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Title:      Round the Fire Stories
Author:     Arthur Conan Doyle
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Title:      Round the Fire Stories
Author:     Arthur Conan Doyle





THE MAN WITH THE WATCHES
THE BLACK DOCTOR
THE JEW'S BREASTPLATE
THE LOST SPECIAL
THE CLUB-FOOTED GROCER
THE SEALED ROOM
THE BRAZILIAN CAT




THE MAN WITH THE WATCHES



THERE are many who will still bear in mind the singular circumstances
which, under the heading of the Rugby Mystery, filled many columns of the
daily Press in the spring of the year 1892. Coming as it did at a period
of exceptional dulness, it attracted perhaps rather more attention than
it deserved, but it offered to the public that mixture of the whimsical
and the tragic which is most stimulating to the popular imagination.
Interest drooped, however, when, after weeks of fruitless investigation,
it was found that no final explanation of the facts was forthcoming, and
the tragedy seemed from that time to the present to have finally taken
its place in the dark catalogue of inexplicable and unexplained crimes. A
recent communication (the authenticity of which appears to be above
question) has, however, thrown some new and clear light upon the matter.
Before laying it before the public it would be as well, perhaps, that I
should refresh their memories as to the singular facts upon which this
commentary is founded. These facts were briefly as follows:--

At five o'clock on the evening of the 18th of March in the year already
mentioned a train left Euston Station for Manchester. It was a rainy,
squally day, which grew wilder as it progressed, so it was by no means
the weather in which any one would travel who was not driven to do so by
necessity. The train, however, is a favourite one among Manchester
business men who are returning from town, for it does the journey in four
hours and twenty minutes, with only three stoppages upon the way. In
spite of the inclement evening it was, therefore, fairly well filled upon
the occasion of which I speak. The guard of the train was a tried servant
of the company--a man who had worked for twenty-two years without blemish
or complaint. His name was John Palmer.

The station clock was upon the stroke of five, and the guard was about to
give the customary signal to the engine-driver when he observed two
belated passengers hurrying down the platform. The one was an
exceptionally tall man, dressed in a long black overcoat with Astrakhan
collar and cuffs. I have already said that the evening was an inclement
one, and the tall traveller had the high, warm collar turned up to
protect his throat against the bitter March wind. He appeared, as far as
the guard could judge by so hurried an inspection, to be a man between
fifty and sixty years of age, who had retained a good deal of the vigour
and activity of his youth. In one hand he carried a brown leather
Gladstone bag. His companion was a lady, tall and erect, walking with a
vigorous step which outpaced the gentleman beside her. She wore a long,
fawn-coloured dust-cloak, a black, close-fitting toque, and a dark veil
which concealed the greater part of her face. The two might very well
have passed as father and daughter. They walked swiftly down the line of
carriages, glancing in at the windows, until the guard, John Palmer,
overtook them.

"Now, then, sir, look sharp, the train is going," said he.

"First-class," the man answered.

The guard turned the handle of the nearest door. In the carriage, which
he had opened, there sat a small man with a cigar in his mouth. His
appearance seems to have impressed itself upon the guard's memory, for he
was prepared, afterwards, to describe or to identify him. He was a man of
thirty-four or thirty-five years of age, dressed in some grey material,
sharp-nosed, alert, with a ruddy, weather-beaten face, and a small,
closely cropped black beard. He glanced up as the door was opened. The
tall man paused with his foot upon the step.

"This is a smoking compartment. The lady dislikes smoke," said he,
looking round at the guard.

"All right! Here you are, sir!" said John Palmer. He slammed the door of
the smoking carriage, opened that of the next one, which was empty, and
thrust the two travellers in. At the same moment he sounded his whistle
and the wheels of the train began to move. The man with the cigar was at
the window of his carriage, and said something to the guard as he rolled
past him, but the words were lost in the bustle of the departure. Palmer
stepped into the guard's van, as it came up to him, and thought no more
of the incident.

Twelve minutes after its departure the train reached Willesden Junction,
where it stopped for a very short interval. An examination of the tickets
has made it certain that no one either joined or left it at this time,
and no passenger was seen to alight upon the platform. At 5.14 the
journey to Manchester was resumed, and Rugby was reached at 6.50, the
express being five minutes late.

At Rugby the attention of the station officials was drawn to the fact
that the door of one of the first-class carriages was open. An
examination of that compartment, and of its neighbour, disclosed a
remarkable state of affairs.

The smoking carriage in which the short, red-faced man with the black
beard had been seen was now empty. Save for a half-smoked cigar, there
was no trace whatever of its recent occupant. The door of this carriage
was fastened. In the next compartment, to which attention had been
originally drawn, there was no sign either of the gentleman with the
Astrakhan collar or of the young lady who accompanied him. All three
passengers had disappeared. On the other hand, there was found upon the
floor of this carriage--the one in which the tall traveller and the lady
had been--a young man, fashionably dressed and of elegant appearance. He
lay with his knees drawn up, and his head resting against the further
door, an elbow upon either seat. A bullet had penetrated his heart and
his death must have been instantaneous. No one had seen such a man enter
the train, and no railway ticket was found in his pocket, neither were
there any markings upon his linen, nor papers nor personal property which
might help to identify him. Who he was, whence he had come, and how he
had met his end were each as great a mystery as what had occurred to the
three people who had started an hour and a half before from Willesden in
those two compartments.

I have said that there was no personal property which might help to
identify him, but it is true that there was one peculiarity about this
unknown young man which was much commented upon at the time. In his
pockets were found no fewer than six valuable gold watches, three in the
various pockets of his waistcoat, one in his ticket-pocket, one in his
breastpocket, and one small one set in a leather strap and fastened round
his left wrist. The obvious explanation that the man was a pickpocket,
and that this was his plunder, was discounted by the fact that all six
were of American make, and of a type which is rare in England. Three of
them bore the mark of the Rochester Watchmaking Company; one was by
Mason, of Elmira; one was unmarked; and the small one, which was highly
jewelled and ornamented, was from Tiffany, of New York. The other
contents of his pocket consisted of an ivory knife with a corkscrew by
Rodgers, of Sheffield; a small circular mirror, one inch in diameter; a
re-admission slip to the Lyceum theatre; a silver box full of vesta
matches, and a brown leather cigar-case containing two cheroots--also two
pounds fourteen shillings in money. It was clear, then, that whatever
motives may have led to his death, robbery was not among them. As already
mentioned, there were no markings upon the man's linen, which appeared to
be new, and no tailor's name upon his coat. In appearance he was young,
short, smooth-cheeked, and delicately featured. One of his front teeth
was conspicuously stopped with gold.

On the discovery of the tragedy an examination was instantly made of the
tickets of all passengers, and the number of the passengers themselves
was counted. It was found that only three tickets were unaccounted for,
corresponding to the three travellers who were missing. The express was
then allowed to proceed, but a new guard was sent with it, and John
Palmer was detained as a witness at Rugby. The carriage which included
the two compartments in question was uncoupled and side-tracked. Then, on
the arrival of Inspector Vane, of Scotland Yard, and of Mr. Henderson, a
detective in the service of the railway company, an exhaustive inquiry
was made into all the circumstances.

That crime had been committed was certain. The bullet, which appeared to
have come from a small pistol or revolver, had been fired from some
little distance, as there was no scorching of the clothes. No weapon was
found in the compartment (which finally disposed of the theory of
suicide), nor was there any sign of the brown leather bag which the guard
had seen in the hand of the tall gentleman. A lady's parasol was found
upon the rack, but no other trace was to be seen of the travellers in
either of the sections. Apart from the crime, the question of how or why
three passengers (one of them a lady) could get out of the train, and one
other get in during the unbroken run between Willesden and Rugby, was one
which excited the utmost curiosity among the general public, and gave
rise to much speculation in the London Press.

John Palmer, the guard, was able at the inquest to give some evidence
which threw a little light upon the matter. There was a spot between
Tring and Cheddington, according to his statement, where, on account of
some repairs to the line, the train had for a few minutes slowed down to
a pace not exceeding eight or ten miles an hour. At that place it might
be possible for a man, or even for an exceptionally active woman, to have
left the train without serious injury. It was true that a gang of
platelayers was there, and that they had seen nothing, but it was their
custom to stand in the middle between the metals, and the open carriage
door was upon the far side, so that it was conceivable that someone might
have alighted unseen, as the darkness would by that time be drawing in. A
steep embankment would instantly screen anyone who sprang out from the
observation of the navvies.

The guard also deposed that there was a good deal of movement upon the
platform at Willesden Junction, and that though it was certain that no
one had either joined or left the train there, it was still quite
possible that some of the passengers might have changed unseen from one
compartment to another. It was by no means uncommon for a gentleman to
finish his cigar in a smoking carriage and then to change to a clearer
atmosphere. Supposing that the man with the black beard had done so at
Willesden (and the half-smoked cigar upon the floor seemed to favour the
supposition), he would naturally go into the nearest section, which would
bring him into the company of the two other actors in this drama. Thus
the first stage of the affair might be surmised without any great breach
of probability. But what the second stage had been, or how the final one
had been arrived at, neither the guard nor the experienced detective
officers could suggest.

A careful examination of the line between Willesden and Rugby resulted in
one discovery which might or might not have a bearing upon the tragedy.
Near Tring, at the very place where the train slowed down, there was
found at the bottom of the embankment a small pocket Testament, very
shabby and worn. It was printed by the Bible Society of London, and bore
an inscription: "From John to Alice. Jan. 13th, 1856," upon the fly-leaf.
Underneath was written:

"James, July 4th, 1859," and beneath that again:

"Edward. Nov. 1st, 1869," all the entries being in the same handwriting.
This was the only clue, if it could be called a clue, which the police
obtained, and the coroner's verdict of "Murder by a person or persons
unknown" was the unsatisfactory ending of a singular case. Advertisement,
rewards, and inquiries proved equally fruitless, and nothing could be
found which was solid enough to form the basis for a profitable
investigation.

It would be a mistake, however, to suppose that no theories were formed
to account for the facts. On the contrary, the Press, both in England and
in America, teemed with suggestions and suppositions, most of which were
obviously absurd. The fact that the watches were of American make, and
some peculiarities in connection with the gold stopping of his front
tooth, appeared to indicate that the deceased was a citizen of the United
States, though his linen, clothes, and boots were undoubtedly of British
manufacture. It was surmised, by some, that he was concealed under the
seat, and that, being discovered, he was for some reason, possibly
because he had overheard their guilty secrets, put to death by his
fellow-passengers. When coupled with generalities as to the ferocity and
cunning of anarchical and other secret societies, this theory sounded as
plausible as any.

The fact that he should be without a ticket would be consistent with the
idea of concealment, and it was well known that women played a prominent
part in the Nihilistic propaganda. On the other hand, it was clear, from
the guard's statement, that the man must have been hidden there before
the others arrived, and how unlikely the coincidence that conspirators
should stray exactly into the very compartment in which a spy was already
concealed! Besides, this explanation ignored the man in the smoking
carriage, and gave no reason at all for his simultaneous disappearance.
The police had little difficulty in showing that such a theory would not
cover the facts, but they were unprepared in the absence of evidence to
advance any alternative explanation.

There was a letter in the Daily Gazette, over the signature of a
well-known criminal investigator, which gave rise to considerable
discussion at the time. He had formed a hypothesis which had at least
ingenuity to recommend it, and I cannot do better than append it in his
own words.

"Whatever may be the truth," said he, "it must depend upon some bizarre
and rare combination of events, so we need have no hesitation in
postulating such events in our explanation. In the absence of data we
must abandon the analytic or scientific method of investigation, and must
approach it in the synthetic fashion. In a word, instead of taking known
events and deducing from them what has occurred, we must build up a
fanciful explanation if it will only be consistent with known events.

"We can then test this explanation by any fresh facts which may arise. If
they all fit into their places, the probability is that we are upon the
right track, and with each fresh fact this probability increases in a
geometrical progression until the evidence becomes final and convincing.

"Now, there is one most remarkable and suggestive fact which has not met
with the attention which it deserves. There is a local train running
through Harrow and King's Langley, which is timed in such a way that the
express must have overtaken it at or about the period when it eased down
its speed to eight miles an hour on account of the repairs of the line.
The two trains would at that time be travelling in the same direction at
a similar rate of speed and upon parallel lines. It is within everyone's
experience how, under such circumstances, the occupant of each carriage
can see very plainly the passengers in the other carriages opposite to
him. The lamps of the express had been lit at Willesden, so that each
compartment was brightly illuminated, and most visible to an observer
from outside.

"Now, the sequence of events as I reconstruct them would be after this
fashion. This young man with the abnormal number of watches was alone in
the carriage of the slow train. His ticket, with his papers and gloves
and other things, was, we will suppose, on the seat beside him. He was
probably an American, and also probably a man of weak intellect. The
excessive wearing of jewellery is an early symptom in some forms of
mania.

