smooth copper plate.

"Except that the murdered man, Caldwell, was a retired fence."

"A fence, was he?" said Thorndyke in a tone of interest.

"Yes; and I suspect he was a 'nark' too. He knew more than was wholesome
for a good many."

"Did he know anything about you?"

"Yes; but nothing that the police don't know."

With a small roller Thorndyke spread the ink upon the plate into a thin
film. Then he laid on the edge of the table a smooth white card and,
taking Belfield's right hand, pressed the forefinger firmly but quickly,
first on the inked plate and then on the card, leaving on the latter a
clear print of the finger-tip. This process he repeated with the other
fingers and thumb, and then took several additional prints of each.

"That was a nasty injury to your forefinger, Belfield," said Thorndyke,
holding the finger to the light and examining the tip carefully. "How did
you do it?"

"Stuck a tin-opener into it--a dirty one, too. It was bad for weeks; in
fact, Dr. Sampson thought at one time that he would have to amputate the
finger."

"How long ago was that?"

"Oh, nearly a year ago, sir."

Thorndyke wrote the date of the injury by the side of the finger-print
and then, having rolled up the inking plate afresh, laid on the table
several larger cards. "I am now going to take the prints of the four
fingers and the thumb all at once," he said.

"They only took the four fingers at once at the prison," said Belfield.
"They took the thumb separately."

"I know," replied Thorndyke; "but I am going to take the impression just
as it would appear on the window glass."

He took several impressions thus, and then, having looked at his watch,
he began to repack the apparatus in its box. While doing this, he
glanced, from time to time, in meditative fashion, at the suspected man
who sat, the living picture of misery and terror, wiping the greasy ink
from his trembling fingers with his handkerchief.

"Belfield," he said at length, "you have sworn to me that you are an
innocent man and are trying to live an honest life. I believe you; but in
a few minutes I shall know for certain."

"Thank God for that, sir," exclaimed Belfield, brightening up
wonderfully.

"And now," said Thorndyke, "you had better go back into the office, for I
am expecting Superintendent Miller, and he may be here at any moment."

Belfield hastily slunk back into the office, locking the door after him,
and Thorndyke, having returned the box to the laboratory and deposited
the cards bearing the finger-prints in a drawer, came round to inspect my
work. I had managed to detach a tiny fragment of dried clot from the
blood-stained garment, and this, in a drop of normal saline solution, I
now had under the microscope.

"What do you make out, Jervis?" my colleague asked.

"Oval corpuscles with distinct nuclei," I answered.

"Ah," said Thorndyke, "that will be good hearing for some poor devil.
Have you measured them?"

"Yes. Long diameter one twenty-one hundredth of an inch; short diameter
about one thirty-four hundredth of an inch."

Thorndyke reached down an indexed note-book from a shelf of reference
volumes and consulted a table of histological measurements.

"That would seem to be the blood of a pheasant, then, or it might, more
probably, be that of a common fowl." He applied his eye to the microscope
and, fitting in the eyepiece micrometer, verified my measurements. He was
thus employed when a sharp tap was heard on the outer door, and rising to
open it he admitted the superintendent.

"I see you are at work on my little problem, doctor," said the latter,
glancing at the microscope. "What do you make of that stain?"

"It is the blood of a bird--probably a pheasant, or perhaps a common
fowl."

The superintendent slapped his thigh. "Well, I'm hanged!" he exclaimed.
"You're a regular wizard, doctor, that's what you are. The fellow said he
got that stain through handling a wounded pheasant and here are you able
to tell us yes or no without a hint from us to help you. Well, you've
done my little job for me, sir, and I'm much obliged to you; now I'll
carry out my part of the bargain." He opened a hand-bag and drew forth a
wooden frame and a blue foolscap envelope and laid them with extreme care
on the table.

"There you are, sir," said he, pointing to the frame; "you will find Mr.
Belfield's trade-mark very neatly executed, and in the envelope is the
finger-print sheet for comparison."

Thorndyke took up the frame and examined it. It enclosed two sheets of
glass, one being the portion of the window-pane and the other a
cover-glass to protect the fingerprints. Laying a sheet of white paper on
the table, where the light was strongest, Thorndyke held the frame over
it and gazed at the glass in silence, but with that faint lighting up of
his impassive face which I knew so well and which meant so much to me. I
walked round, and looking over his shoulder saw upon the glass the
beautifully distinct imprints of four fingers and a thumb--the
finger-tips, in fact, of an open hand.

After regarding the frame attentively for some time, Thorndyke produced
from his pocket a little wash-leather bag, from which he extracted a
powerful doublet lens, and with the aid of this he again explored the
finger-prints, dwelling especially upon the print of the forefinger.

"I don't think you will find much amiss with those finger-prints,
doctor," said the superintendent, "they are as clear as if he made them
on purpose."

"They are indeed," replied Thorndyke, with an inscrutable smile, "exactly
as if he had made them on purpose. And how beautifully clean the glass is
--as if he had polished it before making the impression."

The superintendent glanced at Thorndyke with quick suspicion; but the
smile had faded and given place to a wooden immobility from which nothing
could be gleaned.

When he had examined the glass exhaustively, Thorndyke drew the
finger-print form from its envelope and scanned it quickly, glancing
repeatedly from the paper to the glass and from the glass to the paper.
At length he laid them both on the table, and turning to the detective
looked him steadily in the face.

"I think, Miller," said he, "that I can give you a hint."

"Indeed, sir? And what might that be?"

"It is this: you are after the wrong man."

The superintendent snorted--not a loud snort, for that would have been
rude, and no officer could be more polite than Superintendent Miller. But
it conveyed a protest which he speedily followed up in words.

"You don't mean to say that the prints on that glass are not the
finger-prints of Frank Belfield?"

"I say that those prints were not made by Frank Belfield," Thorndyke
replied firmly.

"Do you admit, sir, that the finger-prints on the official form were made
by him?"

"I have no doubt that they were."

"Well, sir, Mr. Singleton, of the Finger-print Department, has compared
the prints on the glass with those on the form and he says they are
identical; and I have examined them and I say they are identical."

"Exactly," said Thorndyke; "and I have examined them and I say they are
identical--and that therefore those on the glass cannot have been made
by Belfield."

The superintendent snorted again--somewhat louder this time--and gazed
at Thorndyke with wrinkled brows.

"You are not pulling my leg, I suppose, sir?" he asked, a little sourly.

"I should as soon think of tickling a porcupine," Thorndyke answered,
with a suave smile.

"Well," rejoined the bewildered detective, "if I didn't know you, sir, I
should say you were talking confounded nonsense. Perhaps you wouldn't
mind explaining what you mean."

"Supposing," said Thorndyke, "I make it clear to you that those prints on
the window-pane were not made by Belfield. Would you still execute the
warrant?"

"What do you think?" exclaimed Miller. "Do you suppose we should go into
court to have you come and knock the bottom out of our case, like you did
in that Hornby affair? By the way, that was a finger-print case too, now
I come to think of it," and the superintendent suddenly became
thoughtful.

"You have often complained," pursued Thorndyke, "that I have withheld
information from you and sprung unexpected evidence on you at the trial.
Now I am going to take you into my confidence, and when I have proved to
you that this clue of yours is a false one, I shall expect you to let
this poor devil Belfield go his way in peace."

The superintendent grunted--a form of utterance that committed him to
nothing.

"These prints," continued Thorndyke, taking up the frame once more,
"present several features of interest, one of which, at least, ought not
to have escaped you and Mr. Singleton, as it seems to have done. Just
look at that thumb."

The superintendent did so, and then pored over the official paper.

"Well," he said, "I don't see anything the matter with it. It's exactly
like the print on the paper."

"Of course it is," rejoined Thorndyke, "and that is just the point. It
ought not to be. The print of the thumb on the paper was taken separately
from the fingers. And why? Because it was impossible to take it at the
same time. The thumb is in a different plane from the fingers; when the
hand is laid flat on any surface--as this window-pane, for instance--
the palmar surfaces of the fingers touch it, whereas it is the side of
the thumb which comes in contact and not the palmar surface. But in this"
--he tapped the framed glass with his finger--the prints show the palmar
surfaces of all the five digits in contact at once, which is an
impossibility. Just try to put your own thumb in that position and you
will see that it is so."

The detective spread out his hand on the table and immediately perceived
the truth of my colleague's statement.

"And what does that prove?" he asked.

"It proves that the thumb-print on the window-pane was not made at the
same time as the finger-prints--that it was added separately; and that
fact seems to prove that the prints were not made accidentally, but--as
you ingeniously suggested just now--were put there for a purpose."

"I don't quite see the drift of all this," said the superintendent,
rubbing the back of his head perplexedly; "and you said a while back that
the prints on the glass can't be Belfield's because they are identical
with the prints on the form. Now that seems to me sheer nonsense, if you
will excuse my saying so."

"And yet," replied Thorndyke, "it is the actual fact. Listen: these
prints"--here he took up the official sheet--"were taken at Holloway
six years ago. These"--pointing to the framed glass--"were made within
the present week. The one is, as regards the ridge-pattern, a perfect
duplicate of the other. Is that not so?"

"That is so, doctor," agreed the superintendent.

"Very well. Now suppose I were to tell you that within the last twelve
months something had happened to Belfield that made an appreciable change
in the ridge-pattern on one of his fingers?"

"But is such a thing possible?"

"It is not only possible but it has happened. I will show you."

He brought forth from the drawer the cards on which Belfield had made his
finger-prints, and laid them before the detective.

"Observe the prints of the forefinger," he said, indicating them; "there
are a dozen, in all, and you will notice in each a white line crossing
the ridges and dividing them. That line is caused by a scar, which has
destroyed a portion of the ridges, and is now an integral part of
Belfield's finger-print.

And since no such blank line is to be seen in this print on the glass--
in which the ridges appear perfect, as they were before the injury--it
follows that that print could not have been made by Belfield's finger."

"There is no doubt about the injury, I suppose?"

"None whatever. There is the scar to prove it, and I can produce the
surgeon who attended Belfield at the time."

The officer rubbed his head harder than before, and regarded Thorndyke
with puckered brows.

"This is a teaser," he growled, "it is indeed. What you say, sir, seems
perfectly sound, and yet--there are those finger-prints on the
window-glass. Now you can't get fingerprints without fingers, can you?"

"Undoubtedly you can," said Thorndyke.

"I should want to see that done before I could believe even you, sir,"
said Miller.

"You shall see it done now," was the calm rejoinder. "You have evidently
forgotten the Hornby case--the case of the Red Thumb-mark, as the
newspapers called it."

"I only heard part of it," replied Miller, "and I didn't really follow
the evidence in that."

"Well, I will show you a relic of that case," said Thorndyke. He unlocked
a cabinet and took from one of the shelves a small box labelled "Hornby,"
which, being opened, was seen to contain a folded paper, a little
red-covered oblong book and what looked like a large boxwood pawn.

"This little book," Thorndyke continued, "is a 'thumb-ograph'--a sort of
finger-print album--I dare say you know the kind of thing."

The superintendent nodded contemptuously at the little volume.

"Now while Dr. Jervis is finding us the print we want, I will run up to
the laboratory for an inked slab."

He handed me the little book and, as he left the room, I began to turn
over the leaves--not without emotion, for it was this very "thumbograph"
that first introduced me to my wife, as is related elsewhere--glancing
at the various prints above the familiar names and marvelling afresh at
the endless variations of pattern that they displayed. At length I came
upon two thumb-prints of which one--the left--was marked by a
longitudinal white line--evidently the trace of a scar; and underneath
them was written the signature "Reuben Hornby."

At this moment Thorndyke re-entered the room carrying the inked slab,
which he laid on the table, and seating himself between the
superintendent and me, addressed the former.

"Now, Miller, here are two thumb-prints made by a gentleman named Reuben
Hornby. Just glance at the left one; it is a highly characteristic
print."

"Yes," agreed Miller, "one could swear to that from memory, I should
think."

"Then look at this." Thorndyke took the paper from the box and, unfolding
it, handed it to the detective. It bore a pencilled inscription, and on
it were two blood-smears and a very distinct thumb-print in blood. "What
do you say to that thumb-print?"

"Why," answered Miller, "it's this one, of course; Reuben Hornby's left
thumb."

"Wrong, my friend," said Thorndyke. "It was made by an ingenious
gentleman named Walter Hornby (whom you followed from the Old Bailey and
lost on Ludgate Hill); but not with his thumb."

"How, then?" demanded the superintendent incredulously.

"In this way." Thorndyke took the boxwood "pawn" from its receptacle and
pressed its flat base onto the inked slab; then lifted it and pressed it
onto the back of a visiting-card, and again raised it; and now the card
was marked by a very distinct thumb-print.

"My God!" exclaimed the detective, picking up the card and viewing it
with a stare of dismay, "this is the very devil, sir. This fairly knocks
the bottom out of finger-print identification. May I ask, sir, how you
made that stamp--for I suppose you did make it?"

"Yes, we made it here, and the process we used was practically that used
by photo-engravers in making line blocks; that is to say, we photographed
one of Mr. Hornby's thumb-prints, printed it on a plate of
chrome-gelatine, developed the plate with hot water and this"--here he
touched the embossed surface of the stamp--"is what remained. But we
could have done it in various other ways; for instance, with common
transfer paper and lithographic stone; indeed, I assure you, Miller, that
there is nothing easier to forge than a finger-print, and it can be done
with such perfection that the forger himself cannot tell his own forgery
from a genuine original, even when they are placed side by side."

"Well, I'm hanged," grunted the superintendent, "you've fairly knocked
me, this time, doctor." He rose gloomily and prepared to depart. "I
suppose," he added, "your interest in this case has lapsed, now
Belfield's out of it?"

"Professionally, yes; but I am disposed to finish the case for my own
satisfaction. I am quite curious as to who our too-ingenious friend may
be."

Miller's face brightened. "We shall give you every facility, you know--
and that reminds me that Singleton gave me these two photographs for you,
one of the official paper and one of the prints on the glass. Is there
anything more that we can do for you?"

"I should like to have a look at the room in which the murder took
place."

"You shall, doctor; to-morrow, if you like; I'll meet you there in the
morning at ten, if that will do."

It would do excellently, Thorndyke assured him, and with this the
superintendent took his departure in renewed spirits.

We had only just closed the door when there came a hurried and urgent
tapping upon it, whereupon I once more threw it open, and a
quietly-dressed woman in a thick veil, who was standing on the threshold,
stepped quickly past me into the room.

"Where is my husband?" she demanded, as I closed the door; and then,
catching sight of Thorndyke, she strode up to him with a threatening air
and a terrified but angry face.

"What have you done with my husband, sir?" she repeated. "Have you
betrayed him, after giving your word? I met a man who looked like a
police officer on the stairs."

"Your husband, Mrs. Belfield, is here and quite safe," replied Thorndyke.
"He has locked himself in that room," indicating the office.

Mrs. Belfield darted across and .rapped smartly at the door. "Are you
there, Frank?" she called.

In immediate response the key turned, the door opened and Belfield
emerged looking very pale and worn.

"You have kept me a long time in there, sir," he said.

"It took me a long time to prove to Superintendent Miller that he was
after the wrong man. But I succeeded, and now, Belfield, you are free.
The charge against you is withdrawn."

Belfield stood for a while as one stupefied, while his wife, after a
moment of silent amazement, flung her arms round his neck and burst into
tears. "But how did you know I was innocent, sir?" demanded the
bewildered Belfield.

"Ah! how did I? Every man to his trade, you know. Well, I congratulate
you, and now go home and have a square meal and get a good night's rest."

He shook hands with his clients--vainly endeavouring to prevent Mrs.
Belfield from kissing his hand--and stood at the open door listening
until the sound of their retreating footsteps died away.

"A noble little woman, Jervis," said he, as he closed the door. "In
another moment she would have scratched my face--and I mean to find out
the scoundrel who tried to wreck her happiness."


PART II. THE SHIP OF THE DESERT


The case which I am now about to describe has always appeared to me a
singularly instructive one, as illustrating the value and importance of
that fundamental rule in the carrying out of investigations which
Thorndyke had laid down so emphatically--the rule that all facts, in any
way relating to a case, should be collected impartially and without
reference to any theory, and each fact, no matter how trivial or
apparently irrelevant, carefully studied. But I must not anticipate the
remarks of my learned and talented friend on this subject which I have to
chronicle anon; rather let me proceed to the case itself.

I had slept at our chambers in King's Bench Walk--as I commonly did two
or three nights a week--and on coming down to the sitting-room, found
Thorndyke's man, Polton, putting the last touches to the breakfast-table,
while Thorndyke himself was poring over two photographs of fingerprints,
of which he seemed to be taking elaborate measurements with a pair of
hair-dividers. He greeted me with his quiet, genial smile and, laying
down the dividers, took his seat at the breakfast-table.

"You are coming with me this morning, I suppose," said he; "the
Camberwell murder case, you know."

"Of course I am if you will have me, but I know practically nothing of
the case. Could you give me an outline of the facts that are known?"

Thorndyke looked at me solemnly, but with a mischievous twinkle. "This,"
he said, "is the old story of the fox and the crow; you 'bid me
discourse,' and while I 'enchant thine ear,' you claw to windward with
the broiled ham. A deep-laid plot, my learned brother."

"And such," I exclaimed, "is the result of contact with the criminal
classes!"

"I am sorry that you regard yourself in that light," he retorted, with a
malicious smile. "However, with regard to this case. The facts are
briefly these: The murdered man, Caldwell, who seems to have been
formerly a receiver of stolen goods and probably a police spy as well,
lived a solitary life in a small house with only an elderly woman to
attend him.

"A week ago this woman went to visit a married daughter and stayed the
night with her, leaving Caldwell alone in the house. When she returned on
the following morning she found her master lying dead on the floor of his
office, or study, in a small pool of blood.

