Title: The D'Arblay mystery
Author: Freeman, R. Austin (Richard Austin)
Language: English
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The D’Arblay Mystery

by R. Austin Freeman



CONTENTS

    I. The Pool in the Wood
   II. A Conference with Dr. Thorndyke
  III. The Doctor’s Revelations
   IV. Mr. Bendelow
    V. Inspector Follett’s Discovery
   VI. Marion D’Arblay at Home
  VII. Thorndyke Enlarges His Knowledge
 VIII. Simon Bendelow, Deceased
   IX. A Strange Misadventure
    X. Marion’s Peril
   XI. Arms and the Man
  XII. A Dramatic Discovery
 XIII. A Narrow Escape
  XIV. The Haunted Man
   XV. Thorndyke Proposes a New Move
  XVI. A Surprise for the Superintendent
 XVII. A Chapter of Surprises
XVIII. The Last Act
  XIX. Thorndyke Disentangles the Threads



CHAPTER I.

The Pool in the Wood

There are certain days in our lives which, as we recall them, seem to
detach themselves from the general sequence as forming the
starting-point of a new epoch. Doubtless, if we examined them
critically, we should find them to be but links in a connected chain.
But in a retrospective glance their continuity with the past is
unperceived, and we see them in relation to the events which followed
them rather than to those which went before.

Such a day is that on which I look back through a vista of some twenty
years; for on that day I was, suddenly and without warning, plunged
into the very heart of a drama so strange and incredible that in the
recital of its events I am conscious of a certain diffidence and
hesitation.

The picture that rises before me as I write is very clear and vivid. I
see myself, a youngster of twenty-five, the owner of a brand-new
medical diploma, wending my way gaily down Wood-lane, Highgate, at
about eight o’clock on a sunny morning in early autumn. I was taking a
day’s holiday, the last I was likely to enjoy for some time; for on
the morrow I was to enter on the duties of my first professional
appointment. I had nothing in view to-day but sheer, delightful
idleness. It is true that a sketch-book in one pocket and a box of
collecting-tubes in another suggested a bare hint of purpose in the
expedition; but primarily it was a holiday, a pleasure jaunt, to which
art and science were no more than possible sources of contributory
satisfaction.

At the lower end of the lane was the entrance to Church-yard Bottom
Wood, then open and unguarded save by a few hurdles (it has since been
enclosed and re-named “Queen’s Wood”). I entered and took my way along
the broad, rough path, pleasantly conscious of the deep silence and
seeming remoteness of this surviving remnant of the primeval forest of
Britain, and letting my thoughts stray to the great plague-pit in the
haunted wood that gave the place its name. The foliage of the oaks was
still unchanged despite the waning of the year. The low-slanting
sunlight spangled it with gold and made rosy patterns on the path,
where lay a few prematurely fallen leaves; but in the hollows among
the undergrowth traces of the night-mists lingered, shrouding
tree-bole, bush, and fern in a mystery of gauzy blue.

A turn of the path brought me suddenly within a few paces of a girl
who was stooping at the entrance to a side-track, and seemed to be
peering into the undergrowth as if looking for something. As I
appeared, she stood up and looked round at me with a startled,
apprehensive manner that caused me to look away and pass as if I had
not seen her. But the single glance had shown me that she was a
strikingly handsome girl—indeed, I should have used the word
“beautiful”; that she seemed to be about my own age, and that she was
evidently a lady.

The apparition, pleasant as it was, set me speculating as I strode
forward. It was early for a girl like this to be afoot in the woods,
and alone, too. Not so very safe, either, as she had seemed to
realize, judging by the start that my approach seemed to have given
her. And what could it be that she was looking for? Had she lost
something at some previous time and come to search for it before any
one was about? It might be so. Certainly she was not a poacher, for
there was nothing to poach, and she hardly had the manner or
appearance of a naturalist.

A little farther on I struck into a side path which led, as I knew, in
the direction of a small pond. That pond I had had in my mind when I
put the box of collecting-tubes in my pocket, and I now made my way to
it as directly as the winding track would let me; but still it was not
the pond or its inmates that occupied my thoughts, but the mysterious
maiden whom I had left peering into the undergrowth. Perhaps if she
had been less attractive I might have given her less consideration.
But I was twenty-five; and if a man at twenty-five has not a keen and
appreciative eye for a pretty girl, there must be something radically
wrong with his mental make-up.

In the midst of my reflections I came out into a largish opening in
the wood, at the centre of which, in a slight hollow, was the pond: a
small oval piece of water, fed by the trickle of a tiny stream, the
continuation of which carried away the overflow towards the invisible
valley.

Approaching the margin, I brought out my box of tubes and, uncorking
one, stooped and took a trial dip. When I held the glass tube against
the light and examined its contents through my pocket lens I found
that I was in luck. The “catch” included a green hydra, clinging to a
rootlet of duckweed, several active water-fleas, a scarlet water-mite,
and a beautiful sessile rotifer. Evidently this pond was a rich
hunting ground.

Delighted with my success, I corked the tube, put it away, and brought
out another, with which I took a fresh dip. This was less successful,
but the naturalist’s ardour and the collector’s cupidity being
thoroughly aroused, I persevered, gradually enriching my collection
and working my way slowly round the margin of the pond, forgetful of
everything—even of the mysterious maiden—but the objects of my search;
indeed, so engrossed was I with my pursuit of the minute denizens of
this watery world that I failed to observe a much larger object which
must have been in view most of the time. Actually, I did not see it
until I was right over it. Then, as I was stooping to clear away the
duckweed for a fresh dip, I found myself confronted by a human face,
just below the surface and half-concealed by the pond-weed.