"As he sat watching the carriages of the express which were (on account
of the state of the line) going at the same pace as himself, he suddenly
saw some people in it whom he knew. We will suppose for the sake of our
theory that these people were a woman whom he loved and a man whom he
hated--and who in return hated him. The young man was excitable and
impulsive. He opened the door of his carriage, stepped from the footboard
of the local train to the footboard of the express, opened the other
door, and made his way into the presence of these two people. The feat
(on the supposition that the trains were going at the same pace) is by no
means so perilous as it might appear.

"Having now got our young man without his ticket into the carriage in
which the elder man and the young woman are travelling, it is not
difficult to imagine that a violent scene ensued. It is possible that the
pair were also Americans, which is the more probable as the man carried a
weapon--an unusual thing in England. If our supposition of incipient
mania is correct, the young man is likely to have assaulted the other. As
the upshot of the quarrel the elder man shot the intruder, and then made
his escape from the carriage, taking the young lady with him.

"We will suppose that all this happened very rapidly, and that the train
was still going at so slow a pace that it was not difficult for them to
leave it. A woman might leave a train going at eight miles an hour. As a
matter of fact, we know that this woman did do so.

"And now we have to fit in the man in the smoking carriage. Presuming
that we have, up to this point, reconstructed the tragedy correctly, we
shall find nothing in this other man to cause us to reconsider our
conclusions. According to my theory, this man saw the young fellow cross
from one train to the other, saw him open the door, heard the
pistol-shot, saw the two fugitives spring out on to the line, realized
that murder had been done, and sprang out himself in pursuit. Why he has
never been heard of since--whether he met his own death in the pursuit,
or whether, as is more likely, he was made to realize that it was not a
case for his interference--is a detail which we have at present no means
of explaining. I acknowledge that there are some difficulties in the way.
At first sight, it might seem improbable that at such a moment a murderer
would burden himself in his flight with a brown leather bag. My answer is
that he was well aware that if the bag were found his identity would be
established. It was absolutely necessary for him to take it with him. My
theory stands or falls upon one point, and I call upon the railway
company to make strict inquiry as to whether a ticket was found unclaimed
in the local train through Harrow and King's Langley upon the 18th of
March. If such a ticket were found my case is proved. If not, my theory
may still be the correct one, for it is conceivable either that he
travelled without a ticket or that his ticket was lost."

To this elaborate and plausible hypothesis the answer of the police and
of the company was, first, that no such ticket was found; secondly, that
the slow train would never run parallel to the express; and, thirdly,
that the local train had been stationary in King's Langley Station when
the express, going at fifty miles an hour, had flashed past it. So
perished the only satisfying explanation, and five years have elapsed
without supplying a new one. Now, at last, there comes a statement which
covers all the facts, and which must be regarded as authentic. It took
the shape of a letter dated from New York, and addressed to the same
criminal investigator whose theory I have quoted. It is given here in
extenso, with the exception of the two opening paragraphs, which are
personal in their nature:--

"You'll excuse me if I'm not very free with names. There's less reason
now than there was five years ago when mother was still living. But for
all that, I had rather cover up our tracks all I can. But I owe you an
explanation, for if your idea of it was wrong, it was a mighty ingenious
one all the same. I'll have to go back a little so as you may understand
all about it.

"My people came from Bucks, England, and emigrated to the States in the
early fifties. They settled in Rochester, in the State of New York, where
my father ran a large dry goods store. There were only two sons: myself,
James, and my brother, Edward. I was ten years older than my brother, and
after my father died I sort of took the place of a father to him, as an
elder brother would. He was a bright, spirited boy, and just one of the
most beautiful creatures that ever lived. But there was always a soft
spot in him, and it was like mould in cheese, for it spread and spread,
and nothing that you could do would stop it. Mother saw it just as
clearly as I did, but she went on spoiling him all the same, for he had
such a way with him that you could refuse him nothing. I did all I could
to hold him in, and he hated me for my pains.

"At last he fairly got his head, and nothing that we could do would stop
him. He got off into New York, and went rapidly from bad to worse. At
first he was only fast, and then he was criminal; and then, at the end of
a year or two, he was one of the most notorious young crooks in the city.
He had formed a friendship with Sparrow MacCoy, who was at the head of
his profession as a bunco-steerer, green goodsman, and general rascal.
They took to card-sharping, and frequented some of the best hotels in New
York. My brother was an excellent actor (he might have made an honest
name for himself if he had chosen), and he would take the parts of a
young Englishman of title, of a simple lad from the West, or of a college
undergraduate, whichever suited Sparrow MacCoy's purpose. And then one
day he dressed himself as a girl, and he carried it off so well, and made
himself such a valuable decoy, that it was their favourite game
afterwards. They had made it right with Tammany and with the police, so
it seemed as if nothing could ever stop them, for those were in the days
before the Lexow Commission, and if you only had a pull, you could do
pretty nearly everything you wanted.

"And nothing would have stopped them if they had only stuck to cards and
New York, but they must needs come up Rochester way, and forge a name
upon a check. It was my brother that did it, though everyone knew that it
was under the influence of Sparrow MacCoy. I bought up that check, and a
pretty sum it cost me. Then I went to my brother, laid it before him on
the table, and swore to him that I would prosecute if he did not clear
out of the country. At first he simply laughed. I could not prosecute, he
said, without breaking our mother's heart, and he knew that I would not
do that. I made him understand, however, that our mother's heart was
being broken in any case, and that I had set firm on the point that I
would rather see him in a Rochester gaol than in a New York hotel. So at
last he gave in, and he made me a solemn promise that he would see
Sparrow MacCoy no more, that he would go to Europe, and that he would
turn his hand to any honest trade that I helped him to get. I took him
down right away to an old family friend, Joe Willson, who is an exporter
of American watches and clocks, and I got him to give Edward an agency in
London, with a small salary and a 15 per cent commission on all business.
His manner and appearance were so good that he won the old man over at
once, and within a week he was sent off to London with a case full of
samples.

"It seemed to me that this business of the check had really given my
brother a fright, and that there was some chance of his settling down
into an honest line of life. My mother had spoken with him, and what she
said had touched him, for she had always been the best of mothers to him,
and he had been the great sorrow of her life. But I knew that this man
Sparrow MacCoy had a great influence over Edward, and my chance of
keeping the lad straight lay in breaking the connection between them. I
had a friend in the New York detective force, and through him I kept a
watch upon MacCoy. When within a fortnight of my brother's sailing I
heard that MacCoy had taken a berth in the Etruria, I was as certain as
if he had told me that he was going over to England for the purpose of
coaxing Edward back again into the ways that he had left. In an instant I
had resolved to go also, and to put my influence against MacCoy's. I knew
it was a losing fight, but I thought, and my mother thought, that it was
my duty. We passed the last night together in prayer for my success, and
she gave me her own Testament that my father had given her on the day of
their marriage in the Old Country, so that I might always wear it next my
heart.

"I was a fellow-traveller, on the steamship, with Sparrow MacCoy, and at
least I had the satisfaction of spoiling his little game for the voyage.
The very first night I went into the smoking-room, and found him at the
head of a card table, with half-a-dozen young fellows who were carrying
their full purses and their empty skulls over to Europe. He was settling
down for his harvest, and a rich one it would have been, But I soon
changed all that.

"'Gentlemen, said I, 'are you aware whom you are playing with?'

"'What's that to you? You mind your own business!' said he, with an oath.

"' Who is it, anyway?' asked one of the dudes.

"'He's Sparrow MacCoy, the most notorious card-sharper in the States.'

"Up he jumped with a bottle in his hand, but he remembered that he was
under the flag of the effete Old Country, where law and order run, and
Tammany has no pull. Gaol and the gallows wait for violence and murder,
and there's no slipping out by the back door on board an ocean liner.

"'Prove your words, you--!' said he.

"'I will!' said I. 'If you will turn up your right shirt-sleeve to the
shoulder, I will either prove my words or I will eat them.'

"He turned white and said not a word. You see, I knew something of his
ways, and I was aware that part of the mechanism which he and all such
sharpers use consists of an elastic down the arm with a clip just above
the wrist. It is by means of this clip that they withdraw from their
hands the cards which they do not want, while they substitute other cards
from another hiding-place. I reckoned on it being there, and it was. He
cursed me, slunk out of the saloon, and was hardly seen again during the
voyage. For once, at any rate, I got level with Mister Sparrow MacCoy.

"But he soon had his revenge upon me, for when it came to influencing my
brother he outweighed me every time. Edward had kept himself straight in
London for the first few weeks, and had done some business with his
American watches, until this villain came across his path once more. I
did my best, but the best was little enough. The next thing I heard there
had been a scandal at one of the Northumberland Avenue hotels: a
traveller had been fleeced of a large sum by two confederate
card-sharpers, and the matter was in the hands of Scotland Yard. The
first I learned of it was in the evening paper, and I was at once certain
that my brother and MacCoy were back at their old games. I hurried at
once to Edward's lodgings. They told me that he and a tall gentleman
(whom I recognized as MacCoy) had gone off together, and that he had left
the lodgings and taken his things with him. The landlady had heard them
give several directions to the cabman, ending with Euston Station, and
she had accidentally overheard the tall gentleman saying something about
Manchester. She believed that that was their destination.

"A glance at the time-table showed me that the most likely train was at
five, though there was another at 4.35 which they might have caught, I
had only time to get the later one, but found no sign of them either at
the depot or in the train. They must have gone on by the earlier one, so
I determined to follow them to Manchester and search for them in the
hotels there. One last appeal to my brother by all that he owed to my
mother might even now be the salvation of him. My nerves were overstrung,
and I lit a cigar to steady them. At that moment, just as the train was
moving off, the door of my compartment was flung open, and there were
MacCoy and my brother on the platform.

"They were both disguised, and with good reason, for they knew that the
London police were after them. MacCoy had a great Astrakhan collar drawn
up, so that only his eyes and nose were showing. My brother was dressed
like a woman, with a black veil half down his face, but of course it did
not deceive me for an instant, nor would it have done so even if I had
not known that he had often used such a dress before. I started up, and
as I did so MacCoy recognized me. He said something, the conductor
slammed the door, and they were shown into the next compartment. I tried
to stop the train so as to follow them, but the wheels were already
moving, and it was too late.

"When we stopped at Willesden, I instantly changed my carriage. It
appears that I was not seen to do so, which is not surprising, as the
station was crowded with people. MacCoy, of course, was expecting me, and
he had spent the time between Euston and Willesden in saying all he could
to harden my brother's heart and set him against me. That is what I
fancy, for I had never found him so impossible to soften or to move. I
tried this way and I tried that; I pictured his future in an English
gaol; I described the sorrow of his mother when I came back with the
news; I said everything to touch his heart, but all to no purpose. He sat
there with a fixed sneer upon his handsome face, while every now and then
Sparrow MacCoy would throw in a taunt at me, or some word of
encouragement to hold my brother to his resolutions.

"'Why don't you run a Sunday-school?' he would say to me, and then, in
the same breath: 'He thinks you have no will of your own. He thinks you
are just the baby brother and that he can lead you where he likes. He's
only just finding out that you are a man as well as he.'

"It was those words of his which set me talking bitterly. We had left
Willesden, you understand, for all this took some time. My temper got the
better of me, and for the first time in my life I let my brother see the
rough side of me. Perhaps it would have been better had I done so earlier
and more often.

"'A man!' said I. 'Well, I'm glad to have your friend's assurance of it,
for no one would suspect it to see you like a boarding-school missy. I
don't suppose in all this country there is a more contemptible-looking
creature than you are as you sit there with that Dolly pinafore upon
you.' He coloured up at that, for he was a vain man, and he winced from
ridicule.

"'It's only a dust-cloak,' said he, and he slipped it off. 'One has to
throw the coppers off one's scent, and I had no other way to do it.' He
took his toque off with the veil attached, and he put both it and the
cloak into his brown bag. 'Anyway, I don't need to wear it until the
conductor comes round,' said he.

'"Not then, either,' said I, and taking the bag I slung it with all my
force out of the window. 'Now,' said I, 'you'll never make a Mary Jane of
yourself while I can help it. If nothing but that disguise stands between
you and a gaol, then to gaol you shall go.'

"That was the way to manage him. I felt my advantage at once. His supple
nature was one which yielded to roughness far more readily than to
entreaty. He flushed with shame, and his eyes filled with tears. But
MacCoy saw my advantage also, and was determined that I should not pursue
it.

"'He's my pard, and you shall not bully him,' he cried.