"The police surgeon found that he had been dead about twelve hours. He
had been killed by a single blow, struck from behind, with some heavy
implement, and a jemmy which lay on the floor beside him fitted the wound
exactly. The deceased wore a dressing-gown and no collar, and a bedroom
candlestick lay upside down on the floor, although gas was laid on in the
room; and as the window of the office appears to have been forced with
the jemmy that was found, and there were distinct footprints on the
flower-bed outside the window, the police think that the deceased was
undressing to go to bed when he was disturbed by the noise of the opening
window; that he went down to the office and, as he entered, was struck
down by the burglar who was lurking behind the door. On the window-glass
the police found the greasy impression of an open right hand, and, as you
know, the finger-prints were identified by the experts as those of an old
convict named Belfield. As you also know, I proved that those
finger-prints were, in reality, forgeries, executed with rubber or
gelatine stamps. That is an outline of the case."

The close of this recital brought our meal to an end, and we prepared for
our visit to the scene of the crime. Thorndyke slipped into his pocket
his queer outfit--somewhat like that of a field geologist--locked up
the photographs, and we set forth by way of the Embankment.

"The police have no clue, I suppose, to the identity of the murderer, now
that the finger-prints have failed?" I asked, as we strode along
together.

"I expect not," he replied, "though they might have if they examined
their material. I made out a rather interesting point this morning, which
is this: the man who made those sham finger-prints used two stamps, one
for the thumb and the other for the four fingers; and the original from
which those stamps were made was the official finger-print form."

"How did you discover that?" I inquired.

"It was very simple. You remember that Mr. Singleton of the Finger-print
Department sent me, by Superintendent Miller, two photographs, one of the
prints on the window and one of the official form with Belfield's
finger-prints on it. Well, I have compared them and made the most minute
measurements of each, and they are obviously duplicates. Not only are all
the little imperfections on the form--due to defective inking--
reproduced faithfully on the window-pane, but the relative positions of
the four fingers on both cases agree to the hundredth of an inch. Of
course the thumb stamp was made by taking an oval out of the rolled
impression on the form."

"Then do you suggest that this murder was committed by some one connected
with the Finger-print Department at Scotland Yard?"

"Hardly. But some one has had access to the forms. There has been leakage
somewhere."

When we arrived at the little detached house in which the murdered man
had lived, the door was opened by an elderly woman, and our friend,
Superintendent Miller, greeted us in the hall.

"We are all ready for you, doctor," said he. "Of course, the things have
all been gone over once, but we are turning them out more thoroughly
now." He led the way into the small, barely-furnished office in which the
tragedy had occurred. A dark stain on the carpet and a square hole in one
of the window-panes furnished memorials of the crime, which were
supplemented by an odd assortment of objects laid out on the
newspaper-covered table. These included silver teaspoons, watches,
various articles of jewellery, from which the stones had been removed--
none of them of any considerable value--and a roughly-made jemmy.

"I don't know why Caldwell should have kept all these odds and ends,"
said the detective superintendent. "There is stuff here, that I can
identify, from six different burglaries--and not a conviction among the
six."

Thorndyke looked over the collection with languid interest; he was
evidently disappointed at finding the room so completely turned out.

"Have you any idea what has been taken?" he asked.

"Not the least. We don't even know if the safe was opened. The keys were
on the writing-table, so I suppose he went through everything, though I
don't see why he left these things if he did. We found them all in the
safe."

"Have you powdered the jemmy?"

The superintendent turned very red. "Yes," he growled, "but some
half-dozen blithering idiots had handled the thing before I saw it--been
trying it on the window, the blighters--so, of course, it showed nothing
but the marks of their beastly paws."

"The window had not really been forced, I suppose?" said Thorndyke.

"No," replied Miller, with a glance of surprise at my colleague, "that
was a plant; so were the footprints. He must have put on a pair of
Caldwell's boots and gone out and made them--unless Caldwell made them
himself, which isn't likely."

"Have you found any letter or telegram?"

"A letter making an appointment for nine o'clock on the night of the
murder. No signature or address, and the handwriting evidently
disguised."

"Is there anything that furnishes any sort of clue?"

"Yes, sir, there is. There's this, which we found in the safe." He
produced a small parcel which he proceeded to unfasten, looking somewhat
queerly at Thorndyke the while. It contained various odds and ends of
jewellery, and a smaller parcel formed of a pocket-handkerchief tied with
tape. This the detective also unfastened, revealing half-a-dozen silver
teaspoons, all engraved with the same crest, two salt-cellars and a gold
locket bearing a monogram. There was also a half-sheet of note-paper on
which was written, in a manifestly disguised hand: "There are the goods I
told you about.? F. B." But what riveted Thorndyke's attention and mine
was the handkerchief itself (which was not a very clean one and was
sullied by one or two small blood-stains), for it was marked in one
corner with the name "F. Belfield," legibly printed in marking-ink with a
rubber stamp.

Thorndyke and the superintendent looked at one another and both smiled.

"I know what you are thinking, sir," said the latter.

"I am sure you do," was the reply, "and it is useless to pretend that you
don't agree with me."

"Well, sir," said Miller doggedly, "if that handkerchief has been put
there as a plant, it's Belfield's business to prove it. You see, doctor,"
he added persuasively, "it isn't this job only that's affected. Those
spoons, those salt-cellars and that locket are part of the proceeds of
the Winchmore Hill burglary, and we want the gentleman who did that crack
--we want him very badly."

"No doubt you do," replied Thorndyke, "but this handkerchief won't help
you. A sharp counsel--Mr. Anstey, for instance--would demolish it in
five minutes. I assure you, Miller, that handkerchief has no evidential
value whatever, whereas it might prove an invaluable instrument of
research. The best thing you can do is to hand it over to me and let me
see what I can learn from it."

The superintendent was obviously dissatisfied, but he eventually agreed,
with manifest reluctance, to Thorndyke's suggestion.

"Very well, doctor," he said; "you shall have it for a day or two. Do you
want the spoons and things as well?"

"No. Only the handkerchief and the paper that was in it."

The two articles were accordingly handed to him and deposited in a tin
box which he usually carried in his pocket, and, after a few more words
with the disconsolate detective, we took our departure.

"A very disappointing morning," was Thorndyke's comment as we walked
away. "Of course the room ought to have been examined by an expert before
anything was moved."

"Have you picked up anything in the way of information?" I asked.

"Very little excepting confirmation of my original theory. You see, this
man Caldwell was a receiver and evidently a police spy. He gave useful
information to the police, and they, in return, refrained from
inconvenient inquiries. But a spy, or 'nark,' is nearly always a
blackmailer too, and the probabilities in this case are that some crook,
on whom Caldwell was putting the screw rather too tightly, made an
appointment for a meeting when the house was empty, and just knocked
Caldwell on the head. The crime was evidently planned beforehand, and the
murderer came prepared to kill several birds with one stone. Thus he
brought with him the stamps to make the sham finger-prints on the window,
and I have no doubt that he also brought this handkerchief and the
various oddments of plate and jewellery from those burglaries that Miller
is so keen about, and planted them in the safe. You noticed, I suppose,
that none of the things were of any value, but all were capable of easy
identification?"

"Yes, I noticed that. His object, evidently, was to put those burglaries
as well as the murder onto poor Belfield."

"Exactly. And you see what Miller's attitude is; Belfield is the bird in
the hand, whereas the other man--if there is another--is still in the
bush; so Belfield is to be followed up and a conviction obtained if
possible. If he is innocent, that is his affair, and it is for him to
prove it."

"And what shall you do next?" I asked.

"I shall telegraph to Belfield to come and see us this evening. He may be
able to tell us something about this handkerchief that, with the clue we
already have, may put us on the right track. What time is your
consultation?"

"Twelve-thirty--and here comes my 'bus. I shall be in to lunch." I
sprang onto the footboard, and as I took my seat on the roof and looked
back at my friend striding along with an easy swing, I knew that he was
deep in thought, though automatically attentive to all that was
happening. My consultation--it was a lunacy case of some importance--
was over in time to allow of my return to our chambers punctually at the
luncheon hour; and as I entered, I was at once struck by something new in
Thorndyke's manner--a certain elation and gaiety which I had learned to
associate with a point scored successfully in some intricate and puzzling
case. He made no confidences, however, and seemed, in fact, inclined to
put away, for a time, all his professional cares and business.

"Shall we have an afternoon off, Jervis?" he said gaily. "It is a fine
day and work is slack just now. What say you to the Zoo? They have a
splendid chimpanzee and several specimens of that remarkable fish
Periophthalmos Kolreuteri. Shall we go?"

"By all means," I replied; "and we will mount the elephant, if you like,
and throw buns to the grizzly bear and generally renew our youth like the
eagle."

But when, an hour later, we found ourselves in the gardens, I began to
suspect my friend of some ulterior purpose in this holiday jaunt; for it
was not the chimpanzee or even the wonderful fish that attracted his
attention. On the contrary, he hung about the vicinity of the lamas and
camels in a way that I could not fail to notice; and even there it
appeared to be the sheds and houses rather than the animals themselves
that interested him.

"Behold, Jervis," he said presently, as a saddled camel of seedy aspect
was led towards its house, "behold the ship of the desert, with raised
saloon-deck amidships, fitted internally with watertight compartments and
displaying the effects of rheumatoid arthritis in his starboard
hip-joint. Let us go and examine him before he hauls into dock." We took
a cross-path to intercept the camel on its way to its residence, and
Thorndyke moralized as we went.

"It is interesting," he remarked, "to note the way in which these
specialized animals, such as the horse, the reindeer and the camel, have
been appropriated by man, and their special character made to subserve
human needs. Think, for instance, of the part the camel has played in
history, in ancient commerce--and modern too, for that matter--and in
the diffusion of culture; and of the role he has enacted in war and
conquest from the Egyptian campaign of Cambyses down to that of
Kitchener. Yes, the camel is a very remarkable animal, though it must be
admitted that this particular specimen is a scurvy-looking beast."

The camel seemed to be sensible of these disparaging remarks, for as it
approached it saluted Thorndyke with a supercilious grin and then turned
away its head.

"Your charge is not as young as he used to be," Thorndyke observed to the
man who was leading the animal.

"No, sir, he isn't; he's getting old, and that's the fact. He shows it
too."

"I suppose," said Thorndyke, strolling towards the house by the man's
side, "these beasts require a deal of attention?"

"You're right, sir; and nasty-tempered brutes they are."

"So I have heard; but they are interesting creatures, the camels and
lamas. Do you happen to know if complete sets of photographs of them are
to be had here?"

"You can get a good many at the lodge, sir," the man replied, "but not
all, I think. If you want a complete set, there's one of our men in the
camel-house that could let you have them; he takes the photos himself,
and very clever he is at it, too. But he isn't here just now."

"Perhaps you could give me his name so that I could write to him," said
Thorndyke.

"Yes, sir. His name is Woodthorpe--Joseph Woodthorpe. He'll do anything
for you to order. Thank you, sir; good-afternoon, sir;" and pocketing an
unexpected tip, the man led his charge towards its lair.

Thorndyke's absorbing interest in the camels seemed now suddenly to
become extinct, and he suffered me to lead him to any part of the gardens
that attracted me, showing an imperial interest in all the inmates from
the insects to the elephants, and enjoying his holiday--if it was one--
with the gaiety and high spirits of a schoolboy. Yet he never let slip a
chance of picking up a stray hair or feather, but gathered up each with
care, wrapped it in its separate paper, on which was written its
description, and deposited it in his tin collecting-box.

"You never know," he remarked, as we turned away from the ostrich
enclosure, "when a specimen for comparison may be of vital importance.
Here, for instance, is a small feather of a cassowary, and here the hair
of a wapiti deer; now the recognition of either of those might, in
certain circumstances, lead to the detection of a criminal or save the
life of an innocent man. The thing has happened repeatedly, and may
happen again to-morrow."

"You must have an enormous collection of hairs in your cabinet," I
remarked, as we walked home.

"I have," he replied, "probably the largest in the world. And as to other
microscopical objects of medico-legal interest, such as dust and mud from
different localities and from special industries and manufactures,
fibres, food-products and drugs, my collection is certainly unique."

"And you have found your collection useful in your work?" I asked.

"Constantly. Over and over again I have obtained, by reference to my
specimens, the most unexpected evidence, and the longer I practise, the
more I become convinced that the microscope is the sheet-anchor of the
medical jurist."

"By the way," I said, "you spoke of sending a telegram to Belfield. Did
you send it?"

"Yes. I asked him to come to see me to-night at half-past eight, and, if
possible, bring his wife with him. I want to get to the bottom of that
handkerchief mystery."

"But do you think he will tell you the truth about it?"

"That is impossible to judge; he will be a fool if he does not. But I
think he will; he has a godly fear of me and my methods."

As soon as our dinner was finished and cleared away, Thorndyke produced
the "collecting-box" from his pocket, and began to sort out the day's
"catch," giving explicit directions to Polton for the disposal of each
specimen. The hairs and small feathers were to be mounted as microscopic
objects, while the larger feathers were to be placed, each in its
separate labelled envelope, in its appropriate box. While these
directions were being given, I stood by the window absently gazing out as
I listened, gathering many a useful hint in the technique of preparation
and preservation, and filled with admiration alike at my colleague's
exhaustive knowledge of practical detail and the perfect manner in which
he had trained his assistant. Suddenly I started, for a well-known figure
was crossing from Crown Office Row and evidently bearing down on our
chambers.

"My word, Thorndyke," I exclaimed, "here's a pretty mess!"

"What is the matter?" he asked, looking up anxiously.

"Superintendent Miller heading straight for our doorway. And it is now
twenty minutes past eight."

Thorndyke laughed. "It will be a quaint position," he remarked, "and
somewhat of a shock for Belfield. But it really doesn't matter; in fact,
I think, on the whole, I am rather pleased that he should have come."

The superintendent's brisk knock was heard a few moments later, and when
he was admitted by Polton, he entered and looked round the room a little,
sheepishly.

"I am ashamed to come worrying you like this, sir," he began
apologetically.

"Not at all," replied Thorndyke, serenely slipping the cassowary's
feather into an envelope, and writing the name, date and locality on the
outside. "I am your servant in this case, you know. Polton, whisky and
soda for the superintendent."

"You see, sir," continued Miller, "our people are beginning to fuss about
this case, and they don't approve of my having handed that handkerchief
and the paper over to you as they will have to be put in evidence."

"I thought they might object," remarked Thorndyke.

"So did I, sir; and they do. And, in short, they say that I have got to
get them back at once. I hope it won't put you out, sir."

"Not in the least," said Thorndyke. "I have asked Belfield to come here
to-night--I expect him in a few minutes--and when I have heard what he
has to say I shall have no further use for the handkerchief."

"You're not going to show it to him!" exclaimed the detective, aghast.

"Certainly I am."

"You mustn't do that, sir. I can't sanction it; I can't indeed."

"Now, look you here, Miller," said Thorndyke, shaking his forefinger at
the officer; "I am working for you in this case, as I have told you.
Leave the matter in my hands. Don't raise silly objections; and when you
leave here tonight you will take with you not only the handkerchief and
the paper, but probably also the name and address of the man who
committed this murder and those various burglaries that you are so keen
about."

"Is that really so, sir?" exclaimed the astonished detective. "Well, you
haven't let the grass grow under your feet. Ah!" as a gentle rap at the
door was heard, "here's Belfield, I suppose."

It was Belfield--accompanied by his wife--and mightily disturbed they
were when their eyes lighted on our visitor.

"You needn't be afraid of me, Belfield," said Miller, with ferocious
geniality; "I am not here after you." Which was not literally true,
though it served to reassure the affrighted ex-convict.

"The superintendent dropped in by chance," said Thorndyke; "but it is
just as well that he should hear what passes. I want you to look at this
handkerchief and tell me if it is yours. Don't be afraid, but just tell
us the simple truth."

He took the handkerchief out of a drawer and spread it on the table; and
I now observed that a small square had been cut out of one of the
bloodstains.

Belfield took the handkerchief in his trembling hands, and as his eye
fell on the stamped name in the corner he turned deadly pale.

"It looks like mine," he said huskily. "What do you say, Liz?" he added,
passing it to his wife.

Mrs. Belfield examined first the name and then the hem. "It's yours,
right enough, Frank," said she. "It's the one that got changed in the
wash. You see, sir," she continued, addressing Thorndyke, "I bought him
half-a-dozen new ones about six months ago, and I got a rubber stamp made
and marked them all. Well, one day when I was looking over his things I
noticed that one of his handkerchiefs had got no mark on it. I spoke to
the laundress about it, but she couldn't explain it, so as the right one
never came back, I marked the one that we got in exchange."

"How long ago was that?" asked Thorndyke.

"About two months ago I noticed it."

"And you know nothing more about it."

"Nothing whatever, sir. Nor you, Frank, do you?"

Her husband shook his head gloomily, and Thorndyke replaced the
handkerchief in the drawer.

"And now," said he, "I am going to ask you a question on another subject.
When you were at Holloway there was a warder--or assistant warder--
there, named Woodthorpe. Do you remember him?"

"Yes, sir, very well indeed; in fact, it was him that -?"

"I know," interrupted Thorndyke. "Have you seen him since you left
Holloway?"

"Yes, sir, once. It was last Easter Monday. I met him at the Zoo; he is a
keeper there now in the camel-house" (here a sudden light dawned upon me
and I chuckled aloud, to Belfield's great astonishment). "He gave my
little boy a ride on one of the camels and made himself very pleasant."

"Do you remember anything else happening?" Thorndyke inquired.

"Yes, sir. The camel had a little accident; he kicked out--he was an
ill-tempered beast--and his leg hit a post; there happened to be a nail
sticking out from that post, and it tore up a little flap of skin. Then
Woodthorpe got out his handkerchief to tie up the wound, but as it was
none of the cleanest, I said to him: 'Don't use that, Woodthorpe; have
mine,' which was quite a clean one. So he took it and bound up the
camel's leg, and he said to me: 'I'll have it washed and send it to you
if you give me your address.' But I told him there was no need for that;
I should be passing the camel-house on my way out and I would look in for
the handkerchief. And I did: I looked in about an hour later, and
Woodthorpe gave me my handkerchief, folded up but not washed."