It was a truly appalling experience. Utterly unprepared for this awful
apparition, I was so overcome by astonishment and horror that I
remained stooping, with motion arrested, as if petrified, staring at
the thing in silence and hardly breathing. The face was that of a man
of about fifty or a little more: a handsome, refined, rather
intellectual face, with a moustache and Vandyke beard, and surmounted
by a thickish growth of iron-grey hair. Of the rest of the body little
was to be seen, for the duckweed and water-crowfoot had drifted over
it, and I had no inclination to disturb them.

Recovering somewhat from the shock of this sudden and fearful
encounter, I stood up and rapidly considered what I had better do. It
was clearly not for me to make any examination or meddle with the
corpse in any way; indeed, when I considered the early hour and the
remoteness of this solitary place, it seemed prudent to avoid the
possibility of being seen there by any chance stranger. Thus
reflecting, with my eyes still riveted on the pallid, impassive face,
so strangely sleeping below the glassy surface and conveying to me
somehow a dim sense of familiarity, I pocketed my tubes, and, turning
back, stole away along the woodland track, treading lightly, almost
stealthily, as one escaping from the scene of a crime.

Very different was my mood, as I retraced my steps, from that in which
I had come. Gone was all my gaiety and holiday spirit. The dread
meeting had brought me into an atmosphere of tragedy, perchance even
of something more than tragedy. With death I was familiar enough;
death as it comes to men, prefaced by sickness or even by injury. But
the dead man who lay in that still and silent pool in the heart of the
wood had come there by none of the ordinary chances of normal life. It
seemed barely possible that he could have fallen in by mere
misadventure, for the pond was too shallow and its bottom shelved too
gently for accidental drowning to be conceivable. Nor was the strange,
sequestered spot without significance. It was just such a spot as
might well be chosen by one who sought to end his life—or another’s.

I had nearly reached the main path when an abrupt turn of the narrow
track brought me once more face to face with the girl whose existence
I had till now forgotten. She was still peering into the dense
undergrowth as if searching for something; and again, on my sudden
appearance, she turned a startled face towards me. But this time I did
not look away. Something in her face struck me with a nameless fear.
It was not only that she was pale and haggard, but that her expression
betokened anxiety and even terror. As I looked at her I understood in
a flash the dim sense of familiarity of which I had been conscious in
the pallid face beneath the water. It was her face that it had
recalled.

With my heart in my mouth, I halted and, taking off my cap, addressed
her.

“Pray pardon me; you seem to be searching for something. Can I help
you in any way or give you any information?”

She looked at me a little shyly and, as I thought, with slight
distrust, but she answered civilly enough, though rather stiffly:

“Thank you, but I am afraid you can’t help me. I am not in need of any
assistance.”

This, under ordinary circumstances, would have brought the interview
to an abrupt end. But the circumstances were not ordinary, and as she
made as if to pass me I ventured to persist.

“Please,” I urged, “don’t think me impertinent, but would you mind
telling me what you are looking for? I have a reason for asking, and
it isn’t curiosity.”

She reflected for a few moments before replying, and I feared that she
was about to administer another snub. Then, without looking at me, she
replied:

“I am looking for my father” (and at these words my heart sank). “He
did not come home last night. He left Hornsey to come home, and he
would ordinarily have come by the path through the wood. He always
came that way from Hornsey. So I am looking through the wood in case
he missed his way, or was taken ill, or——”

Here the poor girl suddenly broke off, and, letting her dignity go,
burst into tears. I huskily murmured a few indistinct words of
condolence, but, in truth, I was little less affected than she was. It
was a terrible position, but there was no escape from it. The corpse
that I had just seen was almost certainly her father’s corpse. At any
rate, the question whether it was or not had to be settled now, and
settled by me—and her. That was quite clear; but yet I could not screw
my courage up to the point of telling her. While I was hesitating,
however, she forced the position by a direct question.

“You said just now that you had a reason for asking what I was
searching for. Would it be——?” She paused and looked at me inquiringly
as she wiped her eyes.

I made a last, frantic search for some means of breaking the horrid
news to her. Of course there was none. Eventually I stammered:

“The reason I asked was—er—the fact is that I have just seen the body
of a man lying——”

“Where?” she demanded. “Show me the place!”

Without replying, I turned and began quickly to retrace my steps along
the narrow track. A few minutes brought me to the opening in which the
pond was situated, and I was just beginning to skirt the margin,
closely followed by my companion, when I heard her utter a low,
gasping cry. The next moment she had passed me and was running along
the bank towards a spot where I could now see the toe of a boot just
showing through the duckweed. I stopped short and watched her with my
heart in my throat. Straight to the fatal spot she ran, and for a
moment stood on the brink, stooping over the weedy surface. Then, with
a terrible, wailing cry, she stepped into the water.

Instantly I ran forward and waded into the pond to her side. Already
she had her arms round the dead man’s neck and was raising the face
above the surface. I saw that she meant to bring the body ashore, and,
useless as it was, it seemed a natural thing to do. Silently I passed
my arms under the corpse and lifted it; and as she supported the head
we bore it through the shallows and up the bank, where I laid it down
gently in the high grass.

Not a word had been spoken, nor was there any question that need be
asked. The pitiful tale told itself only too plainly. As I stood
looking with swimming eyes at the tragic group, a whole history seemed
to unfold itself; a history of love and companionship, of a happy,
peaceful past made sunny by mutual affection, shattered in an instant
by the hideous present, with its portent of a sad and lonely future.
She had sat down on the grass and taken the dead head on her lap,
tenderly wiping the face with her handkerchief, smoothing the grizzled
hair and crooning or moaning words of endearment into the insensible
ears. She had forgotten my presence: indeed, she was oblivious of
everything but the still form that bore the outward semblance of her
father.