"'He's my brother, and you shall not ruin him,' said I. 'I believe a
spell of prison is the very best way of keeping you apart, and you shall
have it, or it will be no fault of mine.'

'"Oh, you would squeal, would you?' he cried, and in an instant he
whipped out his revolver. I sprang for his hand, but saw that I was too
late, and jumped aside. At the same instant he fired, and the bullet
which would have struck me passed through the heart of my unfortunate
brother.

"He dropped without a groan upon the floor of the compartment, and MacCoy
and I, equally horrified, knelt at each side of him, trying to bring back
some signs of life. MacCoy still held the loaded revolver in his hand,
but his anger against me and my resentment towards him had both for the
moment been swallowed up in this sudden tragedy. It was he who first
realized the situation. The train was for some reason going very slowly
at the moment, and he saw his opportunity for escape. In an instant he
had the door open, but I was as quick as he, and jumping upon him the two
of us fell off the foot-board and rolled in each other's arms down a
steep embankment. At the bottom I struck my head against a stone, and I
remembered nothing more. When I came to myself I was lying among some low
bushes, not far from the railroad track, and somebody was bathing my head
with a wet handkerchief. It was Sparrow MacCoy.

"' I guess I couldn't leave you,' said he. 'I didn't want to have the
blood of two of you on my hands in one day. You loved your brother, I've
no doubt; but you didn't love him a cent more than I loved him, though
you'll say that I took a queer way to show it. Anyhow, it seems a mighty
empty world now that he is gone, and I don't care a continental whether
you give me over to the hangman or not.'

"He had turned his ankle in the fall, and there we sat, he with his
useless foot and I with my throbbing head, and we talked and talked unti1
gradually my bitterness began to soften and to turn into something like
sympathy. What was  the use of revenging his death upon the man who was
as much stricken by that death as I was? And then, as my wits gradually
returned, I began to realize also that I could do nothing against MacCoy
which would not recoil upon my mother and myself. How could we convict
him without a full account of my brother's career being made public--the
very  thing which of all others we wished to avoid? It was really as much
our interest as his to cover the matter up, and from being an avenger of
crime I found myself changed to a conspirator against Justice. The place
in which we found ourselves was one of those pheasant preserves which are
so common in the Old Country, and as we groped our way through it I found
myself consulting the slayer of my brother as to how far it would be
possible to hush it up.

"I soon realized from what he said that unless there were some papers of
which he knew nothing in my brother's pockets, there was really no
possible means by which the police could identify him or learn how he had
got there. His ticket was in MacCoy's pocket, and so was the ticket for
some baggage which they had left at the depot. Like most Americans, he
had found it cheaper and easier to buy an outfit in London than to bring
one from New York, so that a11 his linen and clothes were new and
unmarked. The bag, containing the dust cloak, which I had thrown out of
the window, may have fallen among some bramble patch where it is still
concealed, or may have been carried off by some tramp, or may have come
into the possession of the police, who kept the incident to themselves.
Anyhow, I have seen nothing about it in the London papers. As to the
watches, they were a selection from those which had been intrusted to him
for business purposes. It may have been for the same business purposes
that he was taking them to Manchester, but--well, it's too late to enter
into that.

"I don't blame the police for being at fault. I don't see how it could
have been otherwise. There was just one little clew that they might have
followed up, but it was a small one. I mean that small circular mirror
which was found in my brother's pocket. It isn't a very common thing for
a young man to carry about with him, is it? But a gambler might have told
you what such a mirror may mean to a card-sharper. If you sit back a
little from the table, and lay the mirror, face upwards, upon your lap,
you can see, as you deal, every card that you give to your adversary. It
is not hard to say whether you see a man or raise him when you know his
cards as well as your own. It was as much a part of a sharper's outfit as
the elastic clip upon Sparrow MacCoy's arm. Taking that, in connection
with the recent frauds at the hotels, the police might have got hold of
one end of the string.

"I don't think there is much more for me to explain. We got to a village
called Amersham that night in the character of two gentlemen upon a
walking tour, and afterwards we made our way quietly to London, whence
MacCoy went on to Cairo and I returned to New York. My mother died six
months afterwards, and I am glad to say that to the day of her death she
never knew what happened. She was always under the delusion that Edward
was earning an honest living in London, and I never had the heart to tell
her the truth. He never wrote; but, then, he never did write at any time,
so that made no difference. His name was the last upon her lips.

"There's just one other thing that I have to ask you, sir, and I should
take it as a kind return for all this explanation, if you could do it for
me. You remember that Testament that was picked up. I always carried it
in my inside pocket, and it must have come out in my fall. I value it
very highly, for it was the family book with my birth and my brother's
marked by my father in the beginning of it. I wish you would apply at the
proper place and have it sent to me. It can be of no possible value to
any one else. If you address it to X, Bassano's Library, Broadway, New
York, it is sure to come to hand."

THE BLACK DOCTOR

BISHOP'S CROSSING is a small village lying ten miles in a south-westerly
direction from Liverpool. Here in the early seventies there settled a
doctor named Aloysius Lana. Nothing was known locally either of his
antecedents or of the reasons which had prompted him to come to this
Lancashire hamlet. Two facts only were certain about him: the one that he
had gained his medical qualification with some distinction at Glasgow;
the other that he came undoubtedly of a tropical race, and was so dark
that he might almost have had a strain of the Indian in his composition.
His predominant features were, however, European, and he possessed a
stately courtesy and carriage which suggested a Spanish extraction. A
swarthy skin, raven-black hair, and dark, sparkling eyes under a pair of
heavily-tufted brows made a strange contrast to the flaxen or chestnut
rustics of England, and the newcomer was soon known as " The Black Doctor
of Bishop's Crossing." At first it was a term of ridicule and reproach;
as the years went on it became a title of honour which was familiar to
the whole country-side, and extended far beyond the narrow confines of
the village. For the newcomer proved himself to be a capable surgeon and
an accomplished physician. The practice of that district had been in the
hands of Edward Rowe, the son of Sir William Rowe, the Liverpool
consultant, but he had not inherited the talents of his father, and Dr.
Lana, with his advantages of presence and of manner, soon beat him out of
the field. Dr. Lana's social success was as rapid as his professional. A
remarkable surgical cure in the case of the Hon. James Lowry, the second
son of Lord Belton, was the means of introducing him to county society,
where he became a favourite through the charm of his conversation and the
elegance of his manners. An absence of antecedents and of relatives is
sometimes an aid rather than an impediment to social advancement, and the
distinguished individuality of the handsome doctor was its own
recommendation.

His patients had one fault--and one fault only--to find with him. He
appeared to be a confirmed bachelor. This was the more remarkable since
the house which he occupied was a large one, and it was known that his
success in practice had enabled him to save considerable sums. At first
the local matchmakers were continually coupling his name with one or
other of the eligible ladies, but as years passed and Dr. Lana remained
unmarried, it came to be generally understood that for some reason he
must remain a bachelor. Some even went so far as to assert that he was
already married, and that it was in order to escape the consequence of an
early misalliance that he had buried himself at Bishop's Crossing. And
then, just as the match-makers had finally given him up in despair, his
engagement was suddenly announced to Miss Frances Morton, of Leigh Hall.

Miss Morton was a young lady who was well known upon the country-side,
her father, James Haldane Morton, having been the Squire of Bishop's
Crossing. Both her parents were, however, dead, and she lived with her
only brother, Arthur Morton, who had inherited the family estate. In
person Miss Morton was tall and stately, and she was famous for her
quick, impetuous nature and for her strength of character. She met Dr.
Lana at a garden-party, and a friendship, which quickly ripened into
love, sprang up between them. Nothing could exceed their devotion to each
other. There was some discrepancy in age, he being thirty-seven, and she
twenty-four; but, save in that one respect, there was no possible
objection to be found with the match. The engagement was in February, and
it was arranged that the marriage should take place in August.

Upon the 3rd of June Dr. Lana received a letter from abroad. In a small
village the postmaster is also in a position to be the gossip-master, and
Mr. Bankley, of Bishop's Crossing, had many of the secrets of his
neighbours in his possession. Of this particular letter he remarked only
that it was in a curious envelope, that it was in a man's handwriting,
that the postscript was Buenos Ayres, and the stamp of the Argentine
Republic. It was the first letter which he had ever known Dr. Lana to
have from abroad, and this was the reason why his attention was
particularly called to it before he handed it to the local postman. It
was delivered by the evening delivery of that date.

Next morning--that is, upon the 4th of June--Dr. Lana called upon Miss
Morton, and a long interview followed, from which he was observed to
return in a state of great agitation. Miss Morton remained in her room
all that day, and her maid found her several times in tears. In the
course of a week it was an open secret to the whole village that the
engagement was at an end, that Dr. Lana had behaved shamefully to the
young lady, and that Arthur Morton, her brother, was talking of
horse-whipping him. In what particular respect the doctor had behaved
badly was unknown--some surmised one thing and some another; but it was
observed, and taken as the obvious sign of a guilty conscience, that he
would go for miles round rather than pass the windows of Leigh Hall, and
that he gave up attending morning service upon Sundays where he might
have met the young lady. There was an advertisement also in the lancet as
to the sale of a practice which mentioned no names, but which was thought
by some to refer to Bishop's Crossing, and to mean that Dr. Lana was
thinking of abandoning the scene of his success. Such was the position of
affairs when, upon the evening of Monday, June 21st, there came a fresh
development which changed what had been a mere village scandal into a
tragedy which arrested the attention of the whole nation. Some detail is
necessary to cause the facts of that evening to present their full
significance.

The sole occupants of the doctor's house were his housekeeper, an elderly
and most respectable woman, named Martha Woods, and a young servant--Mary
Pilling. The coachman and the surgery-boy slept out. It was the custom of
the doctor to sit at night in his study, which was next the surgery in
the wing of the house which was farthest from the servants' quarters.
This side of the house had a door of its own for the convenience of
patients, so that it was possible for the doctor to admit and receive a
visitor there without the knowledge of any one. As a matter of fact, when
patients came late it was quite usual for him to let them in and out by
the surgery entrance, for the maid and the housekeeper were in the habit
of retiring early.

On this particular night Martha Woods went into the doctor's study at
half-past nine, and found him writing at his desk. She bade him
good-night, sent the maid to bed, and then occupied herself until a
quarter to eleven in household matters. It was striking eleven upon the
hall clock when she went to her own room. She had been there about a
quarter of an hour or twenty minutes when she heard a cry or call, which
appeared to come from within the house. She waited some time, but it was
not repeated. Much alarmed, for the sound was loud and urgent, she put on
a dressing-gown, and ran at the top of her speed to the doctor's study.

"Who's there?" cried a voice, as she tapped at the door.

"I am here, sir--Mrs. Woods."

"I beg that you will leave me in peace. Go back to your room this
instant!" cried the voice, which was, to the best of her belief, that of
her master. The tone was so harsh and so unlike her master's usual
manner, that she was surprised and hurt.

"I thought I heard you calling, sir," she explained, but no answer was
given to her. Mrs. Woods looked at the clock as she returned to her room,
and it was then half-past eleven.

At some period between eleven and twelve (she could not be positive as to
the exact hour) a patient called upon the doctor and was unable to get
any reply from him. This late visitor was Mrs. Madding, the wife of the
village grocer who was dangerously ill of typhoid fever. Dr. Lana had
asked her to look in the last thing and let him know how her husband was
progressing. She observed that the light was burning in the study, but
having knocked several times at the surgery door without response, she
concluded that the doctor had been called out, and so returned home.

There is a short, winding drive with a lamp at the end of it leading down
from the house to the road. As Mrs. Madding emerged from the gate a man
was coming along the footpath. Thinking that it might be Dr. Lana
returning from some professional visit, she waited for him, and was
surprised to see that it was Mr. Arthur Morton, the young squire. In the
light of the lamp she observed that his manner was excited, and that he
carried in his hand a heavy hunting-crop.

He was turning in at the gate when she addressed him.

"The doctor is not in, sir," said she.

"How do you know that?" he asked, harshly.

"I have been to the surgery door, sir."

"I see a light," said the young squire, looking up the drive. "That is in
his study, is it not?"

"Yes, sir; but I am sure that he is out."
"Well, he must come in again," said young Morton, and passed through the
gate while Mrs. Madding went upon her homeward way.

At three o'clock that morning her husband suffered a sharp relapse, and
she was so alarmed by his symptoms that she determined to call the doctor
without delay. As she passed through the gate she was surprised to see
some one lurking among the laurel bushes. It was certainly a man, and to
the best of her belief Mr. Arthur Morton. Preoccupied with her own
troubles, she gave no particular attention to the incident, but hurried
on upon her errand.