"Did you examine it to see if it was yours?" asked Thorndyke.

"No, sir. I just slipped it in my pocket as it was."

"And what became of it afterwards?"

"When I got home I dropped it into the dirty-linen basket."

"Is that all you know about it?"

"Yes, sir; that is all I know."

"Very well, Belfield, that will do. Now you have no reason to be uneasy.
You will soon know all about the Camberwell murder--that is, if you read
the papers."

The ex-convict and his wife were obviously relieved by this assurance and
departed in quite good spirits. When they were gone, Thorndyke produced
the handkerchief and the half-sheet of paper and handed them to the
superintendent, remarking--"This is highly satisfactory, Miller; the
whole case seems to join up very neatly indeed. Two months ago the wife
first noticed the substituted handkerchief, and last Easter Monday--a
little over two months ago--this very significant incident took place in
the Zoological Gardens."

"That is all very well, sir," objected the superintendent, "but we've
only their word for it, you know."

"Not so," replied Thorndyke. "We have excellent corroborative evidence.
You noticed that I had cut a small piece out of the blood-stained portion
of the handkerchief?"

"Yes; and I was sorry you had done it. Our people won't like that."

"Well, here it is, and we will ask Dr. Jervis to give us his opinion of
it."

From the drawer in which the handkerchief had been hidden he brought
forth a microscope slide, and setting the microscope on the table, laid
the slide on the stage.

"Now, Jervis," he said, "tell us what you see there."

I examined the edge of the little square of fabric (which had been
mounted in a fluid reagent) with a high-power objective, and was, for a
time, a little puzzled by the appearance of the blood that adhered to it.

"It looks like bird's blood," I said presently, with some hesitation,
"but yet I can make out no nuclei." I looked again, and then, suddenly,
"By Jove!" I exclaimed, "I have it; of course! It's the blood of a
camel!"

"Is that so, doctor?" demanded the detective, leaning forward in his
excitement.

"That is so," replied Thorndyke. "I discovered it after I came home this
morning. You see," he explained, "it is quite unmistakable. The rule is
that the blood corpuscles of mammals are circular; the one exception is
the camel family, in which the corpuscles are elliptical."


"Why," exclaimed Miller, "that seems to connect Woodthorpe with this
Camberwell job."

"It connects him with it very conclusively," said Thorndyke. "You are
forgetting the finger-prints."

The detective looked puzzled. "What about them?" he asked.

"They were made with stamps--two stamps, as a matter of fact--and those
stamps were made by photographic process from the official finger-print
form. I can prove that beyond all doubt."

"Well, suppose they were. What then?"

Thorndyke opened a drawer and took out a photograph, which he handed to
Miller. "Here," he said, "is the photograph of the official finger-print
form which you were kind enough to bring me. What does it say at the
bottom there?" and he pointed with his finger.

The superintendent read aloud: "Impressions taken by Joseph Woodthorpe.
Rank, Warder; Prison, Holloway." He stared at the photograph for a
moment, and then exclaimed--"Well, I'm hanged! You have worked this out
neatly, doctor! and so quick too. We'll have Mr. Woodthorpe under lock
and key the first thing to-morrow morning. But how did he do it, do you
think?"

"He might have taken duplicate finger-prints and kept one form; the
prisoners would not know there was anything wrong; but he did not in this
case. He must have contrived to take a photograph of the form before
sending it in--it would take a skilful photographer only a minute or two
with a suitable hand-camera placed on a table at the proper distance from
the wall; and I have ascertained that he is a skilful photographer. You
will probably find the apparatus, and the stamps too, when you search his
rooms."

"Well, well. You do give us some surprises, doctor. But I must be off now
to see about this warrant. Good-night, sir, and many thanks for your
help."

When the superintendent had gone we sat for a while looking at one
another in silence. At length Thorndyke spoke. "Here is a case, Jervis,"
he said, "which, simple as it is, teaches a most invaluable lesson--a
lesson which you should take well to heart. It is this: The evidential
value of any fact is an unknown quantity until the fact has been
examined. That seems a self-evident truth, but like many other
self-evident truths, it is constantly overlooked in practice. Take this
present case. When I left Caldwell's house this morning the facts in my
possession were these: (1) The man who murdered Caldwell was directly or
indirectly connected with the Finger-print Department. (2) He was almost
certainly a skilled photographer. (3) He probably committed the Winchmore
Hill and the other burglaries. (4) He was known to Caldwell, had had
professional dealings with him and was probably being blackmailed. This
was all; a very vague clue, as you see.

"There was the handkerchief, planted, as I had no doubt; but could not
prove; the name stamped on it was Belfield's, but any one can get a
rubber stamp made. Then it was stained with blood, as handkerchiefs often
are; that blood might or might not be human blood; it did not seem to
matter a straw whether it was or not. Nevertheless, I said to myself: If
it is human, or at least mammalian blood, that is a fact; and if it is
not human blood, that is also a fact. I will have that fact, and then I
shall know what its value is. I examined the stain when I reached home,
and behold! it was camel's blood; and immediately this insignificant fact
swelled up into evidence of primary importance. The rest was obvious. I
had seen Woodthorpe's name on the form, and I knew several other
officials. My business was to visit all places in London where there were
camels, to get the names of all persons connected with them and to
ascertain if any among them was a photographer. Naturally I went first to
the Zoo, and at the very first cast hooked Joseph Woodthorpe. Wherefore I
say again: Never call any fact irrelevant until you have examined it."

The remarkable evidence given above was not heard at the trial, nor did
Thorndyke's name appear among the witnesses; for when the police searched
Woodthorpe's rooms, so many incriminating articles were found (including
a pair of fingerprint stamps which exactly answered to Thorndyke's
description of them, and a number of photographs of finger-print forms)
that his guilt was put beyond all doubt; and society was shortly after
relieved of a very undesirable member.

[Compiler's note: The next set of stories in the omnibus volume consist
of five taken from 'John Thorndyke's Cases'. There are an additional
three stories in 'John Thorndyke's Cases' which are not included in the
omnibus volume, but for the sake of completeness I have retained them
here. They are: 'The Man with the Nailed Shoes', 'The Mandarin's Pearl',
and 'A Message from the Deep Sea'.

The illustrations which should accompany these stories are available from
Project Gutenberg Australia as 'Thorndykepictures.zip']



THE MISSING MORTGAGEE


PART I


Early in the afternoon of a warm, humid November day, Thomas Elton
sauntered dejectedly along the Margate esplanade, casting an eye now on
the slate-coloured sea with its pall of slate-coloured sky, and now on
the harbour, where the ebb tide was just beginning to expose the mud. It
was a dreary prospect, and Elton varied it by observing the few fishermen
and fewer promenaders who walked foot to foot with their distorted
reflections in the wet pavement; and thus it was that his eye fell on a
smartly- dressed man who had just stepped into a shelter to light a
cigar.

A contemporary joker has classified the Scotsmen who abound in South
Africa into two groups: those, namely, who hail from Scotland, and those
who hail from Palestine. Now, something in the aspect of the broad back
that was presented to his view, in that of the curly, black hair and the
exuberant raiment, suggested to Elton a Scotsman of the latter type. In
fact, there was a suspicion of disagreeable familiarity in the figure
which caused him to watch it and slacken his pace. The man backed out of
the shelter, diffusing azure clouds, and, drawing an envelope from his
pocket, read something that was written on it. Then he turned quickly--
and so did Elton, but not quickly enough. For he was a solitary figure on
that bald and empty expanse, and the other had seen him at the first
glance. Elton walked away slowly, but he had not gone a dozen paces when
he felt the anticipated slap on the shoulder and heard the too
well-remembered voice.

"Blow me, if I don't believe you were trying to cut me, Tom," it said.

Elton looked round with ill-assumed surprise. "Hallo, Gordon! Who the
deuce would have thought of seeing you here?"

Gordon laughed thickly. "Not you, apparently; and you don't look as
pleased as you might now you have seen me. Whereas I'm delighted to see
you, and especially to see that things are going so well with you."

"What do you mean?" asked Elton.

"Taking your winter holiday by the sea, like a blooming duke."

"I'm not taking a holiday," said Elton. "I was so worn out that I had to
have some sort of change; but I've brought my work down with me, and I
put in a full seven hours every day."

"That's right," said Gordon. "'Consider the ant.' Nothing like steady
industry! I've brought my work down with me too; a little slip of paper
with a stamp on it. You know the article, Tom."

"I know. But it isn't due till to-morrow, is it?"

"Isn't it, by gum! It's due this very day, the twentieth of the month.
That's why I'm here. Knowing your little weakness in the matter of dates,
and having a small item to collect in Canterbury, I thought I'd just come
on, and save you the useless expense that results from forgetfulness."

Elton understood the hint, and his face grew rigid.

"I can't do it, Gordon; 1 can't really. Haven't got it, and shan't have
it until I'm paid for the batch of drawings that I'm working on now."

"Oh, but what a pity!" exclaimed Gordon, taking the cigar from his thick,
pouting lips to utter the exclamation. "Here you are, blueing your
capital on seaside jaunts and reducing your income at a stroke by a clear
four pounds a year."

"How do you make that out?" demanded Elton.

"Tut, tut," protested Gordon, "what an unbusinesslike chap you are!
Here's a little matter of twenty pounds quarter's interest. If it's paid
now, it's twenty. If it isn't, it goes on to the principal and there's
another four pounds a year to be paid. Why don't you try to be more
economical, dear boy?"

Elton looked askance at the vampire by his side; at the plump blue-shaven
cheeks, the thick black eyebrows, the drooping nose, and the full, red
lips that embraced the cigar, and though he was a mild tempered man he
felt that he could have battered that sensual, complacent face out of all
human likeness, with something uncommonly like enjoyment. But of these
thoughts nothing appeared in his reply, for a man cannot afford to say
all he would wish to a creditor who could ruin him with a word.

"You mustn't be too hard on me, Gordon," said he. "Give me a little time.
I'm doing all I can, you know. I earn every penny that I am able, and I
have kept my insurance paid up regularly. I shall be paid for this work
in a week or two and then we can settle up."

Gordon made no immediate reply, and the two men walked slowly eastward, a
curiously ill-assorted pair: the one prosperous, jaunty, overdressed; the
other pale and dejected, and, with his well-brushed but napless clothes,
his patched boots and shiny-brimmed hat, the very type of decent,
struggling poverty.

They had just passed the pier, and were coming to the base of the jetty,
when Gordon next spoke.

"Can't we get off this beastly wet pavement?" he asked, looking down at
his dainty and highly-polished boots. "What's it like down on the sands?"

"Oh, it's very good walking," said Elton, "between here and Foreness, and
probably drier than the pavement."

"Then," said Gordon, "I vote we go down"; and accordingly they descended
the sloping way beyond the jetty. The stretch of sand left by the
retiring tide was as smooth and firm as a sheet of asphalt, and far more
pleasant to walk upon.

"We seem to have the place all to ourselves," remarked Gordon, "with the
exception of some half- dozen dukes like yourself."

As he spoke, he cast a cunning black eye furtively at the dejected man by
his side, considering how much further squeezing was possible, and what
would be the probable product of a further squeeze; but he quickly
averted his gaze as Elton turned on him a look eloquent of contempt and
dislike. There was another pause, for Elton made no reply to the last
observation; then Gordon changed over from one arm to the other the heavy
fur overcoat that he was carrying. "Needn't have brought this beastly
thing," he remarked, "if I'd known it was going to be so warm."

"Shall I carry it for you a little way?" asked the naturally polite
Elton.

"If you would, dear boy," replied Gordon. "It's difficult to manage an
overcoat, an umbrella and cigar all at once."

He handed over the coat with a sigh of relief, and having straightened
himself and expanded his chest, remarked: "I suppose you're beginning to
do quite well now, Tom?"

Elton shook his head gloomily. "No," he answered, "it's the same old
grind."

"But surely they're beginning to recognise your talents by this time,"
said Gordon, with the persuasive air of a counsel.

"That's just the trouble," said Elton. "You see, I haven't any, and they
recognised the fact long ago. I'm just a journeyman, and journeyman's
work is what I get given to me."

"You mean to say that the editors don't appreciate talent when they see
it."

"I don't know about that," said Elton, "but they're most infernally
appreciative of the lack of it."

Gordon blew out a great cloud of smoke, and raised his eyebrows
reflectively. "Do you think," he said after a brief pause, "you give 'em
a fair chance? I've seen some of your stuff. It's blooming prim, you
know. Why don't you try something more lively? More skittish, you know,
old chap; something with legs, you know, and high shoes. See what I mean,
old chap? High with good full calves and not too fat in the ankle. That
ought to fetch 'em; don't you think so?"

Elton scowled. "You're thinking of the drawings in 'Hold Me Up,'" he said
scornfully, "but you're mistaken. Any fool can draw a champagne bottle
upside down with a French shoe at the end of it."

"No doubt, dear boy," said Gordon, "but I expect that sort of fool knows
what pays."

"A good many fools seem to know that much," retorted Elton; and then he
was sorry he had spoken, for Gordon was not really an amiable man, and
the expression of his face suggested that he had read a personal
application into the rejoinder. So, once more, the two men walked on in
silence.

Presently their footsteps led them to the margin of the weed-covered
rocks, and here, from under a high heap of bladder-wrack, a large green
shorecrab rushed out and menaced them with uplifted claws. Gordon stopped
and stared at the creature with Cockney surprise, prodding it with his
umbrella, and speculating aloud as to whether it was good to eat. The
crab, as if alarmed at the suggestion, suddenly darted away and began to
scuttle over the green-clad rocks, finally plunging into a large, deep
pool. Gordon pursued it, hobbling awkwardly over the slippery rocks,
until he came to the edge of the pool, over which he stooped, raking
inquisitively among the weedy fringe with his umbrella. He was so much
interested in his quarry that he failed to allow for the slippery surface
on which he stood. The result was disastrous. Of a sudden, one foot began
to slide forward, and when he tried to recover his balance, was instantly
followed by the other. For a moment he struggled frantically to regain
his footing, executing a sort of splashing, stamping dance on the margin.
Then, the circling sea birds were startled by a yell of terror, an
ivory-handled umbrella flew across the rocks, and Mr. Solomon Gordon took
a complete header into the deepest part of the pool. What the crab
thought of it history does not relate. What Mr. Gordon thought of it is
unsuitable for publication; but, as he rose, like an extremely up-to-date
merman, he expressed his sentiments with a wealth of adjectives that
brought Elton in the verge of hysteria.

"It's a good job you brought your overcoat, after all," Elton remarked
for the sake of saying something, and thereby avoiding the risk of
exploding into undeniable laughter. The Hebrew made no reply--at least,
no reply that lends itself to verbatim report--but staggered towards the
hospitable overcoat, holding out his dripping arms. Having inducted him
into the garment and buttoned him up, Elton hurried off to recover the
umbrella (and, incidentally, to indulge himself in a broad grin), and,
having secured it, angled with it for the smart billycock which was
floating across the pool.

It was surprising what a change the last minute or two had wrought. The
positions of the two men were now quite reversed. Despite his shabby
clothing, Elton seemed to walk quite jauntily as compared with his
shuddering companion who trotted by his side with short miserable steps,
shrinking into the uttermost depths of his enveloping coat, like an
alarmed winkle into its shell, puffing out his cheeks and anathematising
the Universe in general as well as his chattering teeth would let him.

For some time they hurried along towards the slope by the jetty without
exchanging any further remarks; then suddenly, Elton asked: "What are you
going to do, Gordon? You can't travel like that."

"Can't you lend me a change?" asked Gordon. Elton reflected. He had
another suit, his best suit, which he had been careful to preserve in
good condition for use on those occasions when a decent appearance was
indispensable. He looked askance at the man by his side and something
told him that the treasured suit would probably receive less careful
treatment than it was accustomed to. Still the man couldn't be allowed to
go about in wet clothes.

"I've got a spare suit," he said. "It isn't quite up to your style, and
may not be much of a fit, but I daresay you'll be able to put up with it
for an hour or two."

"It'll be dry anyhow," mumbled Gordon, "so we won't trouble about the
style. How far is it to your rooms?"

The plural number was superfluous. Elton's room was in a little ancient
flint house at the bottom of a narrow close in the old quarter of the
town. You reached it without any formal preliminaries of bell or knocker
by simply letting yourself in by a street door, crossing a tiny room,
opening the door of what looked like a narrow cupboard, and squeezing up
a diminutive flight of stairs, which was unexpectedly exposed to view. By
following this procedure, the two men reached a small bed-sitting-room;
that is to say, it was a bed room, but by sitting down on the bed, you
converted it into a sitting-room.

Gordon puffed out his cheeks and looked round distastefully.

"You might just ring for some hot water, old chappie," he said.

Elton laughed aloud. "Ring!" he exclaimed. "Ring what? Your clothes are
the only things that are likely to get wrung."

"Well, then, sing out for the servant," said Gordon.

Elton laughed again. "My dear fellow," said he, "we don't go in for
servants. There is only my land lady and she never comes up here. She's
too fat to get up the stairs, and besides, she's got a game leg. I look
after my room myself. You'll be all right if you have a good rub down."

Gordon groaned, and emerged reluctantly from the depths of his overcoat,
while Elton brought forth from the chest of drawers the promised suit and
the necessary undergarments. One of these latter Gordon held up with a
sour smile, as he regarded it with extreme disfavour.

"I shouldn't think," said he, "you need have been at the trouble of
marking them so plainly. No one's likely to want to run away with them."

The undergarments certainly contrasted very unfavourably with the
delicate garments which he was peeling off, excepting in one respect;
they were dry; and that had to console him for the ignominious change.

The clothes fitted quite fairly, notwithstanding the difference between
the figures of the two men; for while Gordon was a slender man grown fat,
Elton was a broad man grown thin; which, in a way, averaged their
superficial area.