Some minutes passed thus. I stood a little apart, cap in hand, more
moved than I had ever been in my life, and, naturally enough,
unwilling to break in upon a grief so overwhelming and, as it seemed
to me, so sacred. But presently it began to be borne in on me that
something had to be done. The body would have to be removed from this
place, and the proper authorities ought to be notified. Still, it was
some time before I could gather courage to intrude on her sorrow; to
profane her grief with the sordid realities of everyday life. At last
I braced myself up for the effort, and addressed her.

“Your father,” I said gently—I could not refer to him as “the
body”—“will have to be taken away from here; and the proper persons
will have to be informed of what has happened. Shall I go alone, or
will you come with me? I don’t like to leave you here.”

She looked up at me, and to my relief answered me with quiet
composure:

“I can’t leave him here all alone. I must stay with him until he is
taken away. Do you mind telling whoever ought to be told”—like me, she
instinctively avoided the word “police”—“and making what arrangements
are necessary?”

There was nothing more to be said; and loath as I was to leave her
alone with the dead, my heart assented to her decision. In her place,
I should have had the same feeling. Accordingly, with a promise to
return as quickly as I could, I stole away along the woodland track.
When I turned to take a last glance at her before plunging into the
wood, she was once more leaning over the head that lay in her lap,
looking with fond grief into the impassive face and stroking the dank
hair.

My intention had been to go straight to the police-station, when I had
ascertained its whereabouts, and make my report to the officer in
charge. But a fortunate chance rendered this proceeding unnecessary,
for, at the moment when I emerged from the top of Wood-lane, I saw a
police-officer, mounted on a bicycle—a road patrol, as I assumed him
to be—approaching along the Archway-road. I hailed him to stop, and as
he dismounted and stepped on to the footway I gave him a brief account
of the finding of the body and my meeting with the daughter of the
dead man. He listened with calm, business-like interest, and, when I
had finished, said:

“We had better get the body removed as quickly as possible. I will run
along to the station and get the wheeled stretcher. There is no need
for you to come. If you will go back and wait for us at the entrance
to the wood that will save time. We shall be there within a quarter of
an hour.”

I agreed gladly to this arrangement, and when I had seen him mount his
machine and shoot away along the road, I turned back down the Lane and
re-entered the wood. Before taking up my post, I walked quickly down
the path and along the track to the opening by the pond. My new friend
was sitting just as I had left her, but she looked up as I emerged
from the track and advanced towards her. I told her briefly what had
happened and was about to retire when she asked: “Will they take him
to our house?”

“I am afraid not,” I replied. “There will have to be an inquiry by the
coroner, and until that is finished his body will have to remain in
the mortuary.”

“I was afraid it might be so,” she said with quiet resignation; and as
she spoke she looked down with infinite sadness at the waxen face in
her lap. A good deal relieved by her reasonable acceptance of the
painful necessities, I turned back and made my way to the rendezvous
at the entrance to the wood.

As I paced to and fro on the shady path, keeping a look-out up the
Lane, my mind was busy with the tragedy to which I had become a party.
It was a grievous affair. The passionate grief which I had witnessed
spoke of no common affection. On one life at least this disaster had
inflicted irreparable loss, and there were probably others on whom the
blow had yet to fall. But it was not only a grievous affair; it was
highly mysterious. The dead man had apparently been returning home at
night in a customary manner and by a familiar way. That he could have
strayed by chance from the open, well-worn path into the recesses of
the wood was inconceivable, while the hour and the circumstances made
it almost as incredible that he should have been wandering in the wood
by choice. And again, the water in which he had been lying was quite
shallow; so shallow as to rule out accidental drowning as an
impossibility.

What could the explanation be? There seemed to be but three
possibilities, and two of them could hardly be entertained. The idea
of intoxication I rejected at once. The girl was evidently a lady, and
her father was presumably a gentleman, who would not be likely to be
wandering abroad drunk; nor could a man who was sober enough to have
reached the pond have been so helpless as to be drowned in its shallow
waters. To suppose that he might have fallen into the water in a fit
was to leave unexplained the circumstance of his being in that remote
place at such an hour. The only possibility that remained was that of
suicide; and I could not but admit that some of the appearances seemed
to support that view. The solitary place—more solitary still at
night—was precisely such as an intending suicide might be expected to
seek; the shallow water presented no inconsistency; and when I
recalled how I had found his daughter searching the wood with evident
foreboding of evil, I could not escape the feeling that the dreadful
possibility had not been entirely unforeseen.

My meditations had reached this point when, as I turned once more
towards the entrance and looked up the Lane, I saw two constables
approaching, trundling a wheeled stretcher, while a third man,
apparently an inspector, walked by its side. As the little procession
reached the entrance, and I turned back to show the way, the latter
joined me and began at once to interrogate me. I gave him my name,
address, and occupation, and followed this with a rapid sketch of the
facts as known to me, which he jotted down in a large notebook, and he
then said:

“As you are a doctor, you can probably tell me how long the man had
been dead when you first saw him.”

“By the appearance and the rigidity,” I replied, “I should say about
nine or ten hours; which agrees pretty well with the account his
daughter gave of his movements.”

The inspector nodded. “The man and the young lady,” said he, “are
strangers to you, I understand. I suppose you haven’t picked up
anything that would throw any light on the affair?”

“No,” I answered; “I know nothing but what I have told you.”

“Well,” he remarked, “it’s a queer business. It is a queer place for a
man to be in at night, and he must have gone there of his own accord.
But there, it is no use guessing. It will all be thrashed out at the
inquest.”

As he reached this discreet conclusion, we came out into the opening
and I heard him murmur very feelingly, “Dear, dear! Poor thing.” The
girl seemed hardly to have changed her position since I had last seen
her, but she now tenderly laid the dead head on the grass and rose as
we approached; and I saw with great concern that her skirts were
soaked almost from the waist downwards.