When she reached the house she perceived to her surprise that the light
was still burning in the study. She therefore tapped at the surgery door.
There was no answer. She repeated the knocking several times without
effect. It appeared to her to be unlikely that the doctor would either go
to bed or go out leaving so brilliant a light behind him, and it struck
Mrs. Madding that it was possible that he might have dropped asleep in
his chair. She tapped at the study window, therefore, but without result.
Then, finding that there was an opening between the curtain and the
woodwork, she looked through.

The small room was brilliantly lighted from a large lamp on the central
table, which was littered with the doctor's books and instruments. No one
was visible, nor did she see anything unusual, except that in the further
shadow thrown by the table a dingy white glove was lying upon the carpet.
And then suddenly, as her eyes became more accustomed to the light, a
boot emerged from the other end of the shadow, and she realized, with a
thrill of horror, that what she had taken to be a glove was the hand of a
man, who was prostrate upon the floor. Understanding that something
terrible had occurred, she rang at the front door, roused Mrs. Woods, the
housekeeper, and the two women made their way into the study, having
first dispatched the maidservant to the police-station.

At the side of the table, away from the window, Dr. Lana was discovered
stretched upon his back and quite dead. It was evident that he had been
subjected to violence, for one of his eyes was blackened, and there were
marks of bruises about his face and neck. A slight thickening and
swelling of his features appeared to suggest that the cause of his death
had been strangulation. He was dressed in his usual professional clothes,
but wore cloth slippers, the soles of which were perfectly clean. The
carpet was marked all over, especially on the side of the door, with
traces of dirty boots, which were presumably left by the murderer. It was
evident that some one had entered by the surgery door, had killed the
doctor, and had then made his escape unseen. That the assailant was a man
was certain, from the size of the footprints and from the nature of the
injuries. But beyond that point the police found it very difficult to go.

There were no signs of robbery, and the doctor's gold watch was safe in
his pocket. He kept a heavy cash-box in the room, and this was discovered
to be locked but empty. Mrs. Woods had an impression that a large sum was
usually kept there, but the doctor had paid a heavy corn bill in cash
only that very day, and it was conjectured that it was to this and not to
a robber that the emptiness of the box was due. One thing in the room was
missing--but that one thing was suggestive. The portrait of Miss Morton,
which had always stood upon the side-table, had been taken from its
frame, and carried off. Mrs. Woods had observed it there when she waited
upon her employer that evening, and now it was gone. On the other hand,
there was picked up from the floor a green eye-patch, which the
housekeeper could not remember to have seen before. Such a patch might,
however, be in the possession of a doctor, and there was nothing to
indicate that it was in any way connected with the crime.

Suspicion could only turn in one direction, and Arthur Morton, the young
squire, was immediately arrested. The evidence against him was
circumstantial, but damning. He was devoted to his sister, and it was
shown that since the rupture between her and Dr. Lana he had been heard
again and again to express himself in the most vindictive terms towards
her former lover. He had, as stated, been seen somewhere about eleven
o'clock entering the doctor's drive with a hunting-crop in his hand. He
had then, according to the theory of the police, broken in upon the
doctor, whose exclamation of fear or of anger had been loud enough to
attract the attention of Mrs. Woods. When Mrs. Woods descended. Dr. Lana
had made up his mind to talk it over with his visitor, and had,
therefore, sent his housekeeper back to her room. This conversation had
lasted a long time, had become more and more fiery, and had ended by a
personal struggle, in which the doctor lost his life. The fact, revealed
by a post-mortem, that his heart was much diseased--an ailment quite
unsuspected during his life--would make it possible that death might in
his case ensue from injuries which would not be fatal to a healthy man.
Arthur Morton had then removed his sister's photograph, and had made his
way homeward, stepping aside into the laurel bushes to avoid Mrs. Madding
at the gate. This was the theory of the prosecution, and the case which
they presented was a formidable one.

On the other hand, there were some strong points for the defence. Morton
was high-spirited and impetuous, like his sister, but he was respected
and liked by everyone, and his frank and honest nature seemed to be
incapable of such a crime. His own explanation was that he was anxious to
have a conversation with Dr. Lana about some urgent family matters (from
first to last he refused even to mention the name of his sister). He did
not attempt to deny that this conversation would probably have been of an
unpleasant nature. He had heard from a patient that the doctor was out,
and he therefore waited until about three in the morning for his return,
but as he had seen nothing of him up to that hour, he had given it up and
had returned home. As to his death, he knew no more about it than the
constable who arrested him. He had formerly been an intimate friend of
the deceased man; but circumstances, which he would prefer not to
mention, had brought about a change in his sentiments.

There were several facts which supported his innocence. It was certain
that Dr. Lana was alive and in his study at half-past eleven o'clock.
Mrs. Woods was prepared to swear that it was at that hour that she had
heard his voice. The friends of the prisoner contended that it was
probable that at that time Dr. Lana was not alone. The sound which had
originally attracted the attention of the housekeeper, and her master's
unusual impatience that she should leave him in peace, seemed to point to
that. If this were so, then it appeared to be probable that he had met
his end between the moment when the housekeeper heard his voice and the
time when Mrs. Madding made her first call and found it impossible to
attract his attention. But if this were the time of his death, then it
was certain that Mr. Arthur Morton could not be guilty, as it was after
this that she had met the young squire at the gate.

If this hypothesis were correct, and someone was with Dr. Lana before
Mrs. Madding met Mr. Arthur Morton, then who was this someone, and what
motives had he for wishing evil to the doctor? It was universally
admitted that if the friends of the accused could throw light upon this,
they would have gone a long way towards establishing his innocence. But
in the meanwhile it was open to the public to say--as they did say--that
there was no proof that any one had been there at all except the young
squire; while, on the other hand, there was ample proof that his motives
in going were of a sinister kind. When Mrs. Madding called, the doctor
might have retired to his room, or he might, as she thought at the time,
have gone out and returned afterwards to find Mr. Arthur Morton waiting
for him. Some of the supporters of the accused laid stress upon the fact
that the photograph of his sister Frances, which had been removed from
the doctor's room, had not been found in her brother's possession. This
argument, however, did not count for much, as he had ample time before
his arrest to burn it or to destroy it. As to the only positive evidence
in the case--the muddy footmarks upon the floor--they were so blurred by
the softness of the carpet that it was impossible to make any trustworthy
deduction from them. The most that could be said was that their
appearance was not inconsistent with the theory that they were made by
the accused, and it was further shown that his boots were very muddy upon
that night. There had been a heavy shower in the afternoon, and all boots
were probably in the same condition.

Such is a bald statement of the singular and romantic series of events
which centred public attention upon this Lancashire tragedy. The unknown
origin of the doctor, his curious and distinguished personality, the
position of the man who was accused of the murder, and the love affair
which had preceded the crime, all combined to make the affair one of
those dramas which absorb the whole interest of a nation. Throughout the
three kingdoms men discussed the case of the Black Doctor of Bishop's
Crossing, and many were the theories put forward to explain the facts;
but it may safely be said that among them all there was not one which
prepared the minds of the public for the extraordinary sequel, which
caused so much excitement upon the first day of the trial, and came to a
climax upon the second. The long files of the Lancaster Weekly with their
report of the case lie before me as I write, but I must content myself
with a synopsis of the case up to the point when, upon the evening of the
first day, the evidence of Miss Frances Morton threw a singular light
upon the case.

Mr. Porlock Carr, the counsel for the prosecution, had marshalled his
facts with his usual skill, and as the day wore on, it became more and
more evident how difficult was the task which Mr. Humphrey, who had been
retained for the defence, had before him. Several witnesses were put up
to swear to the intemperate expressions which the young squire had been
heard to utter about the doctor, and the fiery manner in which he
resented the alleged ill-treatment of his sister. Mrs. Madding repeated
her evidence as to the visit which had been paid late at night by the
prisoner to the deceased, and it was shown by another witness that the
prisoner was aware that the doctor was in the habit of sitting up alone
in this isolated wing of the house, and that he had chosen this very late
hour to call because he knew that his victim would then be at his mercy.
A servant at the squire's house was compelled to admit that he had heard
his master return I about three that morning, which corroborated Mrs.
Madding's statement that she had seen him among the laurel bushes near
the gate upon the occasion of her second visit. The muddy boots and an
alleged similarity in the footprints were duly dwelt upon, and it was
felt when the case for the prosecution had been presented that, however
circumstantial it might be, it was none the less so complete and so
convincing, that the fate of the prisoner was sealed, unless something
quite unexpected should be disclosed by the defence. It was three o'clock
when the prosecution closed. At half-past four, when the Court rose, a
new and unlooked for development had occurred. I extract the incident, or
part of it, from the journal which I have already mentioned, omitting the
preliminary observations of the counsel.

"Considerable sensation was caused in the crowded court when the first
witness called for the defence proved to be Miss Frances Morton, the
sister of the prisoner. Our readers will remember that the young lady had
been engaged to Dr. Lana, and that it was his anger over the sudden
termination of this engagement which was thought to have driven her
brother to the perpetration of this crime. Miss Morton had not, however,
been directly implicated in the case in any way, either at the inquest or
at the police-court proceedings, and her appearance as the leading
witness for the defence came as a surprise upon the public.

Miss Frances Morton, who was a tall and handsome brunette, gave her
evidence in a low but clear voice, though it was evident throughout that
she was suffering from extreme emotion. She alluded to her engagement to
the doctor, touched briefly upon its termination, which was due, she
said, to personal matters connected with his family, and surprised the
Court by asserting that she had always considered her brother's
resentment to be unreasonable and intemperate. In answer to a direct
question from her counsel, she replied that she did not feel that she had
any grievance whatever against Dr. Lana, and that in her opinion he had
acted in a perfectly honourable manner. Her brother, on an insufficient
knowledge of the facts, had taken another view, and she was compelled to
acknowledge that, in spite of her entreaties, he had uttered threats of
personal violence against the doctor, and had, upon the evening of the
tragedy, announced his intention of "having it out with him." She had
done her best to bring him to a more reasonable frame of mind, but he was
very headstrong where his emotions or prejudices were concerned.

Up to this point the young lady's evidence had appeared to make against
the prisoner rather than in his favour. The questions of her counsel,
however, soon put a very different light upon the matter, and disclosed
an unexpected line of defence.

Mr. Humphrey: Do you believe your brother to be guilty of this crime?

The Judge; I cannot permit that question, Mr. Humphrey. We are here to
decide upon questions of fact--not of belief.

Mr. Humphrey; Do you know that your brother is not guilty of the death of
Doctor Lana?

Miss Morton: Yes.

Mr. Humphrey : How do you know it?

Miss Morton: Because Dr. Lana is not dead.

There followed a prolonged sensation in court, which interrupted the
cross-examination of the witness.

Mr. Humphrey: And how do you know, Miss Morton, that Dr. Lana is not
dead?

Miss Morton: Because I have received a letter from him since the date of
his supposed death.

Mr. Humphrey: Have you this letter?

Miss Morton: Yes, but I should prefer not to show it.

Mr. Humphrey: Have you the envelope?

Miss Morton; Yes, it is here.

Mr. Humphrey: What is the post-mark?

Miss Morton: Liverpool.

Mr. Humphrey; And the date?

Miss Morton: June the 22nd.

Mr. Humphrey: That being the day after his alleged death. Are you
prepared to swear to this handwriting, Miss Morton?

Miss Morton: Certainly.

Mr. Humphrey: I am prepared to call six other witnesses, my lord, to
testify that this letter is in the writing of Doctor Lana.

The Judge: Then you must call them to-morrow.

Mr. Porlock Carr (counsel for the prosecution): In the meantime, my lord,
we claim possession of this document, so that we may obtain expert
evidence as to how far it is an imitation of the handwriting of the
gentleman whom we still confidently assert to be deceased. I need not
point out that the theory so unexpectedly sprung upon us may prove to be
a very obvious device adopted by the friends of the prisoner in order to
divert this inquiry. I would draw attention to the fact that the young
lady must, according to her own account, have possessed this letter
during the proceedings at the inquest and at the police-court. She
desires us to believe that she permitted these to proceed, although she
held in her pocket evidence which would at any moment have brought them
to an end.

Mr. Humphrey: Can you explain this, Miss Morton?

Miss Morton: Dr. Lana desired his secret to be preserved.

Mr. Porlock Carr: Then why have you made this public?

Miss Morton: To save my brother.

A murmur of sympathy broke out in court, which was instantly suppressed
by the Judge.

The Judge: Admitting this line of defence, it lies with you, Mr.
Humphrey, to throw a light upon who this man is whose body has been
recognised by so many friends and patients of Dr. Lana as being that of
the doctor himself.

A Juryman: Has any one up to now expressed any doubt about the matter?

Mr. Porlock Carr: Not to my knowledge.

Mr. Humphrey; We hope to make the matter clear.