Elton watched the process of investment and noted the caution with which
Gordon smuggled the various articles from his own pockets into those of
the borrowed garments without exposing them to view; heard the jingle of
money; saw the sumptuous gold watch and massive chain transplanted and
noted with interest the large leather wallet that came forth from the
breast pocket of the wet coat. He got a better view of this from the fact
that Gordon himself examined it narrowly, and even opened it to inspect
its contents.

"Lucky that wasn't an ordinary pocketbook." he remarked. "If it had been,
your receipt would have got wet, and so would one or two other little
articles that wouldn't have been improved by salt water. And, talking of
the receipt, Tom, shall I hand it over now?"

"You can if you like," said Elton; "but as I told you, I haven't got the
money"; on which Gordon muttered: "Pity, pity," and thrust the wallet
into his, or rather, Elton's breast pocket.

A few minutes later, the two men came out together into the gathering
darkness, and as they walked slowly up the close, Elton asked: "Are you
going up to town to-night, Gordon?"

"How can I?" was the reply. "I can't go without my clothes. No, I shall
run over to Broadstairs. A client of mine keeps a boarding-house there.
He'll have to put me up for the night, and if you can get my clothes
cleaned and dried I can come over for them to-morrow."

These arrangements having been settled, the two men adjourned, at
Gordon's suggestion, for tea at one of the restaurants on the Front; and
after that, again at Gordon's suggestion, they set forth together along
the cliff path that leads to Broadstairs by way of Kingsgate.

"You may as well walk with me into Broadstairs," said Gordon; "I'll stand
you the fare back by rail"; and to this Elton had agreed, not because he
was desirous of the other man's company, but because he still had some
lingering hopes of being able to adjust the little difficulty respecting
the instalment.

He did not, however, open the subject at once. Profoundly as he loathed
and despised the human spider whom necessity made his associate for the
moment, he exerted himself to keep up a current of amusing conversation.
It was not easy; for Gordon, like most men whose attention is focussed on
the mere acquirement of money, looked with a dull eye on the ordinary
interests of life. His tastes in art he had already hinted at, and his
other tastes lay much in the same direction. Money first, for its own
sake, and then those coarser and more primitive gratifications that it
was capable of purchasing. This was the horizon that bounded Mr. Solomon
Gordon's field of vision.

Nevertheless, they were well on their way before Elton alluded to the
subject that was uppermost in both their minds.

"Look here, Gordon," he said at length, "can't you manage to give me a
bit more time to pay up this instalment? It doesn't seem quite fair to
keep sending up the principal like this."

"Well, dear boy," replied Gordon, "it's your own fault, you know. If you
would only bear the dates in mind, it wouldn't happen."

"But," pleaded Elton, "just consider what I'm paying you. I originally
borrowed fifty pounds from you, and I'm now paying you eighty pounds a
year in addition to the insurance premium. That's close on a hundred a
year; just about half that I manage to earn by slaving like a nigger. If
you stick it up any farther you won't leave me enough to keep body and
soul together; which really means that I shan't be able to pay you at
all."

There was a brief pause; then Gordon said dryly: "You talk about not
paying, dear boy, as if you had forgotten about that promissory note."

Elton set his teeth. His temper was rising rapidly. But he restrained
himself.

"I should have a pretty poor memory if I had," he replied, "considering
the number of reminders you've given me."

"You've needed them, Tom," said the other. "I've never met a slacker man
in keeping to his engagements."

At this Elton lost his temper completely.

"That's a damned lie!" he exclaimed, "and you know it, you infernal,
dirty, blood-sucking parasite "

Gordon stopped dead.

"Look here, my friend," said he; "none of that. If I've any of your
damned sauce, I'll give you a sound good hammering."

"The deuce you will!" said Elton, whose fingers were itching, not for the
first time, to take some recompense for all that he had suffered from the
insatiable usurer. "Nothing's preventing you now, you know, but I fancy
cent. per cent. is more in your line than fighting."

"Give me any more sauce and you'll see," said Gordon.

"Very well," was the quiet rejoinder. "I have great pleasure in informing
you that you are a human maw-worm. How does that suit you?"

For reply, Gordon threw down his overcoat and umbrella on the grass at
the side of the path, and deliberately slapped Elton on the cheek.

The reply followed instantly in the form of a smart left-hander, which
took effect on the bridge of the Hebrew's rather prominent nose. Thus the
battle was fairly started, and it proceeded with all the fury of
accumulated hatred on the one side and sharp physical pain on the other.
What little science there was appertamed to Elton, in spite of which,
however, he had to give way to his heavier, better nourished and more
excitable opponent. Regardless of the punishment he received, the
infuriated Jew rushed at him and, by sheer weight of onslaught, drove him
backward across the little green.

Suddenly, Elton, who knew the place by daylight, called out in alarm.

"Look out, Gordon! Get back, you fool!"

But Gordon, blind with fury, and taking this as attempt to escape, only
pressed him harder. Elton's pugnacity died out instantly in mortal
terror. He shouted out another warning and as Gordon still pressed him,
battering furiously, he did the only thing that was possible: he dropped
to the ground. And then, in the twinkling of an eye came the catastrophe.
Borne forward by his own momentum, Gordon stumbled over Elton's prostrate
body, staggered forward a few paces, and fell. Elton heard a muffled
groan that faded quickly, and mingled with the sound of falling earth and
stones. He sprang to his feet and looked round and saw that he was alone.

For some moments he was dazed by the suddenness of the awful thing that
had happened. He crept timorously towards the unseen edge of the cliff,
and listened.

There was no sound save the distant surge of the breakers, and the scream
of an invisible sea-bird. It was useless to try to look over. Near as he
was, he could not, even now, distinguish the edge of the cliff from the
dark beach below. Suddenly he bethought him of a narrow cutting that led
down from the cliff to the shore. Quickly crossing the green, and
mechanically stooping to pick up Gordon's overcoat and umbrella, he made
his way to the head of the cutting and ran down the rough chalk roadway.
At the bottom he turned to the right and, striding hurriedly over the
smooth sand, peered into the darkness at the foot of the cliff.

Soon there loomed up against the murky sky the shadowy form of the little
headland on which he and Gordon had stood; and, almost at the same
moment, there grew out of the darkness of the beach a darker spot amidst
a constellation of smaller spots of white. As he drew nearer the dark
spot took shape; a horrid shape with sprawling limbs and a head strangely
awry. He stepped forward, trembling, and spoke the name that the thing
had borne. He grasped the flabby hand, and laid his fingers on the wrist;
but it only told him the same tale as did that strangely misplaced head.
The body lay face downwards, and he had not the courage to turn it over;
but that his enemy was dead he had not the faintest doubt. He stood up
amidst the litter of fallen chalk and earth and looked down at the
horrible, motionless thing, wondering numbly and vaguely what he should
do. Should he go and seek assistance? The answer to that came in another
question. How came that body to be lying on the beach? And what answer
should he give to the inevitable questions? And swiftly there grew up in
his mind, born of the horror of the thing that was, a yet greater horror
of the thing that might be.

A minute later, a panic-stricken man stole with stealthy swiftness up the
narrow cutting and set forth towards Margate, stopping anon to listen,
and stealing away off the path into the darkness, to enter the town by
the inland road.

Little sleep was there that night for Elton in his room in the old flint
house. The dead man's clothes, which greeted him on his arrival, hanging
limply on the towel-horse where he had left them, haunted him through the
night. In the darkness, the sour smell of damp cloth assailed him with an
endless reminder of their presence, and after each brief doze, he would
start up in alarm and hastily light his candle; only to throw its
flickering light on those dank, drowned-looking vestments. His thoughts,
half-controlled, as night thoughts are, flitted erratically from the
unhappy past to the unstable present, and thence to the incalculable
future. Once he lighted the candle specially to look at his watch to see
if the tide had yet crept up to that solitary figure on the beach; nor
could he rest again until the time of high water was well past. And all
through these wanderings of his thoughts there came, recurring like a
horrible refrain, the question what would happen when the body was found?
Could he be connected with it and, if so, would he be charged with
murder? At last he fell asleep and slumbered on until the landlady
thumped at the staircase door to announce that she had brought his
breakfast.

As soon as he was dressed he went out. Not, how ever, until he had
stuffed Gordon's still damp clothes and boots, the cumbrous overcoat and
the smart billy-cock hat into his trunk, and put the umbrella into the
darkest corner of the cupboard. Not that anyone ever came up to the room,
but that, already, he was possessed with the uneasy secretiveness of the
criminal. He went straight down to the beach; with what purpose he could
hardly have said, but an irresistible impulse drove him thither to see if
it was there. He went down by the jetty and struck out eastward over the
smooth sand, looking about him with dreadful expectation for some small
crowd or hurrying messenger. From the foot of the cliffs, over the rocks
to the distant line of breakers, his eye roved with eager dread, and
still he hurried eastward, always drawing nearer to the place that he
feared to look on. As he left the town behind, so he left behind the one
or two idlers on the beach, and when he turned Foreness Point he lost
sight of the last of them and went forward alone. It was less than half
an hour later that the fatal head land opened out beyond Whiteness.

Not a soul had he met along that solitary beach, and though, once or
twice, he had started at the sight of some mass of drift wood or heap of
seaweed, the dreadful thing that he was seeking had not yet appeared. He
passed the opening of the cutting and approached the headland, breathing
fast and looking about him fearfully. Already he could see the larger
lumps of chalk that had fallen, and looking up, he saw a clean, white
patch at the summit of the cliff. But still there was no sign of the
corpse. He walked on more slowly now, considering whether it could have
drifted out to sea, or whether he should find it in the next bay. And
then, rounding the head land, he came in sight of a black hole at the
cliff foot, the entrance to a deep cave. He approached yet more slowly,
sweeping his eye round the little bay, and looking apprehensively at the
cavity before him. Suppose the thing should have washed in there. It was
quite possible. Many things did wash into that cave, for he had once
visited it and had been astonished at the quantity of seaweed and jetsam
that had accumulated within it. But it was an uncomfortable thought. It
would be doubly horrible to meet the awful thing in the dim twilight of
the cavern. And yet, the black archway seemed to draw him on, step by
step, until he stood at the portal and looked in. It was an eerie place,
chilly and damp, the clammy walls and roof stained green and purple and
black with encrusting lichens. At one time, Elton had been told, it used
to be haunted by smugglers, and then communicated with an underground
passage; and the old smuggler's look-out still remained; a narrow tunnel,
high up the cliff, looking out into Kingsgate Bay; and even some vestiges
of the rude steps that led up to the look-out platform could still be
traced, and were not impossible to climb. Indeed, Elton had, at his last
visit, climbed to the platform and looked out through the spy-hole. He
recalled the circumstance now, as he stood, peering nervously into the
darkness, and straining his eyes to see what jetsam the ocean had brought
since then.

At first he could see nothing but the smooth sand near the opening; then,
as his eyes grew more accustomed to the gloom, he could make out the
great heap of seaweed on the floor of the cave. Insensibly, he crept in,
with his eyes riveted on the weedy mass and, as he left the daylight
behind him, so did the twilight of the cave grow clearer. His feet left
the firm sand and trod the springy mass of weed, and in the silence of
the cave he could now hear plainly the rain-like patter of the leaping
sand-hoppers. He stopped for a moment to listen to the unfamiliar sound,
and still the gloom of the cave grew lighter to his more accustomed eyes.

And then, in an instant, he saw it. From a heap of weed, a few paces
ahead, projected a boot; his own boot; he recognised the patch on the
sole; and at the sight, his heart seemed to stand still. Though he had
somehow expected to find it here, its presence seemed to strike him with
a greater shock of horror from that very circumstance.

He was standing stock still, gazing with fearful fascination at the boot
and the swelling mound of weed, when, suddenly, there struck upon his ear
the voice of a woman, singing.

He started violently. His first impulse was to run out of the cave. But a
moment's reflection told him what madness this would be. And then the
voice drew nearer, and there broke out the high, rippling laughter of a
child. Elton looked in terror at the bright opening of the cavern's
mouth, expecting every moment to see it frame a group of figures. If that
happened, he was lost, for he would have been seen actually with the
body. Suddenly he bethought him of the spy-hole and the platform, both of
which were invisible from the entrance; and turning, he ran quickly over
the sodden weed till he came to the remains of the steps. Climbing
hurriedly up these, he reached the platform, which was enclosed in a
large niche, just as the reverberating sound of voices told him that the
strangers were within the mouth of the cave. He strained his ears to
catch what they were saying and to make out if they were entering
farther. It was a child's voice that he had first heard, and very weird
were the hollow echoes of the thin treble that were flung back from the
rugged walls. But he could not hear what the child had said. The woman's
voice, however, was quite distinct, and the words seemed significant in
more senses than one.

"No, dear," it said, "you had better not go in. It's cold and damp. Come
out into the sunshine."

Elton breathed more freely. But the woman was more right than she knew.
It was cold and damp, that thing under the black tangle of weed. Better
far to be out in the sunshine. He himself was already longing to escape
from the chill and gloom, of the cavern. But he could not escape yet.
Innocent as he actually was, his position was that of a murderer. He must
wait until the coast was clear, and then steal out, to hurry away
unobserved.

He crept up cautiously to the short tunnel and peered out through the
opening across the bay. And then his heart sank. Below him, on the sunny
beach, a small party of visitors had established themselves just within
view of the mouth of the cave; and even as he looked, a man approached
from the wooden stairway down the cliff, carrying a couple of deck
chairs. So, for the present his escape was hopelessly cut off.

He went back to the platform and sat down to wait for his release; and,
as he sat, his thoughts went back once more to the thing that lay under
the weed. How long would it lie there undiscovered? And what would happen
when it was found? What was there to connect him with it? Of course,
there was his name on the clothing, but there was nothing incriminating
in that, if he had only had the courage to give information at once. But
it was too late to think of that now. Besides, it suddenly flashed upon
him, there was the receipt in the wallet. That receipt mentioned him by
name and referred to a loan. Obviously, its suggestion was most sinister,
coupled with his silence. It was a deadly item of evidence against him.
But no sooner had he realised the appalling significance of this document
than he also realised that it was still within his reach. Why should he
leave it there to be brought in evidence--in false evidence, too--
against him?

Slowly he rose and, creeping down the tunnel, once more looked out. The
people were sitting quietly in their chairs, the man was reading, and the
child was digging in the sand. Elton looked across the bay to make sure
that no other person was approaching, and then, hastily climbing down the
steps, walked across the great bed of weed, driving an army of
sand-hoppers before him. He shuddered at the thought of what he was going
to do, and the clammy chill of the cave seemed to settle on him in a cold
sweat.

He came to the little mound from which the boot projected, and began,
shudderingly and with faltering hand, to lift the slimy, tangled weed. As
he drew aside the first bunch, be gave a gasp of horror and quickly
replaced it. The body was lying on its back, and, as he lifted the weed
he had uncovered--not the face, for the thing had no face. It had struck
either the cliff or a stone upon the beach and--but there is no need to
go into particulars: it had no face. When he had recovered a little,
Elton groped shudderingly among the weed until he found the breast-pocket
from which he quickly drew out the wallet, now clammy, sodden and
loathsome. He was rising with it in his hand when an apparition, seen
through the opening of the cave, arrested his movement as if he had been
suddenly turned into stone. A man, apparently a fisherman or sailor, was
sauntering past some thirty yards from the mouth of the cave, and at his
heels trotted a mongrel dog. The dog stopped, and, lifting his nose,
seemed to sniff the air; and then he began to walk slowly and
suspiciously towards the cave. The man sauntered on and soon passed out
of view; but the dog still came on towards the cave, stopping now and
again with upraised nose.

The catastrophe seemed inevitable. But just at that moment the man's
voice rose, loud and angry, evidently calling the dog. The animal
hesitated, looking wist fully from his master to the cave; but when the
summons was repeated, he turned reluctantly and trotted away.

Elton stood up and took a deep breath. The chilly sweat was running clown
his face, his heart was thumping and his knees trembled, so that he could
hardly get back to the platform. What hideous peril had he escaped and
how narrowly! For there he had stood; and had the man entered, he would
have been caught in the very act of stealing the incriminating document
from the body. For that matter, he was little better off now, with the
dead man's property on his person, and he resolved instantly to take out
and destroy the receipt and put back the wallet. But this was easier
thought of than done. The receipt was soaked with sea water, and refused
utterly to light when he applied a match to it. In the end, he tore it up
into little fragments and deliberately swallowed them, one by one.

But to restore the wallet was more than he was equal to just now. He
would wait until the people had gone home to lunch, and then he would
thrust it under the weed as he ran past. So he sat down again and once
more took up the endless thread of his thoughts.

The receipt was gone now, and with it the immediate suggestion of motive.
There remained only the clothes with their too legible markings. They
certainly connected him with the body, but they offered no proof of his
presence at the catastrophe. And then, suddenly, another most startling
idea occurred to him. Who could identify the body--the body that had no
face? There was the wallet, it was true, but he could take that away with
him, and there was a ring on the finger and some articles in the pockets
which might be identified. But--a voice seemed to whisper to him--these
things were removable, too. And if he removed them, what then? Why, then,
the body was that of Thomas Elton, a friendless, poverty-stricken artist,
about whom no one would trouble to ask any questions.

He pondered on this new situation profoundly. It offered him a choice of
alternatives. Either he might choose the imminent risk of being hanged
for a murder that he had not committed, or he might surrender his
identity for ever and move away to a new environment.

He smiled faintly. His identity! What might that be worth to barter
against his life? Only yesterday he would gladly have surrendered it as
the bare price of emancipation from the vampire who had fastened on to
him.

He thrust the wallet into his pocket and buttoned his coat. Thomas Elton
was dead; and that other man, as yet unnamed, should go forth, as the
woman had said, into the sunshine.


PART II


(Related by Christopher Jervis, M.D.)

From various causes, the insurance business that passed through
Thorndyke's hands had, of late, considerably increased. The number of
societies which regularly employed him had grown larger, and, since the
remarkable case of Percival Bland, the "Griffin" had made it a routine
practice to send all inquest cases to us for report.