The officer took off his cap and as he drew near looked down gravely
but with an inquisitive eye at the dead man. Then he turned to the
girl and said in a singularly gentle and deferential manner:

“This is a very terrible thing, Miss. A dreadful thing. I assure you
that I am more sorry for you than I can tell; and I hope you will
forgive me for having to intrude on your sorrow by asking questions. I
won’t trouble you more than I can help.”

“Thank you,” she replied quietly. “Of course I realize your position.
What do you want me to tell you?”

“I understand,” replied the inspector, “that this poor gentleman was
your father. Would you mind telling me who he was and where he lived
and giving me your own name and address?”

“My father’s name,” she answered, “was Julius D’Arblay. His private
address was Ivy Cottage, North Grove, Highgate. His studio and
workshop, where he carried on the profession of a modeller, is in
Abbey-road, Hornsey. My name is Marion D’Arblay, and I lived with my
father. He was a widower and I was his only child.”

As she concluded, with a slight break in her voice, the inspector
shook his head, and again murmured, “Dear, dear,” as he rapidly
entered her answers in his notebook. Then, in a deeply apologetic
tone, he asked:

“Would you mind telling us what you know as to how this happened?”

“I know very little,” she replied. “As he did not come home last
night, I went to the studio this morning quite early to see if he was
there. He sometimes stayed there all night when he was working very
late. The woman who lives in the adjoining house and looks after the
studio, told me that he had been working late last night, but that he
left to come home soon after ten. He always used to come through the
wood because it was the shortest way and the most pleasant. So when I
learned that he had started to come home, I came to the wood to see if
I could find any traces of him. Then I met this gentleman, and he told
me that he had seen a dead man in the wood, and——” Here she suddenly
broke down, and, sobbing passionately, flung out her hand towards the
corpse.

The inspector shut his notebook and, murmuring some indistinct words
of sympathy, nodded to the constables, who had drawn up the stretcher
a few paces away and lifted off the cover. On this silent instruction
they approached the body, and, with the inspector’s assistance and
mine, lifted it on to the stretcher without removing the latter from
its carriage. As they picked up the cover the inspector turned to Miss
D’Arblay and said gently but finally: “You had better not come with
us. We must take him to the mortuary, but you will see him again after
the inquest, when he will be brought to your house if you wish it.”

She made no objection; but as the constables approached with the cover
she stooped over the stretcher and kissed the dead man on the
forehead. Then she turned away; the cover was placed in position; the
inspector and the constables saluted reverently, and the stretcher was
wheeled away along the narrow track.

For some time after it had gone, we stood in silence at the margin of
the pond with our eyes fixed on the place where it had disappeared. I
considered in no little embarrassment what was to be done next. It was
most desirable that Miss D’Arblay should be got home as soon as
possible, and I did not at all like the idea of her going alone, for
her appearance, with her drenched skirts and her dazed and rather wild
expression, was such as to attract unpleasant attention. But I was a
total stranger to her, and I felt a little shy of pressing my company
on her. However, it seemed a plain duty, and, as I saw her shiver
slightly, I said:

“You had better go home now and change your clothes. They are very
wet. And you have some distance to go.”

She looked down at her soaked dress and then she looked at me.

“You are rather wet, too,” she said. “I am afraid I have given you a
great deal of trouble.”

“It is little enough that I have been able to do,” I replied. “But you
must really go home now; and if you will let me walk with you and see
you safely to your house, I shall be much more easy in my mind.”

“Thank you,” she replied. “It is kind of you to offer to see me home,
and I am glad not to have to go alone.”

With this, we walked together to the edge of the opening, and
proceeded in single file along the track to the main path, and so out
into Wood-lane, at the top of which we crossed the Archway Road into
Southwood-lane. We walked mostly in silence, for I was unwilling to
disturb her meditations with attempts at conversation, which could
only have seemed banal or impertinent. For her part, she appeared to
be absorbed in reflections the nature of which I could easily guess,
and her grief was too fresh for any thought of distraction. But I
found myself speculating with profound discomfort on what might be
awaiting her at home. It is true that her own desolate state as an
orphan without brothers or sisters had its compensation in that there
was no wife to whom the dreadful tidings had to be imparted, nor any
fellow orphans to have their bereavement broken to them. But there
must be some one who cared; or, if there were not, what a terrible
loneliness would reign in that house!

“I hope,” I said, as we approached our destination, “that there is
some one at home to share your grief and comfort you a little.”

“There is,” she replied. “I was thinking of her, and how grievous it
will be to have to tell her: an old servant and a dear friend. She was
my mother’s nurse when the one was a child and the other but a young
girl. She came to our house when my mother married, and has managed
our home ever since. This will be a terrible shock to her, for she
loved my father dearly—every one loved him who knew him. And she has
been like a mother to me since my own mother died. I don’t know how I
shall break it to her.”

Her voice trembled as she concluded and I was deeply troubled to think
of the painful homecoming that loomed before her; but still it was a
comfort to know that her sorrow would be softened by sympathy and
loving companionship, not heightened by the empty desolation that I
had feared.

A few minutes more brought us to the little square—which, by the way,
was triangular—and to a pleasant little old-fashioned house, on the
gate of which was painted the name, “Ivy Cottage.” In the bay window
on the ground floor I observed a formidable-looking elderly woman, who
was watching our approach with evident curiosity; which, as we drew
nearer and the state of our clothing became visible, gave place to
anxiety and alarm. Then she disappeared suddenly, to reappear a few
moments later at the open door, where she stood viewing us both with
consternation and me in particular with profound disfavour.

At the gate Miss D’Arblay halted and held out her hand. “Good-bye,”
she said. “I must thank you some other time for all your kindness;”
and with this she turned abruptly, and, opening the gate, walked up
the little paved path to the door where the old woman was waiting.



CHAPTER II.