The Judge: Then the Court adjourns until tomorrow.

This new development of the case excited the utmost interest among the
general public. Press comment was prevented by the fact that the trial
was still undecided, but the question was everywhere argued as to how far
there could be truth in Miss Morton's declaration, and how far it might
be a daring ruse for the purpose of saving her brother. The obvious
dilemma in which the missing doctor stood was that if by any
extraordinary chance he was not dead, then he must be held responsible
for the death of this unknown man, who resembled him so exactly, and who
was found in his study. This letter which Miss Morton refused to produce
was possibly a confession of guilt, and she might find herself in the
terrible position of only being able to save her brother from the gallows
by the sacrifice of her former lover. The court next morning was crammed
to overflowing, and a murmur of excitement passed over it when Mr.
Humphrey was observed to enter in a state of emotion, which even his
trained nerves could not conceal, and to confer with the opposing
counsel. A few hurried words--words which left a look of amazement upon
Mr. Poriock Carr's face--passed between them, and then the counsel for
the defence, addressing the judge, announced that, with the consent of
the prosecution, the young lady who had given evidence upon the sitting
before would not be recalled.

The Judge: But you appear, Mr. Humphrey, to have left matters in a very
unsatisfactory state.

Mr. Humphrey: Perhaps, my lord, my next witness may help to clear them
up.

The Judge: Then call your next witness.

Mr. Humphrey: I call Dr. Aloysius Lana.

The learned counsel has made many telling remarks in his day, but he has
certainly never produced such a sensation with so short a sentence. The
Court was simply stunned with amazement as the very man whose fate had
been the subject of so much contention appeared bodily before them in the
witness-box. Those among the spectators who had known him at Bishop's
Crossing saw him now, gaunt and thin, with deep lines of care upon his
face. But in spite of his melancholy bearing and despondent expression,
there were few who could say that they had ever seen a man of more
distinguished presence. Bowing to the judge, he asked if he might be
allowed to make a statement, and having been duly informed that whatever
he said might be used against him, he bowed once more, and proceeded :--

"My wish," said he, "is to hold nothing back but to tell with perfect
frankness all that occurred, upon the night of the 21st of June. Had I
known that the innocent had suffered, and that so much trouble had been
brought upon those whom I love best in the world, I should have come
forward long ago; but there were reasons which prevented these things
from coming to my ears. It was my desire that an unhappy man should
vanish from the world which had known him, but I had not foreseen that
others would be affected by my actions. Let me to the best of my ability
repair the evil which I have done.

"To any one who is acquainted with the history of the Argentine Republic
the name of Lana ig well known. My father, who came of the best blood, of
old Spain, filled all the highest offices of the State and would have
been President but for his death in the riots of San Juan. A brilliant
career might have been open to my twin brother Ernest and myself had if
not been for financial losses which made it necessary that we should earn
our own living. I apologize, sir if these details appear to be
irrelevant, but they are a necessary introduction to that which is to
follow.

"I had, as I have said, a twin brother named Ernest, whose resemblance to
me was so great that even when we were together people could see no
difference between us. Down to the smallest detail we were exactly the
same. As we grew older this likeness became less marked because our
expression was not the same, but with our features in repose the points
of difference were very slight.

"It does not become me to say too much of one who is dead, the more so as
he is my only brother, but I leave his character to those who knew him
best. I will only say--for I have to say it--that in my early manhood I
conceived a horror of him, and that I had good reason for the aversion
which filled me. My own reputation suffered from his actions, for our
close resemblance caused me to be credited with many of them. Eventually,
in a peculiarly disgraceful business, he contrived to throw the whole
odium upon me in such a way that I was forced to leave the Argentine for
ever, and to seek a career in Europe. The freedom from his hated presence
more than compensated me for the loss of my native land. I had enough
money to defray my medical studies at Glasgow, and I finally settled in
practice at Bishop's Crossing, in the firm conviction that in that remote
Lancashire hamlet I should never hear of him again.

"For years my hopes were fulfilled, and then at last he discovered me.
Some Liverpool man who visited Buenos Ayres put him upon my track. Ho had
lost all his money, and he thought that he would come over and share
mine. Knowing my horror of him, he rightly thought that I would be
willing to buy him off. I received a letter from him saying that he was
coming. It was at a crisis in my own affairs, and his arrival might
conceivably bring trouble, and even disgrace, upon some whom I was
especially bound to shield from anything of the kind. I took steps to
insure that any evil which might come should fall on me only, and
that"--here he turned and looked at the prisoner--"was the cause of
conduct upon my part which has been too harshly judged. My only motive
was to screen those who were dear to me from any possible connection with
scandal or disgrace. That scandal and disgrace would come with my brother
was only to say that what had been would be again.

"My brother arrived himself one night not very long after my receipt of
the letter. I was sitting in my study after the servants had gone to bed,
when I heard a footstep upon the gravel outside, and an instant later I
saw his face looking in at me through the window. He was a clean-shaven
man like myself, and the resemblance between us was still so great that,
for an instant, I thought it was my own reflection in the glass. He had a
dark patch over his eye, but our features were absolutely the same. Then
he smiled in a sardonic way which had been a trick of his from his
boyhood, and I knew that he was the same brother who had driven me from
my native land, and brought disgrace upon what had been an honourable
name. I went to the door and I admitted him. That would be about ten
o'clock that night.

"When he came into the glare of the lamp, I saw at once that he had
fallen upon very evil days. He had walked from Liverpool, and he was
tired and ill. I was quite shocked by the expression upon his face. My
medical knowledge told me that there was some serious internal malady. He
had been drinking also, and his face was bruised as the result of a
scuffle which he had had with some sailors. It was to cover his injured
eye that he wore this patch, which he removed when he entered the room.
He was himself dressed in a pea-jacket and flannel shirt, and his feet
were bursting through his boots. But his poverty had only made him more
savagely vindictive towards me. His hatred rose to the height of a mania.
I had been rolling in money in England, according to his account, while
he had been starving in South America. I cannot describe to you the
threats which he uttered or the insults which he poured upon me. My
impression is, that hardships and debauchery had unhinged his reason. He
paced about the room like a wild beast, demanding drink, demanding money,
and all in the foulest language. I am a hot-tempered man, but I thank God
that I am able to say that I remained master of myself, and that I never
raised a hand against him. My coolness only irritated him the more. He
raved, he cursed, he shook his fists in my face, and then suddenly a
horrible spasm passed over his features, he clapped his hand to his side,
and with a loud cry he fell in a heap at my feet. I raised him up and
stretched him upon the sofa, but no answer came to my exclamations, and
the hand which I held in mine was cold and clammy. His diseased heart had
broken down. His own violence had killed him.

"For a long time I sat as if I were in some dreadful dream, staring at
the body of my brother. I was aroused by the knocking of Mrs. Woods, who
had been disturbed by that dying cry. I sent her away to bed. Shortly
afterwards a patient tapped at the surgery door, but as I took no notice,
he or she went off again. Slowly and gradually as I sat there a plan was
forming itself in my head in the curious automatic way in which plans do
form. When I rose from my chair my future movements were finally decided
upon without my having been conscious of any process of thought. It was
an instinct which irresistibly inclined me towards one course.

"Ever since that change in my affairs to which I have alluded. Bishop's
Crossing had become hateful to me. My plans of life had been ruined, and
I had met with hasty judgments and unkind treatment where I had expected
sympathy. It is true that any danger of scandal from my brother had
passed away with his life; but still, I was sore about the past, and felt
that things could never be as they had been. It may be that I was unduly
sensitive, and that I had not made sufficient allowance for others, but
my feelings were as I describe. Any chance of getting away from Bishop's
Crossing and everyone in it would be most welcome to me. And here was
such a chance as I could never have dared to hope for, a chance which
would enable me to make a clean break with the past.

"There was this dead man lying upon the sofa, so like me that save for
some little thickness and coarseness of the features there was no
difference at all. No one had seen him come and no one would miss him. We
were both clean shaven, and his hair was about the same length as my own.
If I changed clothes with him, then Dr. Aloysius Lana would be found
lying dead in his study, and there would be an end of an unfortunate
fellow, and of a blighted career. There was plenty of ready money in the
room, and this I could carry away with me to help me to start once more
in some other land. In my brother's clothes I could walk by night
unobserved as far as Liverpool, and in that great seaport I would soon
find some means of leaving the country. After my lost hopes, the humblest
existence where I was unknown was far preferable, in my estimation, to a
practice, however successful, in Bishop's Crossing, where at any moment I
might come face to face with those whom I should wish, if it were
possible, to forget. I determined to effect the change.

"And I did so. I will not go into particulars, for the recollection is as
painful as the experience; but in an hour my brother lay, dressed down to
the smallest detail in my clothes, while I slunk out by the surgery door,
and taking the back path which led across some fields, I started off to
make the best of my way to Liverpool, where I arrived the same night. My
bag of money and a certain portrait were all I carried out of the house,
and I left behind me in my hurry the shade which my brother had been
wearing over his eye. Everything else of his I took with me.

"I give you my word, sir, that never for one instant did the idea occur
to me that people might think that I had been murdered, nor did I imagine
that any one might be caused serious danger through this stratagem by
which I endeavoured to gain a fresh start in the world. On the contrary,
it was the thought of relieving others from the burden of my presence
which was always uppermost in my mind. A sailing vessel was leaving
Liverpool that very day for Corunna, and in this I took my passage,
thinking that the voyage would give me time to recover my balance, and to
consider the future. But before I left my resolution softened. I
bethought me that there was one person in the world to whom I would not
cause an hour of sadness. She would mourn me in her heart, however harsh
and unsympathetic her relatives might be. She understood and appreciated
the motives upon which I had acted, and if the rest of her family
condemned me, she, at least, would not forget. And so I sent her a note
under the seal of secrecy to save her from a baseless grief. If under the
pressure of events she broke that seal, she has my entire sympathy and
forgiveness.

"It was only last night that I returned to England, and during all this
time I have heard nothing of the sensation which my supposed death had
caused, nor of the accusation that Mr. Arthur Morton had been concerned
in it. It was in a late evening paper that I read an account of the
proceedings of yesterday, and I have come this morning as fast as an
express train could bring me to testify to the truth."

Such was the remarkable statement of Dr. Aloysius Lana which brought the
trial to a sudden termination. A subsequent investigation corroborated it
to the extent of finding out the vessel in which his brother Ernest Lana
had come over from South America. The ship's doctor was able to testify
that he had complained of a weak heart during the voyage, and that his
symptoms were consistent with such a death as was described.

As to Dr. Aloysius Lana, he returned to the village from which he had
made so dramatic a disappearance, and a complete reconciliation was
effected between him and the young squire, the latter having acknowledged
that he had entirely misunderstood the other's motives in withdrawing
from his engagement. That another reconciliation followed may be judged
from a notice extracted from a prominent column in the Morning Post:--

A marriage was solemnized upon September 19th, by the Rev. Stephen
Johnson, at the parish church of Bishop's Crossing, between Aloysius
Xavier Lana, son of Don Alfredo Lana, formerly Foreign Minister of the
Argentine Republic, and Frances Morton, only daughter of the late James
Morton, J.P., of Leigh Hall, Bishop's Crossing, Lancashire.

THE JEW'S BREASTPLATE

MY particular friend Ward Mortimer was one of the best men of his day at
everything connected with Oriental archaeology. He had written largely
upon the subject, he had lived two years in a tomb at Thebes, while he
excavated in the Valley of the Kings, and finally he had created a
considerable sensation by his exhumation of the alleged mummy of
Cleopatra in the inner room of the Temple of Horus, at Philae. With such
a record at the age of thirty-one, it was felt that a considerable career
lay before him, and no one was surprised when he was elected to the
curatorship of the Belmore Street Museum, which carries with it the
lectureship-at the Oriental College, and an income which has sunk with
the fall in land, but which still remains at that ideal sum which is
large enough to encourage an investigator, but not so large as to
enervate him.

There was only one reason which made Ward Mortimer's position a little
difficult at the Belmore Street Museum, and that was the extreme eminence
of the man whom he had to succeed. Professor Andreas was a profound
scholar and a man of European reputation. His lectures were frequented by
students from every part of the world, and his admirable management of
the collection intrusted to his care was a commonplace in all learned
societies. There was, therefore, considerable surprise when, at the age
of fifty-five, he suddenly resigned his position and retired from those
duties which had been both his livelihood and his pleasure. He and his
daughter left the comfortable suite of rooms which had formed his
official residence in connection with the museum, and my friend,
Mortimer, who was a bachelor, took up his quarters there.