[Compiler's note: the Percival Bland case actually follows directly after
this one in the book: clearly the order of stories has been transposed.]

It was in reference to one of these latter that Mr. Stalker, a senior
member of the staff of that office, called on us one afternoon in
December; and when he had laid his bag on the table and settled himself
comfortably before the fire, he opened the business without preamble.

"I've brought you another inquest case," said he; "a rather queer one,
quite interesting from your point of view. As far as we can see, it has
no particular interest for us excepting that it does rather look as if
our examining medical officer had been a little casual."

"What is the special interest of the case from our point of view?" asked
Thorndyke.

"I'll just give you a sketch of it," said Stalker, "and I think you will
agree that it's a case after your own heart.

"On the 24th of last month, some men who were collecting seaweed, to use
as manure, discovered in a cave at Kingsgate, in the Isle of Thanet, the
body of a man, lying under a mass of accumulated weed. As the tide was
rising, they put the body into their cart and conveyed it to Margate,
where, of course, an inquest was held, and the following facts were
elicited. The body was that of a man named Thomas Elton. It was
identified by the name-marks on the clothing, by the visiting-cards and a
couple of letters which were found in the pockets. From the address on
the letters it was seen that Elton had been staying in Margate, and on
inquiry at that address, it was learnt from the old woman who let the
lodgings, that he had been missing about four days. The landlady was
taken to the mortuary, and at once identified the body as that of her
lodger. It remained only to decide how the body came into the cave; and
this did not seem to present much difficulty; for the neck had been
broken by a tremendous blow, which had practically destroyed the face,
and there were distinct evidences of a breaking away of a portion of the
top of the cliff, only a few yards from the position of the cave. There
was apparently no doubt that Elton had fallen sheer from the top of the
overhanging cliff on to the beach. Now, one would suppose with the
evidence of this fall of about a hundred and fifty feet, the smashed face
and broken neck, there was not much room for doubt as to the cause of
death. I think you will agree with me, Dr. Jervis?"

Certainly," I replied; "it must be admitted that a broken neck is a
condition that tends to shorten life."

"Quite so," agreed Stalker; "but our friend, the local coroner, is a
gentleman who takes nothing for granted--a very Thomas Didymus, who
apparently agrees with Dr. Thorndyke that if there is no post mortem,
there is no inquest. So he ordered a post mortem, which would have
appeared to me an absurdly unnecessary proceeding, and I think that even
you will agree with me, Dr. Thorndyke."

But Thorndyke shook his head.

"Not at all," said he. "It might, for instance, be much more easy to push
a drugged or poisoned man over a cliff than to put over the same man in
his normal state. The appearance of violent accident is an excellent mask
for the less obvious forms of murder."

"That's perfectly true," said Stalker; "and I suppose that is what the
coroner thought. At any rate, he had the post-mortem made, and the result
was most curious; for it was found, on opening the body, that the
deceased had suffered from a smallish thoracic aneurism, which had burst.
Now, as the aneurism must obviously have burst during life, it leaves the
cause of death--so I understand--uncertain; at any rate, the medical
witness was unable to say whether the deceased fell over the cliff in
consequence of the bursting of the aneurism or burst the aneurism in
consequence of falling over the cliff. Of course, it doesn't matter to us
which way the thing happened; the only question which interests us is,
whether a comparatively recently insured man ought to have had an
aneurism at all."

"Have you paid the claim?" asked Thorndyke.

"No, certainly not. We never pay a claim until we have had your report.
But, as a matter of fact, there is another circumstance that is causing
delay. It seems that Elton had mortgaged his policy to a money lender,
named Gordon, and it is by him that the claim has been made, or rather,
by a clerk of his, named Hyams. Now, we have had a good many dealings
with this man Gordon, and hitherto be has always acted in person; and as
he is a somewhat slippery gentleman we have thought it desirable to have
the claim actually signed by him. And that is the difficulty. For it
seems that Mr. Gordon is abroad, and his whereabouts unknown to Hyams;
so, as we certainly couldn't take Hyams's receipt for payment, the matter
is in abeyance until Hyams can communicate with his principal. And now, I
must be running away. I have brought you, as you will see, all the
papers, including the policy and the mortgage deed."

As soon as he was gone, Thorndyke gathered up the bundle of papers and
sorted them out in what be apparently considered the order of their
importance. First be glanced quickly through the proposal form, and then
took up the copy of the coroner's depositions.

"The medical evidence," be remarked, "is very full and complete. Both the
coroner and the doctor seem to know their business."

Seeing that the man apparently fell over a cliff," said I, "the medical
evidence would not seem to be of first importance. It would seem to be
more to the point to ascertain how he came to fall over."

"That's quite true," replied Thorndyke; "and yet, this report contains
some rather curious matter. The deceased had an aneurism of the arch;
that was probably rather recent. But he also had some slight,
old-standing aortic disease, with full compensatory hypertrophy. He also
had a nearly complete set of false teeth. Now, doesn't it strike you,
Jervis, as rather odd that a man who was passed only five years ago as a
first-class life, should, in that short interval, have become actually
uninsurable?"

'Yes, it certainly does look," said I, " as if the fellow had had rather
bad luck. What does the proposal form say?"

I took the document up and ran my eyes over it. On Thorndyke's advice,
medical examiners for the "Griffin" were instructed to make a somewhat
fuller report than is usual in some companies. In this case, the ordinary
answers to questions set forth that the heart was perfectly healthy and
the teeth rather exceptionally good, and then, in the summary at the end,
the examiner remarked: "the proposer seems to be a completely sound and
healthy man; he presents no physical defects whatever, with the exception
of a bony ankylosis of the first joint of the third finger of the left
hand, which he states to have been due to an injury."

Thorndyke looked up quickly. "Which finger, did you say?" he asked.

"The third finger of the left hand," I replied.

Thorndyke looked thoughtfully at the paper that he was reading. "It's
very singular," said he, "for I see that the Margate doctor states that
the deceased wore a signet ring on the third finger of the left hand.
Now, of course, you couldn't get a ring on to a finger with bony
ankylosis of the joint."

"He must have mistaken the finger," said I, "or else the insurance
examiner did."

"That is quite possible," Thorndyke replied; "but, doesn't it strike you
as very singular that, whereas the insurance examiner mentions the
ankylosis, which was of no importance from an insurance point of view,
the very careful man who made the post-mortem should not have mentioned
it, though, owing to the unrecognisable condition of the face, it was of
vital importance for the purpose of identification?"

I admitted that it was very singular indeed, and we then resumed our
study of the respective papers. But presently I noticed that Thorndyke
had laid the report upon his knee, and was gazing speculatively into the
fire.

I gather," said I, "that my learned friend finds some matter of interest
in this case."

For reply, he handed me the bundle of papers, recommending me to look
through them.

"Thank you," said I, rejecting them firmly, "but I think I can trust you
to have picked out all the plums."

Thorndyke smiled indulgently. "They're not plums, Jervis," said he;
"they're only currants, but they make quite a substantial little heap."

I disposed myself in a receptive attitude (somewhat after the fashion of
the juvenile pelican) and he continued: "If we take the small and
unimpressive items and add them together, you will see that a quite
considerable sum of discrepancy results, thus:

"In 1903, Thomas Elton, aged thirty-one, had a set of sound teeth. In
1908, at the age of thirty-six, he was more than half toothless. Again,
at the age of thirty-one, his heart was perfectly healthy. At the age of
thirty-six, he had old aortic disease, with fully established
compensation, and an aneurism that was possibly due to it. When he was
examined he had a noticeable incurable malformation; no such malformation
is mentioned in connection with the body.

"He appears to have fallen over a cliff; and he had also burst an
aneurism. Now, the bursting of the aneurism must obviously have occurred
during life; but it would occasion practically instantaneous death.
Therefore, if the fall was accidental, the rupture must have occurred
either as he stood at the edge of the cliff, as he was in the act of
falling, or on striking the beach.

"At the place where he apparently fell, the footpath is some thirty yards
distant from the edge of the cliff.

"It is not known how he came to that spot, or whether he was alone at the
time.

"Someone is claiming five hundred pounds as the immediate result of his
death.

"There, you see, Jervis, are seven propositions, none of them extremely
striking, but rather suggestive when taken together."

"You seem," said I, "to suggest a doubt as to the identity of the body."

"I do," he replied. "The identity was not clearly established."

"You don't think the clothing and the visiting-cards conclusive."

"They're not parts of the body," he replied. "Of course, substitution is
highly improbable. But it is not impossible."

"And the old woman--" I suggested, but he interrupted me.

"My dear Jervis," he exclaimed; "I'm surprised at you. How many times has
it happened within our knowledge that women have identified the bodies of
total strangers as those of their husbands, fathers or brothers? The
thing happens almost every year. As to this old woman, she saw a body
with an unrecognisable face, dressed in the clothes of her missing
lodger. Of course, it was the clothes that she identified."

"I suppose it was," I agreed; and then I said: "You seem to suggest the
possibility of foul play."

"Well," he replied, "if you consider those seven points, you will agree
with me that they present a cumulative discrepancy which it is impossible
to ignore. The whole significance of the case turns on the question of
identity; for, if this was not the body of Thomas Elton, it would appear
to have been deliberately prepared to counterfeit that body. And such
deliberate preparation would manifestly imply an attempt to conceal the
identity of some other body.

"Then," he continued, after a pause, "there is this deed. It looks quite
regular and is correctly stamped, but it seems to me that the surface of
the paper is slightly altered in one or two places and if one holds the
document up to the light, the paper looks a little more transparent in
those places." He examined the document for a few seconds with his pocket
lens, and then passing lens and document to me, said: "Have a look at it,
Jervis, and tell me what you think."

I scrutinised the paper closely, taking it over to the window to get a
better light; and to me, also, the paper appeared to be changed in
certain places.

"Are we agreed as to the position of the altered places?" Thorndyke asked
when I announced the fact.

"I only see three patches," I answered. "Two correspond to the name,
Thomas Elton, and the third to one of the figures in the policy number."

"Exactly," said Thorndyke, "and the significance is obvious. If the paper
has really been altered, it means that some other name has been erased
and Elton's substituted; by which arrangement, of course, the correctly
dated stamp would be secured. And this--the alteration of an old
document--is the only form of forgery that is possible with a dated,
impressed stamp."

"Wouldn't it be rather a stroke of luck," I asked, "for a forger to
happen to have in his possession a document needing only these two
alterations?"

"I see nothing remarkable in it," Thorndyke replied. "A moneylender would
have a number of documents of this kind in hand, and you observe that be
was not bound down to any particular date. Any date within a year or so
of the issue of the policy would answer his purpose. This document is, in
fact, dated, as you see, about six months after the issue of the policy."

"I suppose," said I, "that you will draw Stalker's attention to this
matter."

"He will have to be informed, of course," Thorndyke replied; "but I think
it would be interesting in the first place to call on Mr. Hyams. You will
have noticed that there are some rather mysterious features in this case,
and Mr. Hyams's conduct, especially if this document should turn out to
be really a forgery, suggests that he may have some special information
on the subject." He glanced at his watch and, after a few moments'
reflection, added: "I don't see why we shouldn't make our little
ceremonial call at once. But it will be a delicate business, for we have
mighty little to go upon. Are you coming with me?"

If I had had any doubts, Thorndyke's last remark disposed of them; for
the interview promised to be quite a sporting event. Mr. Hyams was
presumably not quite newly-hatched, and Thorndyke, who utterly despised
bluff of any kind, and whose exact mind refused either to act or speak
one hair's breadth beyond his knowledge, was admittedly in somewhat of a
fog. The meeting promised to be really entertaining.

Mr. Hyams was "discovered," as the playwrights have it, in a small office
at the top of a high building in Queen Victoria Street. He was a small
gentleman, of sallow and greasy aspect, with heavy eyebrows and a still
heavier nose.

"Are you Mr. Gordon?" Thorndyke suavely inquired as we entered.

Mr. Hyams seemed to experience a momentary doubt on the subject, but
finally decided that he was not. "But perhaps," he added brightly, "I can
do your business for you as well."

"I daresay you can," Thorndyke agreed significantly; on which we were
conducted into an inner den, where I noticed Thorndyke's eye rest for an
instant on a large iron safe.

"Now," said Mr. Hyams, shutting the door ostentatiously, "what can I do
for you?"

"I want you," Thorndyke replied, "to answer one or two questions with
reference to the claim made by you on the' Griffin' Office in respect of
Thomas Elton."

Mr. Hyams's manner underwent a sudden change. He began rapidly to turn
over papers, and opened and shut the drawers of his desk, with an air of
restless preoccupation.

"Did the 'Griffin' people send you here?" he demanded brusquely.

"They did not specially instruct me to call on you," replied Thorndyke.

"Then," said Hyams bouncing out of his chair, "I can't let you occupy my
time. I'm not here to answer conundrums from Torn, Dick or Harry."

Thorndyke rose from his chair. "Then I am to understand," he said, with
unruffled suavity, "that you would prefer me to communicate with the
Directors, and leave them to take any necessary action."

This gave Mr. Hyams pause. "What action do you refer to?" he asked. "And,
who are you?"

Thorndyke produced a card and laid it on the table. Mr. Hyams had
apparently seen the name before, for he suddenly grew rather pale and
very serious.

"What is the nature of the questions that you wished to ask?" he
inquired.

"They refer to this claim," replied Thorndyke. "The first question is,
where is Mr. Gordon?"

"I don't know," said Hyams.

"Where do you think he is?" asked Thorndyke.

"I don't think at all," replied Hyams, turning a shade paler and looking
everywhere but at Thorndyke.

"Very well," said the latter, "then the next question is, are you
satisfied that this claim is really payable?"

"I shouldn't have made it if I hadn't been," replied Hyams.

"Quite so," said Thorndyke; "and the third question is, are you satisfied
that the mortgage deed was executed as it purports to have been?"

"I can't say anything about that," replied Hyams, who was growing every
moment paler and more fidgety, "it was done before my time."

"Thank you," said Thorndyke. "You will, of course, understand why I am
making these inquiries."

"I don't," said Hyams.

"Then," said Thorndyke, "perhaps I had better explain. We are dealing,
you observe, Mr. Hyams, with the case of a man who has met with a violent
death under somewhat mysterious circumstances. We are dealing, also, with
another man who has disappeared, leaving his affairs to take care of
themselves; and with a claim, put forward by a third party, on behalf of
the one man in respect of the other. When I say that the dead man has
been imperfectly identified, and that the document supporting the claim
presents certain peculiarities, you will see that the matter calls for
further inquiry."

There was an appreciable interval of silence. Mr. Hyams had turned a
tallowy white, and looked furtively about the room, as if anxious to
avoid the stony gaze that my colleague had fixed on him.

"Can you give us no assistance?" Thorndyke inquired, at length.

Mr. Hyams chewed a pen-holder ravenously, as he considered the question.
At length, he burst out in an agitated voice: "Look here, sir, if I tell
you what I know, will you treat the information as confidential?

"I can't agree to that, Mr. Hyams," replied Thorndyke. "It might amount
to compounding a felony. But you will be wiser to tell me what you know.
The document is a side-issue, which my clients may never raise, and my
own concern is with the death of this man."

Hyams looked distinctly relieved. "If that's so," said he, "I'll tell you
all I know, which is precious little, and which just amounts to this: Two
days after Elton was killed, someone came to this office in my absence
and opened the safe. I discovered the fact the next morning. Someone had
been to the safe and rummaged over all the papers. It wasn't Gordon,
because he knew where to find everything; and it wasn't an ordinary
thief, because no cash or valuables had been taken. In fact, the only
thing that I missed was a promissory note, drawn by Elton."

"You didn't miss a mortgage deed?" suggested Thorndyke, and Hyams, having
snatched a little further refreshment from the pen-holder, said he did
not.

"And the policy," suggested Thorndyke, "was apparently not taken?"

"No," replied Hyams "but it was looked for. Three bundles of policies had
been untied, but this one happened to be in a drawer of my desk and I had
the only key."

"And what do you infer from this visit?" Thorndyke asked.

"Well," replied Hyams, "the safe was opened with keys, and they were
Gordon's keys--or at any rate, they weren't mine--and the person who
opened it wasn't Gordon; and the things that were taken--at least the
thing, I mean--chiefly concerned Elton. Naturally I smelt a rat; and
when I read of the finding of the body, I smelt a fox."

"And have you formed any opinion about the body that was found?"

"Yes, I have," he replied. "My opinion is that it was Gordon's body: that
Gordon had been putting the screw on Elton, and Elton had just pitched
him over the cliff and gone down and changed clothes with the body. Of
course, that's only my opinion. I may be wrong; but I don't think I am."

As a matter of fact, Mr. Hyams was not wrong. An exhumation, consequent
on Thorndyke's challenge of the identity of the deceased, showed that the
body was that of Solomon Gordon. A hundred pounds reward was offered for
information as to Elton's whereabouts. But no one ever earned it. A
letter, bearing the post mark of Marseilles, and addressed by the missing
man to Thorndyke, gave a plausible account of Gordon's death; which was
represented as having occurred accidentally at the moment when Gordon
chanced to be wearing a suit of Elton's clothes.

Of course, this account may have been correct, or again, it may have been
false; but whether it was true or false, Elton, from that moment,
vanished from our ken and has never since been heard of.



PERCIVAL BLAND'S PROXY


PART I


Mr. Percival Bland was a somewhat uncommon type of criminal. In the first
place he really had an appreciable amount of common-sense. If he had only
had a little more, he would not have been a criminal at all. As it was,
he had just sufficient judgment to perceive that the consequences of
unlawful acts accumulate as the acts are repeated; to realise that the
criminal's position must, at length, become untenable; and to take what
he considered fair precautions against the inevitable catastrophe.

But in spite of these estimable traits of character and the precautions
aforesaid, Mr. Bland found himself in rather a tight place and with a
prospect of increasing tightness. The causes of this uncomfortable
tension do not concern us, and may be dismissed with the remark, that, if
one perseveringly distributes flash Bank of England notes among the
money-changers of the Continent, there will come a day of reckoning when
those notes are tendered to the exceedingly knowing old lady who lives in
Threadneedle Street.