A Conference with Dr. Thorndyke

The sound of the closing door seemed, as it were, to punctuate my
experiences and to mark the end of a particular phase. So long as Miss
D’Arblay was present, my attention was entirely taken up by her grief
and distress; but now that I was alone I found myself considering at
large the events of this memorable morning. What was the meaning of
this tragedy? How came this man to be lying dead in that pool? No
common misadventure seemed to fit the case. A man may easily fall into
deep water and be drowned; may step over a quay-side in the dark or
trip on a mooring-rope or ring-bolt. But here there was nothing to
suggest any possible accident. The water was hardly two feet deep
where the body was lying and much less close to the edge. If he had
walked in in the dark, he would simply have walked out again. Besides,
how came he there at all? The only explanation that was intelligible
was that he went there with the deliberate purpose of making away with
himself.

I pondered this explanation, and found myself unwilling to accept it,
notwithstanding that his daughter’s presence in the wood, her obvious
apprehension, and her terrified searching among the underwood seemed
to hint at a definite expectation on her part. But yet that
possibility was discounted by what his daughter had told me of him.
Little as she had said, it was clear that he was a man universally
beloved. Such men, in making the world a pleasant place for others,
make it pleasant for themselves. They are usually happy men; and happy
men do not commit suicide. Yet, if the idea of suicide were rejected,
what was left? Nothing but an insoluble mystery.

I turned the problem over again and again as I sat on the top of the
tram (where I could keep my wet trousers out of sight), not as a
matter of mere curiosity but as one in which I was personally
concerned. Friendships spring up into sudden maturity under great
emotional stress. I had known Marion D’Arblay but an hour or two, but
they were hours which neither of us would ever forget; and in that
brief space she had become to me a friend who was entitled, as of
right, to sympathy and service. So, as I revolved in my mind the
mystery of this man’s death, I found myself thinking of him not as a
chance stranger but as the father of a friend; and thus it seemed to
devolve upon me to elucidate the mystery, if possible.

It is true that I had no special qualifications for investigating an
obscure case of this kind, but yet I was better equipped than most
young medical men. For my hospital, St. Margaret’s, though its medical
school was but a small one, had one great distinction; the chair of
Medical Jurisprudence was occupied by one of the greatest living
authorities on the subject, Dr. John Thorndyke. To him and his
fascinating lectures my mind naturally turned as I ruminated on the
problem; and presently, when I found myself unable to evolve any
reasonable suggestion, the idea occurred to me to go and lay the facts
before the great man himself.

Once started, the idea took full possession of me, and I decided to
waste no time but to seek him at once. This was not his day for
lecturing at the hospital, but I could find his address in our school
calendar; and as my means, though modest, allowed of my retaining him
in a regular way, I need have no scruples as to occupying his time. I
looked at my watch. It was even now but a little past noon. I had time
to change and get an early lunch and still make my visit while the day
was young.

A couple of hours later found me walking slowly down the pleasant,
tree-shaded footway of King’s Bench-walk in the Inner Temple, looking
up at the numbers above the entries. Dr. Thorndyke’s number was 5a,
which I presently discovered inscribed on the keystone of a fine,
dignified brick portico of the seventeenth century, on the jamb
whereof was painted his name as the occupant of the “1st pair.” I
accordingly ascended the first pair, and was relieved to find that my
teacher was apparently at home; for a massive outer door, above which
his name was painted, stood wide open, revealing an inner door,
furnished with a small, brilliantly burnished brass knocker, on which
I ventured to execute a modest rat-tat. Almost immediately the door
was opened by a small, clerical-looking gentleman who wore a black
linen apron—and ought, from his appearance, to have had black gaiters
to match—and who regarded me with a look of polite inquiry.

“I wanted to see Dr. Thorndyke,” said I, adding discreetly, “on a
matter of professional business.”

The little gentleman beamed on me benevolently. “The doctor,” said he,
“has gone to lunch at his club, but he will be coming in quite
shortly. Would you like to wait for him?”

“Thank you,” I replied, “I should, if you think I shall not be
disturbing him.”

The little gentleman smiled; that is to say, the multitudinous
wrinkles that covered his face arranged themselves into a sort of
diagram of geniality. It was the crinkliest smile that I have ever
seen, but a singularly pleasant one.

“The doctor,” said he, “is never disturbed by professional business.
No man is ever disturbed by having to do what he enjoys doing.”

As he spoke, his eyes turned unconsciously to the table, on which
stood a microscope, a tray of slides and mounting material, and a
small heap of what looked like dressmaker’s cuttings.

“Well,” I said, “don’t let me disturb you, if you are busy.”

He thanked me very graciously, and, having installed me in an easy
chair, sat down at the table and resumed his occupation, which
apparently consisted in isolating fibres from the various samples of
cloth and mounting them as microscopic specimens. I watched him as he
worked, admiring his neat, precise, unhurried methods, and speculating
on the purpose of his proceedings; whether he was preparing what one
might call museum specimens, to be kept for reference, or whether
these preparations were related to some particular case. I was
considering whether it would be admissible for me to ask a question on
the subject when he paused in his work, assuming a listening attitude,
with one hand—holding a mounting-needle—raised and motionless.

“Here comes the doctor,” said he.

I listened intently and became aware of footsteps, very faint and far
away, and only barely perceptible. But my clerical friend—who must
have had the auditory powers of a watch-dog—had no doubts as to their
identity, for he began quietly to pack all his material on the tray.
Meanwhile the footsteps drew nearer; they turned in at the entry and
ascended the “first pair,” by which time my crinkly-faced acquaintance
had the door open. The next moment Dr. Thorndyke entered and was duly
informed that “a gentleman was waiting to see” him.

“You under-estimate my powers of observation, Polton,” he informed his
subordinate, with a smile. “I can see the gentleman distinctly with
the naked eye. How do you do, Gray?”—and he shook my hand cordially.