On hearing of Mortimer's appointment Professor Andreas had written him a
very kindly and flattering congratulatory letter. I was actually present
at their first meeting, and I went with Mortimer round the museum when
the Professor showed us the admirable collection which he had cherished
so long. The Professor's beautiful daughter and a young man, Captain
Wilson, who was, as I understood, soon to be her husband, accompanied us
in our inspection. There were fifteen rooms, but the Babylonian, the
Syrian, and the central hall, which contained the Jewish and Egyptian
collection, were the finest of all. Professor Andreas was a quiet, dry,
elderly man, with a clean-shaven face and an impassive manner, but his
dark eyes sparkled and his features quickened into enthusiastic life as
he pointed out to us the rarity and the beauty of some of his specimens.
His hand lingered so fondly over them, that one could read his pride in
them and the grief in his heart now that they were passing from his care
into that of another.

He had shown us in turn his mummies, his papyri, his rare scarabs, his
inscriptions, his Jewish relics, and his duplication of the famous
seven-branched candlestick of the Temple, which was brought to Rome by
Titus, and which is supposed by some to be lying at this instant in the
bed of the Tiber. Then he approached a case which stood in the very
centre of the hall, and he looked down through the glass with reverence
in his attitude and manner.

"This is no novelty to an expert like yourself, Mr. Mortimer," said he;
"but I daresay that your friend, Mr. Jackson, will be interested to see
it."

Leaning over the case I saw an object, some five inches square, which
consisted of twelve precious stones in a framework of gold, with golden
hooks at two of the corners. The stones were all varying in sort and
colour, but they were of the same size. Their shapes, arrangement, and
gradation of tint made me think of a box of water-colour paints. Each
stone had some hieroglyphic scratched upon its surface.

"You have heard, Mr. Jackson, of the urim and thummim?"

I had heard the term, but my idea of its meaning was exceedingly vague.

"The urim and thummim was a name given to the jewelled plate which lay
upon the breast of the high priest of the Jews. They had a very special
feeling of reverence for it--something of the feeling which an ancient
Roman might have for the Sibylline books in the Capitol. There are, as
you see, twelve magnificent stones, inscribed with mystical characters.
Counting from the left-hand top corner, the stones are carnelian,
peridot, emerald, ruby, lapis lazuli, onyx, sapphire, agate, amethyst,
topaz, beryl, and jasper."

I was amazed at the variety and beauty of the stones. "Has the
breastplate any particular history?" I asked.

"It is of great age and of immense value," said Professor Andreas.
"Without being able to make an absolute assertion, we have many reasons
to think that it is possible that it may be the original urim and thummim
of Solomon's Temple. There is certainly nothing so fine in any collection
in Europe. My friend, Captain Wilson here, is a practical authority upon
precious stones, and he would tell you how pure these are."

Captain Wilson, a man with a dark, hard, incisive face, was standing
beside his fiancee at the other side of the case.

"Yes," said he, curtly, "I have never seen finer stones."

"And the gold-work is also worthy of attention. The ancients excelled
in--" he was apparently about to indicate the setting of the stones, whey
Captain Wilson interrupted him.

"You will see a finer example of their gold-work in this candlestick,"
said he, turning to another table, and we all joined him in his
admiration of its embossed stem and delicately ornamented branches.
Altogether it was an interesting and a novel experience to have objects
of such rarity explained by so great an expert; and when, finally,
Professor Andreas finished our inspection by formally handing over the
precious collection to the care of my friend, I could not help pitying
him and envying his successor whose life was to pass in so pleasant a
duty. Within a week, Ward Mortimer was duly installed in his new set of
rooms, and had become the autocrat of the Belmore Street Museum.

About a fortnight afterwards my friend gave a small dinner to
half-a-dozen bachelor friends to celebrate his promotion. When his guests
were departing he pulled my sleeve and signalled to me that he wished me
to remain.

"You have only a few hundred yards to go," said he--I was living in
chambers in the Albany. "You may as well stay and have a quiet cigar with
me. I very much want your advice."

I relapsed into an arm-chair and lit one of his excellent Matronas. When
he had returned from seeing the last of his guests out, he drew a letter
from his dress-jacket and sat down opposite to me.

"This is an anonymous letter which I received this morning," said he. " I
want to read it to you and to have your advice."

"You are very welcome to it for what it is worth."

"This is how the note runs: ' Sir,--I should strongly advise you to keep
a very careful watch over the many valuable things which are committed to
your charge. I do not think that the present system of a single watchman
is sufficient. Be upon your guard, or an irreparable misfortune may
occur."

"Is that all?"

"Yes, that is all."

"Well," said I, "it is at least obvious that it was written by one of the
limited number of people who are aware that you have only one watchman at
night."

Ward Mortimer handed me the note, with a curious smile. "Have you an eye
for handwriting?" said he. " Now, look at this!" He put another letter in
front of me. " Look at the c in 'congratulate' and the c in 'committed.'
Look at the capital I. Look at the trick of putting in a dash instead of
a stop!"

"They are undoubtedly from the same hand--with some attempt at disguise
in the case of this first one."

"The second," said Ward Mortimer, "is the letter of congratulation which
was written to me by Professor Andreas upon my obtaining my appointment."

I stared at him in amazement. Then I turned over the letter in my hand,
and there, sure enough, was "Martin Andreas" signed upon the other side.
There could be no doubt, in the mind of any one who had the slightest
knowledge of the science of graphology, that the Professor had written an
anonymous letter, warning his successor against thieves. It was
inexplicable, but it was certain.

"Why should he do it? " I asked.

"Precisely what I should wish to ask you. If he had any such misgivings,
why could he not come and tell me direct?"

"Will you speak to him about it?"

"There again I am in doubt. He might choose to deny that he wrote it."

"At any rate," said I, "this warning is meant in a friendly spirit, and I
should certainly act upon it. Are the present precautions enough to
insure you against robbery?"

"I should have thought so. The public are only admitted from ten till
five, and there is a guardian to every two rooms. He stands at the door
between them, and so commands them both."

"But at night?"

"When the public are gone, we at once put up the great iron shutters,
which are absolutely burglar-proof. The watchman is a capable fellow. He
sits in the lodge, but he walks round every three hours. We keep one
electric light burning in each room all night."

"It is difficult to suggest anything more--short of keeping your day
watchers all night."

"We could not afford that."

"At least, I should communicate with the police, and have a special
constable put on outside in Belmore Street," said I. "As to the letter,
if the writer wishes to be anonymous, I think he has a right to remain
so. We must trust to the future to show some reason for the curious
course which he has adopted."

So we dismissed the subject, but all that night after my return to my
chambers I was puzzling my brain as to what possible motive Professor
Andreas could have for writing an anonymous warning letter to his
successor--for that the writing was his was as certain to me as if I had
seen him actually doing it. He foresaw some danger to the collection. Was
it because he foresaw it that he abandoned his charge of it? But if so,
why should he hesitate to warn Mortimer in his own name? I puzzled and
puzzled until at last I fell into a troubled sleep, which carried me
beyond my usual hour of rising.

I was aroused in a singular and effective method, for about nine o'clock
my friend Mortimer rushed into my room with an expression of
consternation upon his face. He was usually one of the most tidy men of
my acquaintance, but now his collar was undone at one end, his tie was
flying, and his hat at the back of his head. I read his whole story in
his frantic eyes.

"The museum has been robbed!" I cried, springing up in bed.

"I fear so! Those jewels! The jewels of the urim and thummim!" he gasped,
for he was out of breath with running. "I'm going on to the
police-station. Come to the museum as soon as you can, Jackson! Good-bye!
" He rushed distractedly out of the room, and I heard him clatter down
the stairs.

I was not long in following his directions, but I found when I arrived
that he had already returned with a police inspector, and another elderly
gentleman, who proved to be Mr. Purvis, one of the partners of Morson and
Company, the well-known diamond merchants. As an expert in stones he was
always prepared to advise the police. They were grouped round the case in
which the breastplate of the Jewish priest had been exposed. The plate
had been taken out and laid upon the glass top of the case, and the three
heads were bent over it.

"It is obvious that it has been tampered with," said Mortimer. " It
caught my eye the moment that I passed through the room this morning. I
examined it yesterday evening, so that it is certain that this has
happened during the night."

It was, as he had said, obvious that some one had been at work upon it.
The settings of the uppermost row of four stones--the carnelian, peridot,
emerald, and ruby--were rough and jagged as if some one had scraped all
round them. The stones were in their places, but the beautiful goldwork
which we had admired only a few days before had been very clumsily pulled
about.

"It looks to me," said the police inspector, "as if some one had been
trying to take out the stones."

"My fear is," said Mortimer, "that he not only tried, but succeeded. I
believe these four stones to be skilful imitations which have been put in
the place of the originals."

The same suspicion had evidently been in the mind of the expert, for he
had been carefully examining the four stones with the aid of a lens. He
now submitted them to several tests, and finally turned cheerfully to
Mortimer.

"I congratulate you, sir," said he, heartily. "I will pledge my
reputation that all four of these stones are genuine, and of a most
unusual degree of purity."

The colour began to come back to my poor friend's frightened face, and he
drew a long breath of relief.

"Thank God!" he cried. " Then what in the world did the thief want?"

"Probably he meant to take the stones, but was interrupted."

"In that case one would expect him to take them out one at a time, but
the setting of each of these has been loosened, and yet the stones are
all here."

"It is certainly most extraordinary," said the inspector. " I never
remember a case like it. Let us see the watchman."

The commissionaire was called--a soldierly, honest-faced man, who seemed
as concerned as Ward Mortimer at the incident.

"No, sir, I never heard a sound," he answered, in reply to the questions
of the inspector. "I made my rounds four times, as usual, but I saw
nothing suspicious. I've been in my position ten years, but nothing of
the kind has ever occurred before."

"No thief could have come through the windows?"

"Impossible, sir."

"Or passed you at the door?"

"No, sir; I never left my post except when I walked my rounds."

"What other openings are there in the museum?"

"There is the door into Mr. Ward Mortimer's private rooms."

"That is locked at night," my friend explained, "and in order to reach it
any one from the street would have to open the outside door as well."

"Your servants?"

"Their quarters are entirely separate."

"Well, well," said the inspector, "this is certainly very obscure.
However, there has been no harm done, according to Mr. Purvis."

"I will swear that those stones are genuine."

"So that the case appears to be merely one of malicious damage. But none
the less, I should be very glad to go carefully round the premises, and
to see if we can find any trace to show us who your visitor may have
been."

His investigation, which lasted all the morning, was careful and
intelligent, but it led in the end to nothing. He pointed out to us that
there were two possible entrances to the museum which we had not
considered. The one was from the cellars by a trap-door opening in the
passage. The other through a skylight from the lumber-room, overlooking
that very chamber to which the intruder had penetrated. As neither the
cellar nor the lumber-room could be entered unless the thief was already
within the locked doors, the matter was not of any practical importance,
and the dust of cellar and attic assured us that no one had used either
one or the other. Finally, we ended as we began, without the slightest
clue as to how, why, or by whom the setting of these four jewels had been
tampered with.

There remained one course for Mortimer to take, and he took it. Leaving
the police to continue their fruitless researches, he asked me to
accompany him that afternoon in a visit to Professor Andreas. He took
with him the two letters, and it was his intention to openly tax his
predecessor with having written the anonymous warning, and to ask him to
explain the fact that he should have anticipated so exactly that which
had actually occurred. The Professor was living in a small villa in Upper
Norwood, but we were informed by the servant that he was away from home.
Seeing our disappointment, she asked us if we should like to see Miss
Andreas, and showed us into the modest drawing-room.

I have mentioned incidentally that the Professor's daughter was a very
beautiful girl. She was a blonde, tall and graceful, with a skin of that
delicate tint which the French call "mat," the colour of old ivory or of
the lighter petals of the sulphur rose. I was shocked, however, as she
entered the room to see how much she had changed in the last fortnight.
Her young face was haggard and her bright eyes heavy with trouble.

"Father has gone to Scotland," she said. "He seems to be tired, and has
had a good deal to worry him. He only left us yesterday."

"You look a little tired yourself, Miss Andreas," said my friend.

"I have been so anxious about father."

"Can you give me his Scotch address?"

"Yes, he is with his brother, the Rev. David Andreas, 1, Arran Villas,
Ardrossan."

Ward Mortimer made a note of the address, and we left without saying
anything as to the object of our visit. We found ourselves in Belmore
Street in the evening in exactly the same position in which we had been
in the morning. Our only clue was the Professor's letter, and my friend
had made up his mind to start for Ardrossan next day, and to get to the
bottom of the anonymous letter, when a new development came to alter our
plans.

Very early on the following morning I was aroused from my sleep by a tap
upon my bedroom door. It was a messenger with a note from Mortimer.

"Do come round," it said; "the matter is becoming more and more
extraordinary."

When I obeyed his summons I found him pacing excitedly up and down the
central room, while the old soldier who guarded the premises stood with
military stiffness in a corner.