Mr. Bland considered uneasily the approaching storm-cloud as he raked
over the "miscellaneous property" in the Sale-rooms of Messrs. Plimpton.
He was a confirmed frequenter of auctions, as was not unnatural, for the
criminal is essentially a gambler. And criminal and gambler have one
quality in common: each hopes to get something of value without paying
the market price for it.

So Percival turned over the dusty oddments and his own difficulties at
one and the same time. The vital questions were: When would the storm
burst? And would it pass by the harbour of refuge that he bad been at
such pains to construct? Let us inspect that harbour of refuge.

A quiet flat in the pleasant neighbourhood of Battersea bore a name-plate
inscribed, Mr. Robert Lindsay; and the tenant was known to the porter and
the char woman who attended to the flat, as a fair-haired gentle man who
was engaged in the book trade as a travelling agent, and was consequently
a good deal away from home. Now Mr. Robert Lindsay bore a distinct
resemblance to Percival Bland; which was not sur prising seeing that they
were first cousins (or, at any rate, they said they were; and we may
presume that they knew). But they were not very much alike. Mr. Lindsay
had flaxen, or rather sandy, hair; Mr. Bland's hair was black. Mr. Bland
had a mole under his left eye; Mr. Lindsay had no mole under his eye--
but carried one in a small box in his waistcoat pocket.

At somewhat rare intervals the Cousins called on one another; but they
had the very worst of luck, for neither of them ever seemed to find the
other at home. And what was even more odd was that whenever Mr. Bland
spent an evening at home in his lodgings over the oil shop in Bloomsbury,
Mr. Lindsay's flat was empty; and as sure as Mr. Lindsay was at home in
his flat so surely were Mr. Bland's lodgings vacant for the time being.
It was a queer coincidence, if anyone had noticed it; but nobody ever
did.

However, if Percival saw little of his cousin, it was not a case of "out
of sight, out of mind." On the contrary; so great was his solicitude for
the latter's welfare that he not only had made a will constituting him
his executor and sole legatee, but he had actually insured his life for
no less a sum than three thousand pounds; and this will, together with
the insurance policy, investment securities and other necessary
documents, he had placed in the custody of a highly respectable
solicitor. All of which did him great credit. It isn't every man who is
willing to take so much trouble for a mere cousin.

Mr. Bland continued his perambulations, pawing over the miscellaneous
raffle from sheer force of habit, reflecting on the coming crisis in his
own affairs, and on the provisions that he had made for his cousin
Robert. As for the latter, they were excellent as far as they went, but
they lacked definiteness and perfect completeness. There was the
contingency of a "stretch," for instance; say fourteen years' penal
servitude. The insurance policy did not cover that. And, meanwhile, what
was to become of the estimable Robert?

He had bruised his thumb somewhat severely in a screw-cutting lathe, and
had abstractedly turned the handle of a bird-organ until politely
requested by an attendant to desist, when he came upon a series of boxes
containing, according to the catalogue, "a collection of surgical
instruments the property of a lately deceased practitioner." To judge by
the appearance of the instruments, the practitioner must have commenced
practice in his early youth and died at a very advanced age. They were an
uncouth set of tools, of no value whatever excepting as testimonials to
the amazing tenacity of life of our ancestors; but Percival fingered them
over according to his wont, working the handle of a complicated brass
syringe and ejecting a drop of greenish fluid on to the shirt of a dressy
Hebrew (who requested him to "point the dam' thing at thomeone elth
nectht time"), opening musty leather cases, clicking off spring
scarifiers and feeling the edges of strange, crooked, knives. Then he
came upon a largish black box, which, when he raised the lid, breathed
out an ancient and fish-like aroma and exhibited a collection of bones,
yellow, greasy and spotted in places with mildew. The catalogue described
them as" a complete set of human osteology" but they were not an ordinary
"student's set," for the bones of the hands and feet, instead of being
strung together on cat-gut, were united by their original ligaments and
were of an unsavoury brown colour.

"I thay, misther," expostulat the Hebrew, "shut that bocth. Thmellth like
a blooming inquetht."

But the contents of the black box seemed to have a fascination for
Percival. He looked in at those greasy remnants of mortality, at the
brown and mouldy hands and feet and the skull that peeped forth eerily
from the folds of a flannel wrapping; and they breathed out something
more than that stale and musty odour. A suggestion--vague and general at
first, but rapidly crystallising into distinct shape--seemed to steal
out of the black box into his consciousness; a suggestion that somehow
seemed to connect itself with his estimable cousin Robert.

For upwards of a minute he stood motionless, as one immersed in reverie,
the lid poised in his hand and a dreamy eye fixed on the half skull. A
stir in the room roused him. The sale was about to begin. The members of
the knock-out and other habitués seated themselves on benches around a
long, baize table; the attendants took possession of the first lots and
opened their catalogues as if about to sing an introductory chorus; and a
gentleman with a waxed moustache and a striking resemblance to his late
Majesty, the third Napoleon, having ascended to the rostrum bespoke the
attention of the assembly by a premonitory tap with his hammer.

How odd are some of the effects of a guilty conscience! With what absurd
self-consciousness do we read into the minds of others our own undeclared
intentions, when those intentions are unlawful! Had Percival Bland wanted
a set of human bones for any legitimate purpose--such as anatomical
study--he would have bought it openly and unembarrassed. Now, he found
himself earnestly debating whether he should not bid for some of the
surgical instruments, just for the sake of appearances; and there being
little time in which to make up his mind--for the deceased
practitioner's effects came first in the catalogue--he was already the
richer by a set of cupping- glasses, a tooth-key, and an instrument of
unknown use and diabolical aspect, before the fateful lot was called.

At length the black box was laid on the table, an object of obscene mirth
to the knockers-out, and the auctioneer read the entry: "Lot seventeen; a
complete set of human osteology. A very useful and valuable set of
specimens, gentlemen."

He looked round at the assembly majestically, oblivious of sundry
inquiries as to the identity of the deceased and the verdict of the
coroner's jury, and finally suggested five shillings.

"Six," said Percival.

An attendant held the box open, and, chanting the mystic word
"Loddlemen!" (which, being interpreted, meant " Lot, gentlemen "), thrust
it under the rather bulbous nose of the smart Hebrew; who remarked that
"they 'ummed a bit too much to thoot him " and pushed it away.

"Going at six shillings," said the auctioneer, reproachfully; and as
nobody contradicted him, he smote the rostrum with his hammer and the box
was delivered into the hands of Percival onthe payment of that modest
sum.

Having crammed the cupping-glasses, the tooth-key and the unknown
instrument into the box, Percival obtained from one of the attendants a
length of cord, with which he secured the lid. Then he carried his
treasure out into the street, and, chartering a four- wheeler, directed
the driver to proceed to Charing Cross Station. At the station he booked
the box in the cloak (in the name of Simpson) and left it for a couple of
hours; at the expiration of which he returned, and, employing a different
porters had it conveyed to a hansom, in which it was borne to his
lodgings over the oil-shop in Bloomsbury. There he, himself, carried it,
unobserved, up the stairs, and, depositing it in a large cupboard, locked
the door and pocketed the key.

And thus was the curtain rung down on the first act. The second act
opened only a couple of days later, the office of call-boy--to pursue
the metaphor to the bitter end--being discharged by a Belgian police
official who emerged from the main entrance to the Bank of England. What
should have led Percival Bland into so unsafe a neighbourhood it is
difficult to imagine, unless it was that strange fascination that seems
so frequently to lure the criminal to places associated with his crime.
But there he was within a dozen paces of the entrance when the officer
came forth, and mutual recognition was instant. Almost equally
instantaneous was the self-possessed Percival's decision to cross the
road.

It is not a nice road to cross. The old horse would condescend to shout a
warning to the indiscreet wayfarer. Not so the modern chauffeur, who
looks stonily before him and leaves you to get out of the way of
Juggernaut. He knows his "exonerating" coroner's jury. At the moment,
however, the procession of Juggernauts was at rest; but Percival had seen
the presiding policeman turn to move away and he darted across the fronts
of the vehicles even as they started. The foreign officer followed. But
in that moment the whole procession had got in motion. A motor omnibus
thundered past in front of him; another was bearing down on him
relentlessly. He hesitated, and sprang back; and then a taxi-cab, darting
out from behind, butted him heavily, sending him sprawling in the road,
whence he scrambled as best he could back on to the pavement.

Percival, meanwhile, had swung himself lightly on to the footboard of the
first omnibus just as it was gathering speed. A few seconds saw him
safely across at the Mansion House, and in a few more, he was whirling
down Queen Victoria Street. The danger was practically over, though he
took the precaution to alight at St. Paul's, and, crossing to Newgate
Street, board another west-bound omnibus.

That night he sat in his lodgings turning over his late experience. It
had been a narrow shave. That sort of thing mustn't happen again. In
fact, seeing that the law was undoubtedly about to be set in motion, it
was high time that certain little plans of his should be set in motion,
too. Only, there was a difficulty; a serious difficulty. And as Percival
thought round and round that difficulty his brows wrinkled and he hummed
a soft refrain.

"Then is the time for disappearing,

Take a header--down you go--"

A tap at the door cut his song short. It was his landlady, Mrs. Brattle;
a civil woman, and particularly civil just now. For she had a little
request to make.

"It was about Christmas Night, Mr. Bland," said Mrs. Brattle. "My husband
and me thought of spending the evening with his brother at Hornsey, and
we were going to let the maid go home to her mother's for the night, if
it wouldn't put you out."

"Wouldn't put me out in the least, Mrs. Brattle," said Percival.

"You needn't sit up for us, you see," pursued Mrs. Brattle, "if you just
leave the side door unbolted. We shan't be home before two or three; but
we'll come in quiet not to disturb you."

"You won't disturb me," Percival replied with a genial laugh. "I'm a
sober man in general but 'Christmas comes but once a year'. When once I'm
tucked up in bed, I shall take a bit of waking on Christmas Night."

Mrs. Brattle smiled indulgently. "And you won't feel lonely, all alone in
the house?"

"Lonely!" exclaimed Percival. "Lonely! With a roaring fire, a jolly book,
a box of good cigars and a bottle of sound port--ah, and a second bottle
if need be. Not I."

Mrs. Brattle shook her head. "Ah," said she, "you bachelors! Well, well.
It's a good thing to be independent," and with this profound reflection
she smiled herself out of the room and descended the stairs.

As her footsteps died away Percival sprang from his chair and began
excitedly to pace the room. His eyes sparkled and his face was wreathed
with smiles. Presently he halted before the fireplace and, gazing into
the embers, laughed aloud.

"Damn funny!" said he. "Deuced rich! Neat! Very neat! Ha! Ha!" And here
he resumed his interrupted song: "When the sky above is clearing, When
the sky above is clearing, Bob up serenely, bob up serenely, Bob up
serenely from below!"

Which may be regarded as closing the first scene, of the second act.

During the few days that intervened before Christmas Percival went abroad
but little; and yet be was a busy man. He did a little surreptitious
shopping, venturing out as far as Charing Cross Road; and his purchases
were decidedly miscellaneous. A porridge saucepan, a second-hand copy of
"Gray's Anatomy," a rabbit skin, a large supply of glue and upwards of
ten pounds of shin of beef seems a rather odd assortment; and it was a
mercy that the weather was frosty, for otherwise Percival's bedroom, in
which these delicacies were deposited under lock and key, would have
yielded odorous traces of its wealth.

But it was in the long evenings that his industry was most conspicuous;
and then it was that the big cupboard with the excellent lever lock,
which he himself had fixed on, began to fill up with the fruits of his
labours. In those evenings the porridge saucepan would simmer on the hob
with a rich lading of good Scotch glue, the black box of the deceased
practitioner would be hauled forth from its hiding-place, and the
well-thumbed "Gray" laid open on the table.

It was an arduous business though; a stiffer task than he had bargained
for. The right and left bones were so confoundedly alike, and the bones
that joined were so difficult to fit together. However, the plates in
"Gray" were large and very clear, so it was only a question of taking
enough trouble.

His method of work was simple and practical. Having fished a bone out of
the box, he would compare it with the illustrations in the book until he
had identified it beyond all doubt, when he would tie on it a paper label
with its name and side--right or left. Then he would search for the
adjoining bone, and, having fitted the two together, would secure them
with a good daub of glue and lay them in the fender to dry. It was a
crude and horrible method of articulation that would have made a museum
curator shudder. But it seemed to answer Percival's purpose--whatever
that may have been--for gradually the loose "items" came together into
recognisable members such as arms and legs, the vertebra--which were,
fortunately, strung in their order on a thick cord--were joined up into
a solid backbone, and even the ribs, which were the toughest job of all,
fixed on in some semblance of a thorax. It was a wretched performance.
The bones were plastered with gouts of glue and yet would have broken
apart at a touch. But, as we have said, Percival seemed satisfied, and as
he was the only person concerned, there was no more to be said.

In due course, Christmas Day arrived. Percival dined with the Brattles at
two, dozed after dinner, woke up for tea, and then, as Mrs. Brattle, in
purple and fine raiment, came in to remove the tea-tray, he spread out on
the table the materials for the night's carouse. A quarter of an hour
later, the side slammed, and, peering out of the window, he saw the
shopkeeper and his wife hurrying away up the gas-lit street towards the
nearest omnibus route.

Then Mr. Percival Bland began his evening's entertainment; and a most
remark entertainment it was, even for a solitary bachelor, left alone in
a house on Christmas Night. First, he took off his clothing and dressed
himself in a fresh suit. Then, from the cupboard he brought forth the
reconstituted "set of osteology" and, laying the various members on the
table, returned to the bedroom, whence he presently reappeared with a
large, savoury parcel which he had disinterred from a trunk. The parcel
being opened revealed his accumulated purchases in the matter of shin of
beef.

With a large knife, providently sharpened before hand, he cut the beef
into large, thin slices which he proceed to wrap around the various bones
that formed the "complete set"; whereby their nakedness was certainly
mitigated though their attractiveness was by no means increased. Having
thus "clothed the dry bones," he gathered up the scraps of offal that
were left, to be placed presently inside the trunk. It was an
extraordinary proceeding, but the next was more extraordinary still.

Taking up the newly clothed members one by one, he began very carefully
to insinuate them into the garments that he had recently shed. It was a
ticklish business, for the glued joints were as brittle as glass. Very
cautiously the legs were separately inducted, first into underclothing
and then into trousers, the skeleton feet were fitted with the cast-off
socks and delicately persuaded into the boots. The arms, in like manner,
were gingerly pressed into their various sleeves and through the
arm-holes of the waistcoat; and then came the most difficult task of all
--to fit the garments on the trunk. For the skull and ribs, secured to
the back-bone with mere spots of glue, were ready to drop off at a shake;
and yet the garments had to be drawn over them with the arms enclosed in
the sleeves. But Percival managed it at last by resting his "restoration"
in the big, padded arm-chair and easing the garments on inch by inch.

It now remained only to give the finishing touch; which was done by
cutting the rabbit-skin to the requisite shape and affixing it to the
skull with a thin coat of stiff glue; and when the skull had thus been
finished with a sort of crude, makeshift wig, its appearance was so
appalling as even to disturb the nerves of the matter-of-fact Percival.
However, this was no occasion for cherishing sentiment. A skull in an
extemporised wig or false scalp might be, and in fact was, a highly
unpleasant object; but so was a Belgian police officer.

Having finished the "restoration," Percival fetched the water-jug from
his bedroom, and, descending to the shop, the door of which had been left
unlocked, tried the taps of the various drums and barrels until he came
to the one which contained methylated spirit; and from this he filled his
jug and returned to the bedroom. Pouring the spirit out into the basin,
he tucked a towel round his neck and filling his sponge with spirit
proceeded very vigorously to wash his hair and eyebrows; and as, by
degrees, the spirit in the basin grew dark and turbid, so did his hair
and eyebrows grow lighter in colour until, after a final energetic rub
with a towel, they had acquired a golden or sandy hue indistinguishable
from that of the hair of his cousin Robert. Even the mole under his eye
was susceptible to the changing conditions, for when he had wetted it
thoroughly with spirit, he was able, with the blade of a penknife to peel
it off as neatly as if it had been stuck on with spirit-gum. Having done
which, he deposited it in a tiny box which he carried in his waistcoat
pocket.

The proceedings which followed were unmistakable as to their object.
First he carried the basin of spirit through into the sitting-room and
deliberately poured its contents on to the floor by the arm-chair. Then,
having returned the basin to the bedroom, he again went down to the shop,
where he selected a couple of galvanised buckets from the stock, filled
them with paraffin oil from one of the great drums and carried them
upstairs. The oil from one bucket he poured over the armchair and its
repulsive occupant; the other bucket he simply emptied on the carpet, and
then went down to the shop for a fresh supply.

When this proceeding had been repeated once or twice the entire floor and
all the furniture were saturated, and such a reek of paraffin filled the
air of the room that Percival thought it wise to turn out the gas.
Returning to the shop, be poured a bucketful of oil over the stack of
bundles of firewood, another over the counter and floor and a third over
the loose articles on the walls and hanging from the ceiling. Looking up
at the latter be now perceived a number of greasy patches where the oil
had soaked through from the floor above, and some of these were beginning
to drip on to the shop floor.

He now made his final preparations. Taking a bundle of "Wheel"
firelighters, he made a small pile against the stack of firewood. In the
midst of the firelighters he placed a ball of string saturated in
paraffin; and in the central hole of the ball he stuck a half-dozen
diminutive Christmas candles. This mine was now ready. Providing himself
with a stock of firelighters, a few balls of paraffined string and a
dozen or so of the little candles, he went upstairs to the sitting-room,
which was immediately above the shop. Here, by the glow of the fire, he
built up one or two piles of firelighters around and partly under the
arm-chair, placed the balls of string on the piles and stuck two or three
bundles in each ball. Everything was now ready. Stepping into the
bedroom, he took from the cupboard a spare overcoat, a new hat and a new
umbrella--for he must leave his old hats, coat and umbrella in the hall.
He put on the coat and hat, and, with the umbrella in his hand, returned
to the sitting-room.