“I hope I haven’t come at the wrong time, sir,” said I. “If I have,
you must adjourn me. But I want to consult you about a rather queer
case.”

“Good,” said Thorndyke. “There is no wrong time for a queer case. Let
me hang up my hat and fill my pipe and then you can proceed to make my
flesh creep.”

He disposed of his hat, and when Mr. Polton had departed with his tray
of material he filled his pipe, laid a note block on the table, and
invited me to begin; whereupon I gave him a detailed account of what
had befallen me in the course of the morning, to which he listened
with close attention, jotting down an occasional note, but not
interrupting my narrative. When I had finished he read through his
notes and then said:

“It is, of course, evident to you that all the appearances point to
suicide. Have you any reasons, other than those you have mentioned,
for rejecting that view?”

“I am afraid not,” I replied gloomily. “But you have always taught us
to beware of too ready acceptance of the theory of suicide in doubtful
cases.”

He nodded approvingly. “Yes,” he said, “that is a cardinal principle
in medico-legal practice. All other possibilities should be explored
before suicide is accepted. But our difficulty in this case is that we
have hardly any of the relevant facts. The evidence at the inquest may
make everything clear. On the other hand it may leave things obscure.
But what is your concern with the case? You are merely a witness to
the finding of the body. The parties are all strangers to you, are
they not?”

“They were,” I replied. “But I feel that some one ought to keep an eye
on things for Miss D’Arblay’s sake, and circumstances seem to have put
the duty on me. So, as I can afford to pay any costs that are likely
to be incurred, I proposed to ask you to undertake the case—on a
strict business footing, you know, sir.”

“When you speak of my undertaking the case,” said he, “what is it that
is in your mind? What do you want me to do in the matter?”

“I want you to take any measures that you may think necessary,” I
replied, “to ascertain definitely, if possible, how this man came by
his death.”

He reflected awhile before answering. At length he said:

“The examination of the body will be conducted by the person whom the
coroner appoints, probably the police surgeon. I will write to the
coroner for permission to be present at the post-mortem examination.
He will certainly make no difficulties. I will also write to the
police surgeon, who is sure to be quite helpful. If the post-mortem
throws no light on the case—in fact, in any event—I will instruct a
first-class shorthand writer to attend at the inquest and make a
verbatim report of the evidence; and you, of course, will be present
as a witness. That, I think, is about all that we can do at present.
When we have heard all the evidence, including that furnished by the
body itself, we shall be able to judge whether the case calls for
further investigation. How will that do?”

“It is all that I could wish,” I answered, “and I am most grateful to
you, sir, for giving your time to the case. I hope you don’t think I
have been unduly meddlesome.”

“Not in the least,” he replied warmly. “I think you have shown a very
proper spirit in the way you have interpreted your neighbourly duties
to this poor, bereaved girl, who, apparently, has no one else to watch
over her interests. And I take it as a compliment from an old pupil
that you should seek my help.”

I thanked him again, very sincerely, and had risen to take my leave,
when he held up his hand.

“Sit down, Gray, if you are not in a hurry,” said he. “I hear the
pleasant clink of crockery. Let us follow the example of the eminent
Mr. Pepys—though it isn’t always a safe thing to do—and taste of the
‘China drinke called Tee,’ while you tell me what you have been doing
since you went forth from the fold.”

It struck me that the sense of hearing was uncommonly well developed
in this establishment, for I had heard nothing; but a few moments
later the door opened very quietly, and Mr. Polton entered with a tray
on which was a very trim, and even dainty, tea service, which he set
out noiselessly and with a curious neatness of hand, on a small table
placed conveniently between our chairs.

“Thank you, Polton,” said Thorndyke. “I see you diagnosed my visitor
as a professional brother.”

Polton crinkled benevolently and admitted that he “thought the
gentleman looked like one of us’; and with this he melted away,
closing the door behind him without a sound.

“Well,” said Thorndyke, as he handed me my tea-cup, “what have you
been doing with yourself since you left the hospital?”

“Principally looking for a job,” I replied; “and now I’ve found one—a
temporary job, though I don’t know how temporary. To-morrow I take
over the practice of a man named Cornish in Mecklenburgh-square.
Cornish is a good deal run down, and wants to take a quiet holiday on
the East Coast. He doesn’t know how long he will be away. It depends
on his health; but I have told him that I am prepared to stay as long
as he wants me to. I hope I shan’t make a mess of the job, but I know
nothing of general practice.”

“You will soon pick it up,” said Thorndyke; “but you had better get
your principal to show you the ropes before he goes, particularly the
dispensing and bookkeeping. The essentials of practice, you know, but
the little practical details have to be learnt, and you are doing well
to make your first plunge into professional life in a practice that is
a going concern. The experience will be valuable when you make a start
on your own account.”

On this plane of advice and comment our talk proceeded until I thought
that I had stayed long enough, when I once more rose to depart. Then,
as we were shaking hands, Thorndyke reverted to the object of my
visit.

“I shall not appear in this case unless the coroner wishes me to,”
said he. “I shall consult with the official medical witness, and he
will probably give our joint conclusions in his evidence; unless we
should fail to agree, which is very unlikely. But you will be present,
and you had better attend closely to the evidence of all the witnesses
and let me have your account of the inquest as well as the shorthand
writer’s report. Good-bye, Gray. You won’t be far away if you should
want my help or advice.”

I left the precincts of the Temple in a much more satisfied frame of
mind. The mystery which seemed to me to surround the death of Julius
D’Arblay would be investigated by a supremely competent observer, and
I need not further concern myself with it. Perhaps there was no
mystery at all. Possibly the evidence at the inquest would supply a
simple explanation. At any rate, it was out of my hands and into those
of one immeasurably more capable and I could now give my undivided
attention to the new chapter of my life that was to open on the
morrow.



CHAPTER III.