"My dear Jackson," he cried, " I am so delighted that you have come, for
this is a most inexplicable business."

"What has happened, then?"

He waved his hand towards the case which contained the breastplate.

"Look at it," said he.

I did so, and could not restrain a cry of surprise. The setting of the
middle row of precious stones had been profaned in the same manner as the
upper ones. Of the twelve jewels, eight had been now tampered with in
this singular fashion. The setting of the lower four was neat and smooth.
The others jagged and irregular.

"Have the stones been altered?" I asked.

"No, I am certain that these upper four are the same which the expert
pronounced to be genuine, for I observed yesterday that little
discoloration on the edge of the emerald. Since they have not extracted
the upper stones, there is no reason to think the lower have been
transposed. You say that you heard nothing, Simpson?"

"No, sir," the commissionaire answered. "But when I made my round after
daylight I had a special look at these stones, and I saw at once that
someone had been meddling with them. Then I called you, sir, and told
you. I was backwards and forwards all the night, and I never saw a soul
or heard a sound."

"Come up and have some breakfast with me," said Mortimer, and he took me
into his own chambers.--"Now, what do you think of this, Jackson?" he
asked.

"It is the most objectless, futile, idiotic business that ever I heard
of. It can only be the work of a monomaniac."

"Can you put forward any theory? "

A curious idea came into my head. "This object is a Jewish relic of great
antiquity and sanctity," said I. "How about the anti-Semitic movement?
Could one conceive that a fanatic of that way of thinking might
desecrate--"

"No, no, no!" cried Mortimer. "That will never do! Such a man might push
his lunacy to the length of destroying a Jewish relic, but why on earth
should he nibble round every stone so carefully that he can only do four
stones in a night? We must have a better solution than that, and we must
find it for ourselves, for I do not think that our inspector is likely to
help us. First of all, what do you think of Simpson, the porter?"

"Have you any reason to suspect him?"

"Only that he is the one person on the premises."

"But why should he indulge in such wanton destruction? Nothing has been
taken away. He has no motive."

"Mania?"

"No, I will swear to his sanity."

"Have you any other theory? "

"Well, yourself, for example. You are not a somnambulist, by any chance?"

"Nothing of the sort, I assure you."

"Then I give it up."

"But I don't--and I have a plan by which we will make it all clear."

"To visit Professor Andreas?"

"No, we shall find our solution nearer than Scotland. I will tell you
what we shall do. You know that skylight which overlooks the central
hall? We will leave the electric lights in the hall, and we will keep
watch in the lumber-room, you and I, and solve the mystery for ourselves.
If our mysterious visitor is doing four stones at a time, he has four
still to do, and there is every reason to think that he will return
tonight and complete the job."

"Excellent! " I cried.

"We will keep our own secret, and say nothing either to the police or to
Simpson. Will you join me?"

"With the utmost pleasure," said I; and so it was agreed.

It was ten o'clock that night when I returned to the Belmore Street
Museum. Mortimer was, as I could see, in a state of suppressed nervous
excitement, but it was still too early to begin our vigil, so we remained
for an hour or so in his chambers, discussing all the possibilities of
the singular business which we had met to solve. At last the roaring
stream of hansom cabs and the rush of hurrying feet became lower and more
intermittent as the pleasure seekers passed on their way to their
stations or their homes. It was nearly twelve when Mortimer led the way
to the lumber room which overlooked the central hall of the museum.

He had visited it during the day, and had spread some sacking so that we
could lie at our ease, and look straight down into the museum. The
skylight was of unfrosted glass, but was so covered with dust that it
would be impossible for any one looking up from below to detect that he
was overlooked. We cleared a small piece at each corner, which gave us a
complete view of the room beneath us. In the cold white light of the
electric lamps everything stood out hard and clear, and I could see the
smallest detail of the contents of the various cases.

Such a vigil is an excellent lesson, since one has no choice but to look
hard at those objects which we usually pass with such half-hearted
interest. Through my little peep-hole I employed the hours in studying
every specimen, from the huge mummy-case which leaned against the wall to
those very jewels which had brought us there, gleaming and sparkling in
their glass case immediately beneath us. There was much precious
gold-work and many valuable stones scattered through the numerous cases,
but those wonderful twelve which made up the urim and thummim glowed and
burned with a radiance which far eclipsed the others. I studied in turn
the tomb-pictures of Sicara, the friezes from Karnak, the statues of
Memphis, and the inscriptions of Thebes, but my eyes would always come
back to that wonderful Jewish relic, and my mind to the singular mystery
which surrounded it. I was lost in the thought of it when my companion
suddenly drew his breath sharply in, and seized my arm in a convulsive
grip. At the same instant I saw what it was which had excited him.

I have said that against the wall--on the right-hand side of the doorway
(the right-hand side as we looked at it, but the left as one
entered)--there stood a large mummy-case. To our unutterable amazement it
was slowly opening. Gradually, gradually the lid was swinging back, and
the black slit which marked the opening was becoming wider and wider. So
gently and carefully was it done that the movement was almost
imperceptible. Then, as we breathlessly watched it, a white thin hand
appeared at the opening, pushing back the painted lid, then another hand,
and finally a face--a face which was familiar to us both, that of
Professor Andreas. Stealthily he slunk out of the mummy-case, like a fox
stealing from its burrow, his head turning incessantly to left and to
right, stepping, then pausing, then stepping again, the very image of
craft and of caution. Once some sound in the street struck him
motionless, and he stood listening, with his ear turned, ready to dart
back to the shelter behind him. Then he crept onwards again upon tiptoe,
very, very softly and slowly, until he had reached the case in the centre
of the room. There he took a bunch of keys from his pocket, unlocked the
case, took out the Jewish breastplate, and, laying it upon the glass in
front of him, began to work upon it with some sort of small, glistening
tool. He was so directly underneath us that his bent head covered his
work, but we could guess from the movement of his hand that he was
engaged in finishing the strange disfigurement which he had begun.

I could realize from the heavy breathing of my companion, and the
twitchings of the hand which still clutched my wrist, the furious
indignation which filled his heart as he saw this vandalism in the
quarter of all others where he could least have expected it. He, the very
man who a fortnight before had reverently bent over this unique relic,
and who had impressed its antiquity and its sanctity upon us, was now
engaged in this outrageous profanation. It was impossible,
unthinkable--and yet there, in the white glare of the electric light
beneath us, was that dark figure with the bent, grey head, and the
twitching elbow. What inhuman hypocrisy, what hateful depth of malice
against his successor must underlie these sinister nocturnal labours! It
was painful to think of and dreadful to watch. Even I, who had none of
the acute feelings of a virtuoso, could not bear to look on and see this
deliberate mutilation of so ancient a relic. It was a relief to me when
my companion tugged at my sleeve as a signal that I was to follow him as
he softly crept out of the room. It was not until we were within his own
quarters that he opened his lips, and then I saw by his agitated face how
deep was his consternation.

"The abominable Goth!" he cried. "Could you have believed it? "

"It is amazing."

"He is a villain or a lunatic--one or the other. We shall very soon see
which. Come with me, Jackson, and we shall get to the bottom of this
black business."

A door opened out of the passage which was the private entrance from his
rooms into the museum. This he opened softly with his key, having first
kicked off his shoes, an example which I followed. We crept together
through room after room, until the large hall lay before us, with that
dark figure still stooping and working at the central case. With an
advance as cautious as his own we closed in upon him, but softly as we
went we could not take him entirely unawares. We were still a dozen yards
from him when he looked round with a start, and uttering a husky cry of
terror, ran frantically down the museum.

"Simpson! Simpson!" roared Mortimer, and far away down the vista of
electric lighted doors we saw the stiff figure of the old soldier
suddenly appear. Professor Andreas saw him also, and stopped running,
with a gesture of despair. At the same instant we each laid a hand upon
his shoulder.

"Yes, yes, gentlemen," he panted, "I will come with you. To your room,
Mr. Ward Mortimer, if you please! I feel that I owe you an explanation."

My companion's indignation was so great that I could see that he dared
not trust himself to reply. We walked on each side of the old Professor,
the astonished commissionaire bringing up the rear. When we reached the
violated case, Mortimer stopped and examined the breastplate. Already one
of the stones of the lower row had had its setting turned back in the
same manner as the others. My friend held it up and glanced furiously at
his prisoner.

"How could you!" he cried. " How could you!"

"It is horrible--horrible!" said the Professor. "I don't wonder at your
feelings. Take me to your room."

"But this shall not be left exposed!" cried Mortimer. He picked the
breastplate up and carried it tenderly in his hand, while I walked beside
the Professor, like a policeman with a malefactor. We passed into
Mortimer's chambers, leaving the amazed old soldier to understand matters
as best he could. The Professor sat down in Mortimer's arm-chair, and
turned so ghastly a colour that for the instant, all our resentment was
changed to concern. A stiff glass of brandy brought the life back to him
once more.

"There, I am better now!" said he. "These last few days have been too
much for me. I am convinced that I could not stand it any longer. It is a
nightmare--a horrible nightmare--that I should be arrested as a burglar
in what has been for so long my own museum. And yet I cannot blame you.
You could not have done otherwise. My hope always was that I should get
it all over before I was detected. This would have been my last night's
work."

"How did you get in?" asked Mortimer.

"By taking a very great liberty with your private door. But the object
justified it. The object justified everything. You will not be angry when
you know everything--at least, you will not be angry with me. I had a key
to your side door and also to the museum door. I did not give them up
when I left. And so you see it was not difficult for me to let myself
into the museum. I used to come in early before the crowd had cleared
from the street. Then I hid myself in the mummy-case, and took refuge
there whenever Simpson came round. I could always hear him coming. I used
to leave in the same way as I came."

"You ran a risk."

"I had to."

"But why? What on earth was your object--what possessed you to do a
thing like that?" Mortimer pointed reproachfully at the plate which lay
before him on the table.

"I could devise no other means. I thought and thought, but there was no
alternative except a hideous public scandal, and a private sorrow which
would have clouded our lives. I acted for the best, incredible as it may
seem to yon, and I only ask your attention to enable me to prove it."

"I will hear what you have to say before I take any further steps," said
Mortimer, grimly.

"I am determined to hold back nothing, and to take you both completely
into my confidence. I will leave it to your own generosity how far you
will use the facts with which I supply you."

"We have the essential facts already."

"And yet you understand nothing. Let me go back to what passed a few
weeks ago, and I will make it all clear to you. Believe me that what I
say is the absolute and exact truth.

"You have met the person who calls himself Captain Wilson. I say 'calls
himself' because I have reason now to believe that it is not his correct
name. It would take me too long if I were to describe all the means by
which he obtained an introduction to me and ingratiated himself into my
friendship and the affection of my daughter. He brought letters from
foreign colleagues which compelled me to show him some attention. And
then, by his own attainments, which are considerable, he succeeded in
making himself a very welcome visitor at my rooms. When I learned that my
daughter's affections had been gained by him, I may have thought it
premature, but I certainly was not surprised, for he had a charm of
manner and of conversation which would have made him conspicuous in any
society.

"He was much interested in Oriental antiquities, and his knowledge of the
subject justified his interest. Often when he spent the evening with us
he would ask permission to go down into the museum and have an
opportunity of privately inspecting the various specimens. You can
imagine that I, as an enthusiast, was in sympathy with such a request,
and that I felt no surprise at the constancy of his visits. After his
actual engagement to Elise, there was hardly an evening which he did not
pass with us, and an hour or two were generally devoted to the museum. He
had the free run of the place, and when I have been away for the evening
I had no objection to his doing whatever he wished here. This state of
things was only terminated by the fact of my resignation of my official
duties and my retirement to Norwood, where I hoped to have the leisure to
write a considerable work which I had planned.

"It was immediately after this--within a week or so--that I first
realized the true nature and character of the man whom I had so
imprudently introduced into my family. The discovery came to me through
letters from my friends abroad, which showed me that his introductions to
me had been forgeries. Aghast at the revelation, I asked myself what
motive this man could originally have had in practising this elaborate
deception upon me. I was too poor a man for any fortune-hunter to have
marked me down. Why, then, had he come? I remembered that some of the
most precious gems in Europe had been under my charge, and I remembered
also the ingenious excuses by which this man had made himself familiar
with the cases in which they were kept. He was a rascal who was planning
some gigantic robbery. How could I, without striking my own daughter, who
was infatuated about him, prevent him from carrying out any plan which he
might have formed? My device was a clumsy one, and yet I could think of
nothing more effective. If I had written a letter under my own name, you
would naturally have turned to me for details which I did not wish to
give. I resorted to an anonymous letter, begging you to be upon your
guard.