Opposite the arm-chair he stood awhile, irresolute, and a pang of horror
shot through him. It was a terrible thing that he was going to do; a
thing the consequences of which no one could foresee. He glanced
furtively at the awful shape that sat huddled in the chair, its horrible
head all awry and its rigid limbs sprawling in hideous grotesque
deformity. It was but a dummy, a mere scarecrow; but yet, in the dim
firelight, the grisly face under that horrid wig seemed to leer
intelligently, to watch him with secret malice out of its shadowy
eye-sockets, until he looked away with clammy skin and a shiver of
half-superstitious terror.

But this would never do. The evening had run out, consumed by these
engrossing labours; it was nearly eleven o'clock, and high time for him
to be gone. For if the Brattles should return prematurely he was lost.
Pulling himself together with an effort, he struck a match and lit the
little candles one after the other. In a quarter of an hour or so, they
would have burned down to the balls of string, and then--He walked
quickly out of the room; but, at the door, he paused for a moment to look
back at the ghastly figure, seated rigidly in the chair with the lighted
candles at its feet, like some foul fiend appeased by votive fires. The
unsteady flames threw flickering shadows on its face that made it seem to
mow and gibber and grin in mockery of all his care and caution. So he
turned and tremblingly ran down the stairs--opening the staircase window
as he went. Running into the shop, he lit the candles there and ran out
again, shutting the door after him.

Secretly and guiltily he crept down the hall, and opening the door a few
inches peered out. A blast of icy wind poured in with a light powdering
of dry snow. He opened his umbrella, flung open the door, looked up and
down the empty street, stepped out, closed the door softly and strode
away over the whitening pavement.


PART II


(Related by Christopher Jervis, M.D.)

It was one of the axioms of medico-legal practice laid down by my
colleague, John Thorndyke, that the investigator should be constantly on
his guard against the effect of suggestion. Not only must all prejudices
and preconceptions be avoided, but when information is received from
outside, the actual, undeniable facts must be carefully sifted from the
inferences which usually accompany them. Of the necessity for this
precaution our insurance practice furnished an excellent instance in the
case of the fire at Mr. Brattle's oil-shop.

The case was brought to our notice by Mr. Stalker of the "Griffin" Fire
and Life Insurance Society a few days after Christmas. He dropped in,
ostensibly to wish us a Happy New Year, but a discreet pause in the
conversation on Thorndyke's part elicited a further purpose.

"Did you see the account of that fire in Bloomsbury?" Mr. Stalker asked.

"The oil-shop? Yes. But I didn't note any details, excepting that a man
was apparently burnt to death and that the affair happened on the
twenty-fifth of December."

"Yes, I know," said Mr. Stalker. "It seems uncharitable, but one can't
help looking a little askance at these quarter-day fires. And the date
isn't the only doubtful feature in this one; the Divisional Officer of
the Fire Brigade, who has looked over the ruins, tells me that there are
some appearances suggesting that the fire broke out in two different
places--the shop and the first-floor room over it. Mind you, he doesn't
say that it actually did. The place is so thoroughly gutted that very
little is to be learned from it; but that is his impression; and it
occurred to me that if you were to take a look at the ruins, your
radiographic eye might detect something that he had overlooked."

"It isn't very likely," said Thorndyke. "Every man to his trade. The
Divisional Officer looks at a burnt house with an expert eye, which I do
not. My evidence would not carry much weight if you were contesting the
claim."

"Perhaps not," replied Mr. Stalker, "and we are not anxious to contest
the claim unless there is manifest fraud. Arson is a serious matter."

"It is wilful murder in this case," remarked Thorndyke.

"I know," said Stalker. "And that reminds me that the man who was burnt
happens to have been insured in our office, too. So we stand a double
loss."

"How much?" asked Thorndyke.

"The dead man, Percival Bland, had insured his life for three thousand
pounds."

Thorndyke became thoughtful. The last statement had apparently made more
impression on him than the former ones.

"If you want me to look into the case for you," said he, "you had better
let me have all the papers connected with it, including the proposal
forms."

Mr. Stalker smiled. "I thought you would say that--I know you of old,
you see--so I slipped the papers in my pocket before coming here."

He laid the documents on the table and asked: "Is there anything that you
want to know about the case?"

"Yes," replied Thorndyke. "I want to know all that you can tell me."

"Which is mighty little," said Stalker; "but such as it is, you shall
have it.

"The oil-shop man's name is Brattle and the dead man, Bland, was his
lodger. Bland appears to have been a perfectly steady, sober man in
general; but it seems that he had announced his intention of spending a
jovial Christmas Night and giving himself a little extra indulgence. He
was last seen by Mrs. Brattle at about half-past six, sitting by a
blazing fire, with a couple of unopened bottles of port on the table and
a box of cigars. He had a book in his hand and two or three newspapers
lay on the floor by his chair. Shortly after this, Mr. and Mrs. Brattle
went out on a visit to Hornsey, leaving him alone in the house."

"Was there no servant?" asked Thorndyke.

"The servant had the day and night off duty to go to her mother's. That,
by the way, looks a trifle fishy. However, to return to the Brattles;
they spent the evening at Hornsey and did not get home until past three
in the morning, by which time their house was a heap of smoking ruins.
Mrs. Brattle's idea is that Bland must have drunk himself sleepy, and
dropped one of the newspapers into the fender, where a chance cinder may
have started the blaze. Which may or may not be the true explanation. Of
course, an habitually sober man can get pretty mimsey on two bottles of
port."

"What time did the fire break out?" asked Thorndyke.

"It was noticed about half-past eleven that flames were issuing from one
of the chimneys, and the alarm was given at once. The first engine
arrived ten minutes later, but, by that time, the place was roaring like
a furnace. Then the water-plugs were found to be frozen hard, which
caused some delay; in fact, before the engines were able to get to work
the roof had fallen in, and the place was a mere shell. You know what an
oil-shop is, when once it gets a fair start."

"And Mr. Bland's body was found in the ruins, I suppose?"

"Body!" exclaimed Mr. Stalker; "there wasn't much body! Just a few
charred bones, which they dug out of the ashes next day."

"And the question of identity?"

"We shall leave that to the coroner. But there really isn't any question.
To begin with, there was no one else in the house; and then the remains
were found mixed up with the springs and castors of the chair that Bland
was sitting in when he was last seen. Moreover, there were found, with
the bones, a pocket knife, a bunch of keys and a set of steel waistcoat
buttons, all identified by Mrs. Brattle as belonging to Bland. She
noticed the cut steel buttons on his waistcoat when she wished him
'good-night.'"

"By the way," said Thorndyke, "was Bland reading by the light of an oil
lamp?"

"No," replied Stalker. "There was a two-branch gasalier with a porcelain
shade to one burner, and he had that burner alight when Mrs. Brattle
left."

Thorndyke reflectively picked up the proposal form, and, having glanced
through it, remarked: "I see that Bland is described as unmarried. Do you
know why he insured his life for this large amount?"

"No; we assumed that it was probably in connection with some loan that he
had raised. I learn from the solicitor who notified us of the death, that
the whole of Bland's property is left to a cousin--a Mr. Lindsay, I
think. So the probability is that this cousin had lent him money. But it
is not the life claim that is interesting us. We must pay that in any
case. It is the fire claim that we want you to look into."

"Very well," said Thorndyke; "I will go round presently and look over the
ruins, and see if I can detect any substantial evidence of fraud."

"If you would," said Mr. Stalker, rising to take his departures "we
should be very much obliged. Not that we shall probably contest the claim
in any case."

When he had gone, my colleague and I glanced through the papers, and I
ventured to remark: "It seems to me that Stalker doesn't quite appreciate
the possibilities of this case."

"No," Thorndyke agreed. "But, of course, it is an insurance company's
business to pay, and not to boggle at anything short of glaring fraud.
And we specialists too," he added with a smile, "must beware of seeing
too much. I suppose that, to a rhinologist, there is hardly such a thing
as a healthy nose--unless it is his own--and the uric acid specialist
is very apt to find the firmament studded with dumb-bell crystals. We
mustn't forget that normal cases do exist, after all."

That is true," said I; "but, on the other hand, the rhinologist's
business is with the unhealthy nose, and our concern is with abnormal
cases."

Thorndyke laughed. "'A Daniel come to judgement,'" said he. "But my
learned friend is quite right. Our function is to pick holes. So let us
pocket the documents and wend Bloomsbury way. We can talk the case over
as we go."

We walked at an easy pace, for there was no hurry, and a little
preliminary thought was useful. After a while, as Thorndyke made no
remark, I reopened the subject.

"How does the case present itself to you?" I asked.

"Much as it does to you, I expect," he replied. "The circumstances invite
inquiry, and I do not find myself connecting them with the shopkeeper. It
is true that the fire occurred on quarter-day; but there is nothing to
show that the insurance will do more than cover the loss of stock,
chattels and the profits of trade. The other circumstances are much more
suggestive. Here is a house burned down and a man killed. That man was
insured for three thousand pounds, and, consequently, some person stands
to gain by his death to that amount. The whole set of circumstances is
highly favourable to the idea of homicide. The man was alone in the house
when he died; and the total destruction of both the body and its
surroundings seems to render investigation impossible. The cause of death
can only be inferred; it cannot be proved; and the most glaring evidence
of a crime will have vanished utterly. I think that there is a quite
strong prima facie suggestion of murder. Under the known conditions, the
perpetration of a murder would have been easy, it would have been safe
from detection, and there is an adequate motive.

"On the other hand, suicide is not impossible. The man might have set
fire to the house and then killed himself by poison or otherwise. But it
is intrinsically less probable that a man should kill him self for
another person's benefit than that he should kill another man for his own
benefit.

"Finally, there is the possibility that the fire and the man's death were
the result of accident; against which is the' official opinion that the
fire started in two places. If this opinion is correct, it establishes,
in my opinion, a strong presumption of murder against some person who may
have obtained access to the house."

This point in the discussion brought us to the ruined house, which stood
at the corner of two small streets. One of the firemen in charge admitted
us, when we had shown our credentials, through a temporary door and down
a ladder into the basement, where we found a number of men treading
gingerly, ankle deep in white ash, among a litter of charred wood-work,
fused glass, warped and broken china, and more or less recognisable metal
objects.

"The coroner and the jury," the fireman explained; "come to view the
scene of the disaster." He introduced us to the former, who bowed stiffly
and continued his investigations.

"These," said the other fireman, "are the springs of the chair that the
deceased was sitting in. We found the body--or rather the bones--lying
among them under a heap of hot ashes; and we found the buttons of his
clothes and the things from his pockets among the ashes, too. You'll see
them in the mortuary with the remains."

"It must have been a terrific blaze," one of the jurymen remarked. "Just
look at this, sir," and he handed to Thorndyke what looked like part of a
gas-fitting, of which the greater part was melted into shapeless lumps
and the remainder encrusted into fused porcelain.

"That," said the fireman, "was the gasalier of the first-floor room,
where Mr. Bland was sitting. Ah! you won't turn that tap, sir; nobody'll
ever turn that tap again."

Thorndyke held the twisted mass of brass towards me in silence, and,
glancing up the blackened walls, remarked: "I think we shall have to come
here again with the Divisional Officer, but meanwhile, we had better see
the remains of the body. It is just possible that we may learn something
from them."

He applied to the coroner for the necessary authority to make the
inspection, and, having obtained a rather ungracious and grudging
permission to examine the remains when the jury had "viewed" them, began
to ascend the ladder.

"Our friend would have liked to refuse permission," he remarked when we
had emerged into the street, "but he knew that I could and should have
insisted."

So I gathered from his manner," said I. "But what is he doing here? This
isn't his district."

"No; he is acting for Bettsford, who is laid up just now; and a very poor
substitute he is. A non-medical coroner is an absurdity in any case, and
a coroner who is hostile to the medical profession is a public scandal.
By the way, that gas-tap offers a curious problem. You noticed that it
was turned off?"

"Yes."

"And consequently that the deceased was sitting in the dark when the fire
broke out. I don't see the bearing of the fact, but it is certainly
rather odd. Here is the mortuary. We had better wait and let the jury go
in first."

We had not long to wait. In a couple of minutes or so the "twelve good
men and true" made their appearance with a small attendant crowd of
ragamuffins. We let them enter first, and then we followed. The mortuary
was a good-sized room, well lighted by a glass roof, and having at its
centre a long table on which lay the shell containing the remains. There
was also a sheet of paper on which had been laid out a set of blackened
steel waistcoat buttons, a bunch of keys, a steel-handled pocket-knife, a
steel-cased watch on a partly-fused rolled-gold chain, and a pocket
corkscrew. The coroner drew the attention of the jury to these objects,
and then took possession of them, that they might be identified by
witnesses. And meanwhile the jurymen gathered round the shell and stared
shudderingly at its gruesome contents.

"I am sorry, gentlemen," said the coroner, "to have to subject you to
this painful ordeal. But duty is duty. We must hope, as I think we may,
that this poor creature met a painless if in some respects a rather
terrible death."

At this point, Thorndyke, who had drawn near to the table, cast a long
and steady glance down into the shell; and immediately his ordinarily
rather impassive face seemed to congeal; all expression faded from it,
leaving it as immovable and uncommunicative as the granite face of an
Egyptian statue. I knew the symptom of old and began to speculate on its
present significance.

"Are you taking any medical evidence?" he asked.

"Medical evidence!" the coroner repeated, scornfully. "Certainly not,
sir! I do not waste the public money by employing so-called experts to
tell the jury what each of them can see quite plainly for himself. I
imagine," he added, turning to the foreman, "that you will not require a
learned doctor to explain to you how that poor fellow mortal met his
death?"

And the foreman, glancing askance at the skull, replied, with a pallid
and sickly smile, that "he thought not."

"Do you, sir," the coroner continued, with a dramatic wave of the hand
towards the plain coffin, "suppose that we shall find any difficulty in
determining how that man came by his death?"

"I imagine," replied Thorndyke, without moving a muscle, or, indeed,
appearing to have any muscles to move, "I imagine you will find no
difficulty what ever."

"So do I," said the coroner.

"Then," retorted Thorndyke, with a faint, inscrutable smile, "we are, for
once, in complete agreement."

As the coroner and jury retired, leaving my colleague and me alone in the
mortuary, Thorndyke remarked: "I suppose this kind of farce will be
repeated periodically so long as these highly technical medical inquiries
continue to be conducted by lay persons."

I made no reply, for I had taken a long look into the shell, and was lost
in astonishment.

"But my dear Thorndyke!" I exclaimed; "what on earth does it mean? Are we
to suppose that a woman can have palmed herself off as a man on the
examining medical officer of a London Life Assurance Society?"

Thorndyke shook his head. "I think not," said he. "Our friend, Mr. Bland,
may conceivably have been a woman in disguise, but he certainly was not a
negress."

"A negress!" I gasped. "By Jove! So it is! I hadn't looked at the skull.
But that only makes the mystery more mysterious. Because, you remember,
the body was certainly dressed in Bland's clothes."

"Yes, there seems to be no doubt about that. And you may have noticed, as
I did," Thorndyke continued dryly, "the remarkably fire-proof character
of the waistcoat buttons, watch-case, knife-handle, and other
identifiable objects."

"But what a horrible affair!" I exclaimed. "The brute must have gone out
and enticed some poor devil of a negress into the house, have murdered
her in cold blood and then deliberately dressed the corpse in his own
clothes! It is perfectly frightful!"

Again Thorndyke shook his head. "It wasn't as bad as that, Jervis," said
he, "though I must confess that I feel strongly tempted to let your
hypothesis stand. It would be quite amusing to put Mr. Bland on trial for
the murder of an unknown negress, and let him explain the facts himself.
But our reputation is at stake. Look at the bones again and a little more
critically. You very probably looked for the sex first; then you looked
for racial characters. Now carry your investigations a step farther."

"There is the stature," said I. "But that is of no importance, as these
are not Bland's bones. The only other point that I notice is that the
fire seems to have acted very unequally on the different parts of the
body."

"Yes," agreed Thorndyke, "and that is the point. Some parts are more
burnt than others; and the parts which are burnt most are the wrong
parts. Look at the back-bone, for instance. The vertebrae are as white as
chalk. They are mere masses of bone ash. But, of all parts of the
skeleton, there is none so completely protected from fire as the
back-bone, with the great dorsal muscles behind, and the whole mass of
the viscera in front. Then look at the skull. Its appearance is quite
inconsistent with the suggested facts. The bones of the face are bare and
calcined and the orbits contain not a trace of the eyes or other
structures; and yet there is a charred mass of what may or may not be
scalp adhering to the crown. But the scalp, as the most exposed and the
thinnest covering, would be the first to be destroyed, while the last to
be consumed would be the structures about the jaws and the base, of
which, you see, not a vestige is left."

Here he lifted the skull carefully from the shell, and, peering in
through the great foramen at the base, handed it to me.

"Look in," he said, "through the Foramen Magnum--you will see better if
you hold the orbits towards the skylight--and notice an even more
extreme inconsistency with the supposed conditions. The brain and
membranes have vanished without leaving a trace. The inside of the skull
is as clean as if it had been macerated. But this is impossible. The
brain is not only protected from the fire; it is also protected from
contact with the air. But without access of oxygen, although it might
become carbonised, it could not be consumed. No, Jervis; it won't do."

I replaced the skull in the coffin and looked at him in surprise. "What
is it that you are suggesting?" I asked.

"I suggest that this was not a body at all, but merely a dry skeleton."

"But," I objected, "what about those masses of what looks like charred
muscle adhering to the bones?"

"Yes," he replied, "I have been noticing them. They do, as you say, look
like masses of charred muscle. But they are quite shapeless and
structureless; I cannot identify a single muscle or muscular group; and
there is not a vestige of any of the tendons. Moreover, the distribution
is false. For instance, will you tell me what muscle you think that is?"