The Doctor’s Revelations

It was in the evening of the very day on which I took up my duties at
number 61 Mecklenburgh-square that the little blue paper was delivered
summoning me to attend at the inquest on the following day.
Fortunately, Dr. Cornish’s practice was not of a highly strenuous
type, and the time of year tended to a small visiting list, so that I
had no difficulty in making the necessary arrangements. In fact, I
made them so well that I was the first to arrive at the little
building in which the inquiry was to be held and was admitted by the
caretaker to the empty room. A few minutes later, however, the
inspector made his appearance, and while I was exchanging a few words
with him the jury began to straggle in, followed by the reporters, a
few spectators and witnesses, and finally the coroner, who immediately
took his place at the head of the table and prepared to open the
proceedings.

At this moment I observed Miss D’Arblay standing hesitatingly in the
doorway and looking into the room as if reluctant to enter. I at once
rose and went to her, and as I approached she greeted me with a
friendly smile and held out her hand; and I then perceived, lurking
just outside, a tall, black-apparelled woman, whose face I recognized
as that which I had seen at the window.

“This,” said Miss D’Arblay, presenting me, “is my friend, Miss Boler,
of whom I spoke to you. This, Arabella dear, is the gentleman who was
so kind to me on that dreadful day.”

I bowed deferentially, and Miss Boler recognized my existence by a
majestic inclination, remarking that she remembered me. As the coroner
now began his preliminary address to the jury, I hastened to find
three chairs near the table, and, having inducted the ladies into two
of them, took the third myself, next to Miss D’Arblay. The coroner and
the jury now rose and went out to the adjacent mortuary to view the
body, and during their absence I stole an occasional critical glance
at my fair friend.

Marion D’Arblay was, as I have said, a strikingly handsome girl. The
fact seemed now to dawn on me afresh, as a new discovery; for the
harrowing circumstances of our former meeting had so preoccupied me
that I had given little attention to her personality. But now, as I
looked her over anxiously to see how the grievous days had dealt with
her, it was with a sort of surprised admiration that I noted the
beautiful, thoughtful face, the fine features, and the wealth of dark,
gracefully disposed hair. I was relieved, too, to see the change that
a couple of days had wrought. The wild, dazed look was gone. Though
she was pale and heavy-eyed and looked tired and infinitely sad, her
manner was calm, quiet and perfectly self-possessed.

“I am afraid,” said I, “that this is going to be rather a painful
ordeal for you.”

“Yes,” she agreed; “it is all very dreadful. But it is a dreadful
thing in any case to be bereft in a moment of the one whom one loves
best in all the world. The circumstances of the loss cannot make very
much difference. It is the loss itself that matters. The worst moment
was when the blow fell—when we found him. This inquiry and the funeral
are just the drab accompaniments that bring home the reality of what
has happened.”

“Has the inspector called on you?” I asked.

“Yes,” she replied. “He had to, to get the particulars; and he was so
kind and delicate that I am not in the least afraid of the examination
by the coroner. Every one has been kind to me, but none so kind as you
were on that terrible morning.”

I could not see that I had done anything to call for so much
gratitude, and I was about to enter a modest disclaimer when the
coroner and the jury returned, and the inspector approached somewhat
hurriedly.

“It will be necessary,” said he, “for Miss D’Arblay to see the
body—just to identify deceased; a glance will be enough. And, as you
are a witness, Doctor, you had better go with her to the mortuary. I
will show you the way.”

Miss D’Arblay rose without any comment or apparent reluctance, and we
followed the inspector to the adjoining mortuary, where, having
admitted us, he stood outside awaiting us. The body lay on the
slate-topped table, covered with a sheet excepting the face, which was
exposed and was undisfigured by any traces of the examination. I
watched my friend a little nervously as we entered the grim chamber,
fearful that this additional trial might be too much for her
self-control. But she kept command of herself, though she wept quietly
as she stood beside the table looking down on the still, waxen-faced
figure. After standing thus for a few moments, she turned away with a
smothered sob, wiped her eyes, and walked out of the mortuary.

When we re-entered the court-room, we found our chairs moved up to the
table, and the coroner waiting to call the witnesses. As I had
expected, my name was the first on the list, and, on being called, I
took my place by the table near to the coroner and was duly sworn.

“Will you give us your name, occupation, and address?” the coroner
asked.

“My name is Stephen Gray,” I replied. “I am a medical practitioner,
and my temporary address is 61, Mecklenburgh-square, London.”

“When you say ‘your temporary address’ you mean——?”

“I am taking charge of a medical practice at that address. I shall be
there six weeks or more.”

“Then that will be your address for our purposes. Have you viewed the
body that is now lying in the mortuary, and, if so, do you recognize
it?”

“Yes. It is the body which I saw lying in a pond in Church-yard Bottom
Wood on the morning of the 16th instant—last Tuesday.”

“Can you tell us how long deceased had been dead when you first saw
the body?”

“I should say he had been dead nine or ten hours.”

“Will you relate the circumstances under which you discovered the
body?”

I gave a circumstantial account of the manner in which I made the
tragic discovery, to which not only the jury but also the spectators
listened with eager interest. When I had finished my narrative, the
coroner asked: “Did you observe anything which led you, as a medical
man, to form any opinion as to the cause of death?”

“No,” I replied. “I saw no injuries or marks of violence or anything
which was not consistent with death by drowning.”

This concluded my evidence, and when I had resumed my seat, the name
of Marion D’Arblay was called by the coroner, who directed that a
chair should be placed for the witness. When she had taken her seat,
he conveyed to her, briefly, but feelingly, his own and the jury’s
sympathy.

“It has been a terrible experience for you,” he said, “and we are most
sorry to have to trouble you in your great affliction, but you will
understand that it is unavoidable.”

“I quite understand that,” she replied, “and I wish to thank you and
the jury for your kind sympathy.”