"I may tell you that my change from Belmore Street to Norwood had not
affected the visits of this man, who had, I believe, a real and
overpowering affection for my daughter. As to her, I could not have
believed that any woman could be so completely under the influence of a
man as she was. His stronger nature seemed to entirely dominate her. I
had not realized how far this was the case, or the extent of the
confidence which existed between them, until that very evening when his
true character for the first time was made clear to me. I had given
orders that when he called he should be shown into my study instead of to
the drawing-room. There I told him bluntly that I knew all about him,
that I had taken steps to defeat his designs, and that neither I nor my
daughter desired ever to see him again. I added that I thanked God that I
had found him out before he had time to harm those precious objects which
it had been the work of my life-time to protect.

"He was certainly a man of iron nerve. He took my remarks without a sign
either of surprise or of defiance, but listened gravely and attentively
until I had finished. Then he walked across the room without a word and
struck the bell.

"Ask Miss Andreas to be so kind as to step this way,' said he to the
servant.

"My daughter entered, and the man closed the door behind her. Then he
took her hand in his.

"'Elise,' said he, 'your father has just discovered that I am a villain.
He knows now what you knew before.'

"She stood in silence, listening.

"'He says that we are to part for ever,' said he.

"She did not withdraw her hand.

"' Will you be true to me, or will you remove the last good influence
which is ever likely to come into my life?'

"'John,' she cried, passionately, 'I will never abandon you! Never,
never, not if the whole world were against you.'

"In vain I argued and pleaded with her. It was absolutely useless. Her
whole life was bound up in this man before me. My daughter, gentlemen, is
all that I have left to love, and it filled me with agony when I saw how
powerless I was to save her from her ruin. My helplessness seemed to
touch this man who was the cause of my trouble.

"'It may not be as bad as you think, sir,' said he, in his quiet,
inflexible way. 'I love Elise with a love which is strong enough to
rescue even one who has such a record as I have. It was but yesterday
that I promised her that never again in my whole life would I do a thing
of which she should be ashamed. I have made up my mind to it, and never
yet did I make up my mind to a thing which I did not do.'

"He spoke with an air which carried conviction with it. As he concluded
he put his hand into his pocket and he drew out a small cardboard box.

"'I am about to give you a proof of my determination,' said he. 'This,
Elise, shall be the first-fruits of your redeeming influence over me. You
are right, sir, in thinking that I had designs upon the jewels in your
possession. Such ventures have had a charm for me, which depended as much
upon the risk run as upon the value of the prize. Those famous and
antique stones of the Jewish priest were a challenge to my daring and my
ingenuity. I determined to get them.'

"'I guessed as much.'

"'There was only one thing that you did not guess.'

"'And what is that?"

"'That I got them. They are in this box.'

"He opened the box, and tilted out the contents upon the corner of my
desk. My hair rose and my flesh grew cold as I looked. There were twelve
magnificent square stones engraved with mystical characters. There could
be no doubt that they _ were the jewels of the urim and thummim.

"'Good God!' I cried, 'How have you escaped discovery?'

"By the substitution of twelve others, made especially to my order, in
which the originals are so carefully imitated that I defy the eye to
detect the difference.'

"'Then the present stones are false?' I cried.

"'They have been for some weeks.'

"We all stood in silence, my daughter white with emotion, but still
holding this man by the hand.

"'You see what I am capable of, Elise,' said he.

"'I see that you are capable of repentance and restitution,' she
answered.

"'Yes, thanks to your influence! I leave the stones in your hands, sir.
Do what you like about it. But remember that whatever you do against me,
is done against the future husband of your only daughter. You will hear
from me soon again, Elise. It is the last time that I will ever cause
pain to your tender heart,' and with these words he left both the room
and the house.

"My position was a dreadful one. Here I was with these precious relics in
my possession, and how could I return them without a scandal and an
exposure? I knew the depth of my daughter's nature too well to suppose
that I would ever be able to detach her from this man now that she had
entirely given him her heart. I was not even sure how far it was right;
to detach her if she had such an ameliorating influence over him. How
could I expose him without injuring her--and how far was I justified in
exposing him when he had voluntarily put himself into my power? I thought
and thought, until at last I formed a resolution which may seem to you to
be a foolish one, and yet, if I had to do it again, I believe it would ho
the best course open to me.

"My idea was to return the stones without any one being the wiser. With
my keys I could get into the museum at any time, and I was confident that
I could avoid Simpson, whose hours and methods were familiar to me. I
determined to take no one into my confidence--not even my daughter--whom
I told that I was about to visit my brother in Scotland. I wanted a free
hand for a few nights, without inquiry as to my cominga and goings. To
this end I took a room in Harding Street that very night, with an
intimation that I was a pressman, and that I should keep very late hours.

"That night I made my way into the museum, and replaced four of the
stones. It was hard work, and took me all night. When Simpson came round
I always heard his footsteps, and concealed myself in the mummy-case. I
had some knowledge of goldwork, but was far less skilful than the thief
had been. He had replaced the setting so exactly that I defy anyone to
see the difference. My work was rude and clumsy. However, I hoped that
the plate might not be carefully examined, or the roughness of the
setting observed, until my task was done, Next night I replaced four more
stones. And to-night I should have finished my task had it not been for
the unfortunate circumstance which has caused me to reveal so much which
I should have wished to keep concealed. I appeal to you, gentlemen, to
your sense of honour and of compassion, whether what I have told you
should go any farther or not. My own happiness, my daughter's future, the
hopes of this man's regeneration, all depend upon your decision."

"Which is," said my friend, "that all is well that ends well, and that
the whole matter ends here and at once. To-morrow the loose settings
shall be tightened by an expert goldsmith, and so passes the greatest
danger to which, since the destruction of the Temple, the urim and
thummim have been exposed. Here is my hand. Professor Andreas, and I can
only hope that under such difficult circumstances I should have carried
myself as unselfishly and as well."

Just one footnote to this narrative. Within a month Elise Andreas was
married to a man whose name, had I the indiscretion to mention it, would
appeal to my readers as one who is now widely and deservedly honoured.
But if the truth were known, that honour is due not to him but to the
gentle girl who plucked him back when he had gone so far down that dark
road along which few return.

THE LOST SPECIAL

THE confession of Herbert de Lernac, now lying under sentence of death at
Marseilles, has thrown a light upon one of the most inexplicable crimes
of the century--an incident which is, I believe, absolutely
unprecedented in the criminal annals of any country. Although there is a
reluctance to discuss the matter in official circles, and little
information has been given to the Press, there are still indications that
the statement of this arch-criminal is corroborated by the facts, and
that we have at last found a solution for a most astounding business. As
the matter is eight years old, and as its importance was somewhat
obscured by a political crisis which was engaging the public attention at
the time, it may be as well to state the facts as far as we have been
able to ascertain them. They are collated from the Liverpool papers of
that date, from the proceedings at the inquest upon John Slater, the
engine-driver, and from the records of the London and West Coast Rail-way
Company, which have been courteously put at my disposal. Briefly, they
are as follows.

On the 3rd of June, 1890, a gentleman, who gave his name as Monsieur
Louis Caratal, desired an interview with Mr. James Bland, the
superintendent of the London and West Coast Central Station in Liverpool.

He was a small man, middle-aged and dark, with a stoop which was so
marked that it suggested some deformity of the spine. He was accompanied
by a friend, a man of imposing physique, whose deferential manner and
constant attention showed that his position was one of dependence. This
friend or companion, whose name did not transpire, was certainly a
foreigner, and probably, from his swarthy complexion, either a Spaniard
or a South American. One peculiarity was observed in him. He carried in
his left hand a small black leather dispatch-box, and it was noticed by a
sharp-eyed clerk in the Central office that this box was fastened to his
wrist by a strap. No importance was attached to the fact at the time, but
subsequent events endowed it with some significance. Monsieur Caratal was
shown up to Mr. Bland's office, while his companion remained outside,

Monsieur Caratal's business was quickly dispatched. He had arrived that
afternoon from Central America. Affairs of the utmost importance demanded
that he should be in Paris without the loss of an unnecessary hour. He
had missed the London express. A special must be provided. Money was of
no importance. Time was everything. If the company would speed him on his
way, they might make their own terms.

Mr. Bland struck the electric bell, summoned Mr. Potter Hood, the traffic
manager, and had the matter arranged in five minutes. The train would
start in three-quarters of an hour. It would take that time to insure
that the line should be clear. The powerful engine called Rochdale (No.
247 on the company's register) was attached to two carriages, with a
guard's van behind. The first carriage was solely for the purpose of
decreasing the inconvenience arising from the oscillation. The second was
divided, as usual, into four compartments, a first-class, a first-class
smoking, a second-class, and a second-class smoking. The first
compartment, which was nearest to the engine, was the one allotted to the
travellers. The other three were empty. The guard of the special train
was James McPherson, who had been some years in the service of the
company. The stoker, William Smith, was a new hand.

Monsieur Caratal, upon leaving the superintendent's office, rejoined his
companion, and both of them manifested extreme impatience to be off.
Having paid the money asked, which amounted to fifty pounds five
shillings, at the usual special rate of five shillings a mile, they
demanded to be shown the carriage, and at once took their seats in it,
although they were assured that the better part of an hour must elapse
before the line could be cleared. In the meantime a singular coincidence
had occurred in the office which Monsieur Caratal had just quitted.

A request for a special is not a very uncommon circumstance in a rich
commercial centre, but that two should be required upon the same
afternoon was most unusual. It so happened, however, that Mr. Bland had
hardly dismissed the first traveller before a second entered with a
similar request. This was a Mr. Horace Moore, a gentlemanly man of
military appearance, who alleged that the sudden serious illness of his
wife in London made it absolutely imperative that he should not lose an
instant in starting upon the journey. His distress and anxiety were so
evident that Mr. Bland did all that was possible to meet his wishes. A
second special was out of the question, as the ordinary local service was
already somewhat deranged by the first. There was the alternative,
however, that Mr. Moore should share the expense of Monsieur Caratal's
train, and should travel in the other empty first-class compartment, if
Monsieur Caratal objected to having him in the one which he occupied. It
was difficult to see any objection to such an arrangement, and yet
Monsieur Caratal, upon the suggestion being made to him by Mr. Potter
Hood, absolutely refused to consider it for an instant. The train was
his, he said, and he would insist upon the exclusive use of it. All
argument failed to overcome his ungracious objections, and finally the
plan had to be abandoned. Mr. Horace Moore left the station in great
distress, after learning that his only course was to take the ordinary
slow train which leaves Liverpool, at six o'clock. At four thirty-one
exactly by the station clock the special train, containing the crippled
Monsieur Caratal and his gigantic companion, steamed out of the Liverpool
station. The line was at that time clear, and there should have been no
stoppage before Manchester.

The trains of the London and West Coast Railway run over the lines of
another company as far as this town, which should have been reached by
the special rather before six o'clock. At a quarter after six
considerable surprise and some consternation were caused amongst the
officials at Liverpool by the receipt of a telegram from Manchester to
say that it had not yet arrived. An inquiry directed to St. Helens, which
is a third of the way between the two cities, elicited the following
reply:--

"To James Bland, Superintendent, Central L. & W. C., Liverpool.--Special
passed here at 4.52, well up to time.--Dowser, St. Helens."

This telegram was received at 6.40. At 6.50 a second message was received
from Manchester:--

"No sign of special as advised by you."

And then ten minutes later a third, more bewildering:--

"Presume some mistake as to proposed running of special. Local train from
St. Helens timed to follow it has just arrived and has seen nothing of
it. Kindly wire advices.--Manchester."

The matter was assuming a most amazing aspect, although in some respects
the last telegram was a relief to the authorities at Liverpool. If an
accident had occurred to the special, it seemed hardly possible that the
local train could have passed down the same line without observing it.
And yet, what was the alternative? Where could the train be? Had it
possibly been side-tracked for some reason in order to allow the slower
train to go past? Such an explanation was possible if some small repair
had to be effected. A telegram was dispatched to each of the stations
between St. Helens and Manchester, and the superintendent and traffic
manager waited in the utmost suspense at the instrument for the series of
replies which would enable them to say for certain what had become of the
missing train. The answers came back in the order of questions, which was
the order of the stations beginning at the St. Helens end;--

"Special passed here five o'clock.--Collins Green."

"Special passed here six past five.--Earlestown."

"Special passed here 5.10.--Newton."

"Special passed here 5.20.--Kenyon Junction."

" No special train has passed here.--Barton Moss."

The two officials stared at each other in amazement.

"This is unique in my thirty years of experience," said Mr. Bland.

"Absolutely unprecedented and inexplicable, sir. The special has gone
wrong between Kenyon Junction and Barton Moss."

"And yet there is no siding, so far as my memory serves me, between the
two stations. The special must