He pointed to a thick, charred mass on the inner surface of the left
tibia or shin-bone. "Now this portion of the bone--as many a
hockey-player has had reason to realise--has no muscular covering at
all. It lies immediately under the skin."

"I think you are right, Thorndyke," said I. "That lump of muscle in the
wrong place gives the whole fraud away. But it was really a rather smart
dodge. This fellow Bland must be an ingenious rascal."

"Yes," agreed Thorndyke; "but an unscrupulous villain too. He might have
burned down half the street and killed a score of people. He'll have to
pay the piper for this little frolic."

"What shall you do now? Are you going to notify the coroner?"

"No; that is not my business. I think we will verify our conclusions and
then inform our clients and the police. We must measure the skull as well
as we can without callipers, but it is, fortunately, quite typical. The
short, broad, flat nasal bones, with the 'Simian groove,' and those
large, strong teeth, worn flat by hard and gritty food, are highly
characteristic." He once more lifted out the skull, and, with a spring
tape, made a few measurements, while I noted the lengths of the principal
long bones and the width across the hips.

"I make the cranial-nasal index 55 said he, as he replaced the skull,
"and the cranial index about 72, which are quite representative numbers;
and, as I see that your notes show the usual disproportionate length of
arm and the characteristic curve of the tibia, we may be satisfied. But
it is fortunate that the specimen is so typical. To the experienced eye,
racial types have a physiognomy which is unmistakable on mere inspection.
But you cannot transfer the experienced eye. You can only express
personal conviction and back it up with measurements.

"And now we will go and look in on Stalker, and inform him that his
office has saved three thousand pounds by employing us. After which it
will be West ward Ho! for Scotland Yard, to prepare an unpleasant little
surprise for Mr. Percival Bland."

There was joy among the journalists on the following day. Each of the
morning papers devoted an entire column to an unusually detailed account
of the inquest on the late Percival Bland--who, it appeared, met his
death by misadventure--and a verbatim report of the coroner's eloquent
remarks on the danger of solitary, fireside tippling, and the stupefying
effects of port wine. An adjacent column contained an equally detailed
account of the appearance of the deceased at Bow Street Police Court to
answer complicated charges of arson, fraud and forgery; while a third
collated the two accounts with gleeful commentaries.

Mr. Percival Bland, alias Robert Lindsay, now resides on the breezy
uplands of Dartmoor, where, in his abundant leisure, he, no doubt,
regrets his misdirected ingenuity. But he has not laboured in vain. To
the Lord Chancellor he has furnished an admirable illustration of the
danger of appointing lay coroners; and to me an unforgettable warning
against the effects of suggestion.



ORIGINAL PREFACE TO 'JOHN THORNDYKE'S CASES'


The stories in this collection, inasmuch as they constitute a somewhat
new departure in this class of literature, require a few words of
introduction. The primary function of all fiction is to furnish
entertainment to the reader, and this fact has not been lost sight of.
But the interest of so-called 'detective' fiction is, I believe, greatly
enhanced by a careful adherence to the probable, and a strict avoidance
of physical impossibilities; and, in accordance with this belief, I have
been scrupulous in confining myself to authentic facts and practicable
methods. The stories have, for the most part, a medico-legal motive, and
the methods of solution described in them are similar to those employed
in actual practice by medical jurists. The stories illustrate, in fact,
the application to the detection of crime of the ordinary methods of
scientific research. I may add that the experiments described have in all
cases been performed by me, and that the micro-photographs are, of
course, from the actual specimens.

I take this opportunity of thanking those of my friends who have in
various ways assisted me, and especially the friend to whom I have
dedicated this book; by whom I have been relieved of the very
considerable labour of making the micro-photographs, and greatly assisted
in procuring and preparing specimens. I must also thank Messrs. Pearson
for kindly allowing me the use of Mr. H. M. Brock's admirable and
sympathetic drawings, and the artist himself for the care with which he
has maintained strict fidelity to the text.

R. A. F.

Gravesend, September 21, 1909.



THE MAN WITH THE NAILED SHOES


There are, I suppose, few places even on the East Coast of England more
lonely and remote than the village of Little Sundersley and the country
that surrounds it. Far from any railway, and some miles distant from any
considerable town, it remains an outpost of civilization, in which
primitive manners and customs and old-world tradition linger on into an
age that has elsewhere forgotten them. In the summer, it is true, a small
contingent of visitors, adventurous in spirit, though mostly of sedate
and solitary habits, make their appearance to swell its meagre
population, and impart to the wide stretches of smooth sand that fringe
its shores a fleeting air of life and sober gaiety; but in late September
--the season of the year in which I made its acquaintance--its
pasture-lands lie desolate, the rugged paths along the cliffs are seldom
trodden by human foot, and the sands are a desert waste on which, for
days together, no footprint appears save that left by some passing
sea-bird.

I had been assured by my medical agent, Mr. Turcival, that I should find
the practice of which I was now taking charge 'an exceedingly soft
billet, and suitable for a studious man;' and certainly he had not misled
me, for the patients were, in fact, so few that I was quite concerned for
my principal, and rather dull for want of work. Hence, when my friend
John Thorndyke, the well-known medico-legal expert, proposed to come down
and stay with me for a weekend and perhaps a few days beyond, I hailed
the proposal with delight, and welcomed him with open arms.

"You certainly don't seem to be overworked, Jervis," he remarked, as we
turned out of the gate after tea, on the day of his arrival, for a stroll
on the shore. "Is this a new practice, or an old one in a state of senile
decay?"

"Why, the fact is," I answered, "there is virtually no practice. Cooper--
my principal--has been here about six years, and as he has private means
he has never made any serious effort to build one up; and the other man,
Dr. Burrows, being uncommonly keen, and the people very conservative,
Cooper has never really got his foot in. However, it doesn't seem to
trouble him."

"Well, if he is satisfied, I suppose you are," said Thorndyke, with a
smile. "You are getting a seaside holiday, and being paid for it. But I
didn't know you were as near to the sea as this."

We were entering, as he spoke, an artificial gap-way cut through the low
cliff, forming a steep cart-track down to the shore. It was locally known
as Sundersley Gap, and was used principally, when used at all, by the
farmers' carts which came down to gather seaweed after a gale.

"What a magnificent stretch of sand!" continued Thorndyke, as we reached
the bottom, and stood looking out seaward across the deserted beach.
"There is something very majestic and solemn in a great expanse of sandy
shore when the tide is out, and I know of nothing which is capable of
conveying the impression of solitude so completely. The smooth, unbroken
surface not only displays itself untenanted for the moment, but it offers
convincing testimony that it has lain thus undisturbed through a
considerable lapse of time. Here, for instance, we have clear evidence
that for several days only two pairs of feet besides our own have trodden
this gap."

"How do you arrive at the 'several days'?" I asked.

"In the simplest manner possible," he replied. "The moon is now in the
third quarter, and the tides are consequently neap-tides. You can see
quite plainly the two lines of seaweed and jetsam which indicate the
high-water marks of the spring-tides and the neap-tides respectively. The
strip of comparatively dry sand between them, over which the water has
not risen for several days, is, as you see, marked by only two sets of
footprints, and those footprints will not be completely obliterated by
the sea until the next spring-tide--nearly a week from to-day."

"Yes, I see now, and the thing appears obvious enough when one has heard
the explanation. But it is really rather odd that no one should have
passed through this gap for days, and then that four persons should have
come here within quite a short interval of one another."

"What makes you think they have done so?" Thorndyke asked.

"Well," I replied, "both of these sets of footprints appear to be quite
fresh, and to have been made about the same time."

"Not at the same time, Jervis," rejoined Thorndyke. "There is certainly
an interval of several hours between them, though precisely how many
hours we cannot judge, since there has been so little wind lately to
disturb them; but the fisherman unquestionably passed here not more than
three hours ago, and I should say probably within an hour; whereas the
other man--who seems to have come up from a boat to fetch something of
considerable weight--returned through the gap certainly not less, and
probably more, than four hours ago."

I gazed at my friend in blank astonishment, for these events befell in
the days before I had joined him as his assistant, and his special
knowledge and powers of inference were not then fully appreciated by me.

"It is clear, Thorndyke," I said, "that footprints have a very different
meaning to you from what they have for me. I don't see in the least how
you have reached any of these conclusions."

"I suppose not," was the reply; "but, you see, special knowledge of this
kind is the stock-in-trade of the medical jurist, and has to be acquired
by special study, though the present example is one of the greatest
simplicity. But let us consider it point by point; and first we will take
this set of footprints which I have inferred to be a fisherman's. Note
their enormous size. They should be the footprints of a giant. But the
length of the stride shows that they were made by a rather short man.
Then observe the massiveness of the soles, and the fact that there are no
nails in them. Note also the peculiar clumsy tread--the deep toe and
heel marks, as if the walker had wooden legs, or fixed ankles and knees.
From that character we can safely infer high boots of thick, rigid
leather, so that we can diagnose high boots, massive and stiff, with
nailless soles, and many sizes too large for the wearer. But the only
boot that answers this description is the fisherman's thigh-boot--made
of enormous size to enable him to wear in the winter two or three pairs
of thick knitted stockings, one over the other. Now look at the other
footprints; there is a double track, you see, one set coming from the sea
and one going towards it. As the man (who was bow-legged and turned his
toes in) has trodden in his own footprints, it is obvious that he came
from the sea, and returned to it. But observe the difference in the two
sets of prints; the returning ones are much deeper than the others, and
the stride much shorter. Evidently he was carrying something when he
returned, and that something was very heavy. Moreover, we can see, by the
greater depth of the toe impressions, that he was stooping forward as he
walked, and so probably carried the weight on his back. Is that quite
clear?"

"Perfectly," I replied. "But how do you arrive at the interval of time
between the visits of the two men?"

"That also is quite simple. The tide is now about halfway out; it is thus
about three hours since high water. Now, the fisherman walked just about
the neap-tide, high-water mark, sometimes above it and sometimes below.
But none of his footprints have been obliterated; therefore he passed
after high water--that is, less than three hours ago; and since his
footprints are all equally distinct, he could not have passed when the
sand was very wet. Therefore he probably passed less than an hour ago.
The other man's footprints, on the other hand, reach only to the
neap-tide, high-water mark, where they end abruptly. The sea has washed
over the remainder of the tracks and obliterated them. Therefore he
passed not less than three hours and not more than four days ago--
probably within twenty-four hours."

As Thorndyke concluded his demonstration the sound of voices was borne to
us from above, mingled with the tramping of feet, and immediately
afterwards a very singular party appeared at the head of the gap
descending towards the shore. First came a short burly fisherman clad in
oilskins and sou'-wester, clumping along awkwardly in his great
sea-boots, then the local police-sergeant in company with my professional
rival Dr. Burrows, while the rear of the procession was brought up by two
constables carrying a stretcher. As he reached the bottom of the gap the
fisherman, who was evidently acting as guide, turned along the shore,
retracing his own tracks, and the procession followed in his wake.

"A surgeon, a stretcher, two constables, and a police-sergeant," observed
Thorndyke. "What does that suggest to your mind, Jervis?"

"A fall from the cliff," I replied, "or a body washed up on the shore."

"Probably," he rejoined; "but we may as well walk in that direction."

We turned to follow the retreating procession, and as we strode along the
smooth surface left by the retiring tide Thorndyke resumed: "The subject
of footprints has always interested me deeply for two reasons. First, the
evidence furnished by footprints is constantly being brought forward, and
is often of cardinal importance; and, secondly, the whole subject is
capable of really systematic and scientific treatment. In the main the
data are anatomical, but age, sex, occupation, health, and disease all
give their various indications. Clearly, for instance, the footprints of
an old man will differ from those of a young man of the same height, and
I need not point out to you that those of a person suffering from
locomotor ataxia or paralysis agitans would be quite unmistakable."

"Yes, I see that plainly enough," I said.

"Here, now," he continued, "is a case in point." He halted to point with
his stick at a row of footprints that appeared suddenly above high-water
mark, and having proceeded a short distance, crossed the line again, and
vanished where the waves had washed over them. They were easily
distinguished from any of the others by the clear impressions of circular
rubber heels.

"Do you see anything remarkable about them?" he asked.

"I notice that they are considerably deeper than our own," I answered.

"Yes, and the boots are about the same size as ours, whereas the stride
is considerably shorter--quite a short stride, in fact. Now there is a
pretty constant ratio between the length of the foot and the length of
the leg, between the length of leg and the height of the person, and
between the stature and the length of stride. A long foot means a long
leg, a tall man, and a long stride. But here we have a long foot and a
short stride. What do you make of that?" He laid down his stick--a
smooth partridge cane, one side of which was marked by small lines into
inches and feet--beside the footprints to demonstrate the discrepancy.

"The depth of the footprints shows that he was a much heavier man than
either of us," I suggested; "perhaps he was unusually fat."

"Yes," said Thorndyke, "that seems to be the explanation. The carrying of
a dead weight shortens the stride, and fat is practically a dead weight.
The conclusion is that he was about five feet ten inches high, and
excessively fat." He picked up his cane, and we resumed our walk, keeping
an eye on the procession ahead until it had disappeared round a curve in
the coast-line, when we mended our pace somewhat. Presently we reached a
small headland, and, turning the shoulder of cliff, came full upon the
party which had preceded us. The men had halted in a narrow bay, and now
stood looking down at a prostrate figure beside which the surgeon was
kneeling.

"We were wrong, you see," observed Thorndyke. "He has not fallen over the
cliff, nor has he been washed up by the sea. He is lying above high-water
mark, and those footprints that we have been examining appear to be his."

As we approached, the sergeant turned and held up his hand.

"I'll ask you not to walk round the body just now, gentlemen," he said.
"There seems to have been foul play here, and I want to be clear about
the tracks before anyone crosses them."

Acknowledging this caution, we advanced to where the constables were
standing, and looked down with some curiosity at the dead man. He was a
tall, frail-looking man, thin to the point of emaciation, and appeared to
be about thirty-five years of age. He lay in an easy posture, with
half-closed eyes and a placid expression that contrasted strangely enough
with the tragic circumstances of his death.

"It is a clear case of murder," said Dr. Burrows, dusting the sand from
his knees as he stood up. "There is a deep knife-wound above the heart,
which must have caused death almost instantaneously."

"How long should you say he has been dead, Doctor?" asked the sergeant.

"Twelve hours at least," was the reply. "He is quite cold and stiff."

[Illustration: PLAN OF ST. BRIDGET'S BAY. + Position of body. D D D,
Tracks of Hearn's shoes. A, Top of Shepherd's Path. E, Tracks of the
nailed shoes. B, Overhanging cliff. F, Shepherd's Path ascending shelving
cliff. C, Footpath along edge of cliff.]

"Twelve hours, eh?" repeated the officer. "That would bring it to about
six o'clock this morning."

"I won't commit myself to a definite time," said Dr. Burrows hastily. "I
only say not less than twelve hours. It might have been considerably
more."

"Ah!" said the sergeant. "Well, he made a pretty good fight for his life,
to all appearances." He nodded at the sand, which for some feet around
the body bore the deeply indented marks of feet, as though a furious
struggle had taken place. "It's a mighty queer affair," pursued the
sergeant, addressing Dr. Burrows. "There seems to have been only one man
in it--there is only one set of footprints besides those of the deceased
--and we've got to find out who he is; and I reckon there won't be much
trouble about that, seeing the kind of trade-marks he has left behind
him."

"No," agreed the surgeon; "there ought not to be much trouble in
identifying those boots. He would seem to be a labourer, judging by the
hob-nails."

"No, sir; not a labourer," dissented the sergeant. "The foot is too
small, for one thing; and then the nails are not regular hob-nails.
They're a good deal smaller; and a labourer's boots would have the nails
all round the edges, and there would be iron tips on the heels, and
probably on the toes too. Now these have got no tips, and the nails are
arranged in a pattern on the soles and heels. They are probably
shooting-boots or sporting shoes of some kind." He strode to and fro with
his notebook in his hand, writing down hasty memoranda, and stooping to
scrutinize the impressions in the sand. The surgeon also busied himself
in noting down the facts concerning which he would have to give evidence,
while Thorndyke regarded in silence and with an air of intense
preoccupation the footprints around the body which remained to testify to
the circumstances of the crime.

"It is pretty clear, up to a certain point," the sergeant observed, as he
concluded his investigations, "how the affair happened, and it is pretty
clear, too, that the murder was premeditated. You see, Doctor, the
deceased gentleman, Mr. Hearn, was apparently walking home from Port
Marston; we saw his footprints along the shore--those rubber heels make
them easy to identify--and he didn't go down Sundersley Gap. He probably
meant to climb up the cliff by that little track that you see there,
which the people about here call the Shepherd's Path. Now the murderer
must have known that he was coming, and waited upon the cliff to keep a
lookout. When he saw Mr. Hearn enter the bay, he came down the path and
attacked him, and, after a tough struggle, succeeded in stabbing him.
Then he turned and went back up the path. You can see the double track
between the path and the place where the struggle took place, and the
footprints going to the path are on top of those coming from it."

"If you follow the tracks," said Dr. Burrows, "you ought to be able to
see where the murderer went to."

"I'm afraid not," replied the sergeant. "There are no marks on the path
itself--the rock is too hard, and so is the ground above, I fear. But
I'll go over it carefully all the same."

The investigations being so far concluded, the body was lifted on to the
stretcher, and the cortege, consisting of the bearers, the Doctor, and
the fisherman, moved off towards the Gap, while the sergeant, having
civilly wished us "Good-evening," scrambled up the Shepherd's Path, and
vanished above.

"A very smart officer that," said Thorndyke. "I should like to know what
he wrote in his notebook."

"His account of the circumstances of the murder seemed a very reasonable
one," I said.

"Very. He noted the plain and essential facts, and drew the natural
conclusions from them. But there are some very singular features in this
case; so singular that I am disposed to make