She was then sworn, and having given her name and address, proceeded
to answer the questions addressed to her, which elicited a narrative
of the events substantially identical with that which she had given to
the inspector and which I have already recorded.

“You have told us,” said the coroner, “that when Dr. Gray spoke to
you, you were searching among the bushes. Will you tell us what was in
your mind—what you were searching for, and what induced you to make
that search?”

“I was very uneasy about my father,” she replied. “He had not been
home that night, and he had not told me that he intended to stay at
the studio—as he sometimes did when he was working very late. So, in
the morning I went to the studio in Abbey-road to see if he was there;
but the caretaker told me that he had started for home about ten
o’clock. Then I began to fear that something had happened to him, and
as he always came home by the path through the wood, I went there to
see if—if anything had happened to him.”

“Had you in your mind any definite idea as to what might have happened
to him?”

“I thought he might have been taken ill or have fallen down dead. He
once told me that he would probably die quite suddenly. I believe that
he suffered from some affection of the heart, but he did not like
speaking about his health.”

“Are you sure that there was nothing more than this in your mind?”

“There was nothing more. I thought that his heart might have failed
and that he might have wandered, in a half-conscious state, away from
the main path and fallen dead in one of the thickets.”

The coroner pondered this reply for some time. I could not see why,
for it was plain and straightforward enough. At length he said, very
gravely and with what seemed to me unnecessary emphasis:

“I want you to be quite frank and open with us, Miss D’Arblay. Can you
swear that there was no other possibility in your mind than that of
sudden illness?”

She looked at him in surprise, apparently not understanding the drift
of the question. As to me, I assumed that he was endeavoring
delicately to ascertain whether deceased was addicted to drink.

“I have told you exactly what was in my mind,” she replied.

“Have you ever had any reason to suppose, or to entertain the
possibility, that your father might take his own life?”

“Never,” she answered emphatically. “He was a happy, even-tempered
man, always interested in his work, and always in good spirits. I am
sure he would never have taken his own life.”

The coroner nodded with a rather curious air of satisfaction, as if he
were concurring with the witness’s statement. Then he asked in the
same grave, emphatic manner:

“So far as you know, had your father any enemies?”

“No,” she replied confidently. “He was a kindly, amiable man who
disliked nobody, and every one who knew him loved him.”

As she uttered this panegyric (and what prouder testimony could a
daughter have given?), her eyes filled, and the coroner looked at her
with deep sympathy but yet with a somewhat puzzled expression.

“You are sure,” he said gently, “that there was no one whom he might
have injured—even inadvertently—or who bore him any grudge or
ill-will?”

“I am sure,” she answered, “that he never injured or gave offence to
any one, and I do not believe that there was any person in the whole
world who bore him anything but goodwill.”

The coroner noted this reply, and as he entered it in the depositions
his face bore the same curious puzzled or doubtful expression. When he
had written the answer down, he asked:

“By the way, what was the deceased’s occupation?”

“He was a sculptor by profession, but in late years he worked
principally as a modeller for various trades—pottery manufacturers,
picture-frame makers, carvers, and the makers of high-class wax
figures for shop windows.”

“Had he any assistants or subordinates?”

“No. He worked alone. Occasionally I helped him with his moulds when
he was very busy or had a very large work on hand; but usually he did
everything himself. Of course, he occasionally employed models.”

“Do you know who those models were?”

“They were professional models. The men, I think, were all Italians,
and some of the women were too. I believe my father kept a list of
them in his address book.”

“Was he working from a model on the night of his death?”

“No. He was making the moulds for a porcelain statuette.”

“Did you ever hear that he had any kind of trouble with his models?”

“Never. He seemed always on the best of terms with them, and he used
to speak of them most appreciatively.”

“What sort of persons are professional models? Should you say they are
a decent, well-conducted class?”

“Yes. They are usually most respectable, hard-working people; and, of
course, they are sober and decent in their habits or they would be of
no use for their professional duties.”

The coroner meditated on these replies with a speculative eye on the
witness. After a short pause, he began along another line.

“Did deceased ever carry about with him property of any considerable
value?”

“Never, to my knowledge.”

“No jewellery, plate, or valuable material?”

“No. His work was practically all in plaster or wax. He did no
goldsmith’s work and he used no precious material.”

“Did he ever have any considerable sums of money about him?”

“No. He received all his payments by cheque and he made his payments
in the same way. His habit was to carry very little money on his
person—usually not more than one or two pounds.”

Once more the coroner reflected profoundly. It seemed to me that he
was trying to elicit some fact—I could not imagine what—and was
failing utterly. At length, after another puzzled look at the witness,
he turned to the jury and inquired if any of them wished to put any
questions; and when they had severally shaken their heads he thanked
Miss D’Arblay for the clear and straightforward way in which she had
given her evidence and released her.

While the examination had been proceeding, I had allowed my eyes to
wander round the room with some curiosity: for this was the first time
that I had ever been present at an inquest. From the jury, the
witnesses in waiting and the reporters—among whom I tried to identify
Dr. Thorndyke’s stenographer—my attention was presently transferred to
the spectators. There were only a few of them, but I found myself
wondering why there should be any. What kind of person attends as a
spectator at an ordinary inquest such as this appeared to be? The
newspaper reports of the finding of the body were quite unsensational
and promised no startling developments. Finally I decided that they
were probably local residents who had some knowledge of the deceased
and were just indulging their neighbourly curiosity.

Among them my attention was particularly attracted by a middle-aged
woman who sat near me: at least I judged her to be middle-aged, though
the rather dense black veil that she wore obscured her face to a great
extent. Apparently she was a widow, and advertised the fact by the
orthodox, old-fashioned “weeds.” But I could see that she had white
hair and wore spectacles. She held a folded newspaper on her knee,
apparently dividing her attention between the printed matter and the
proceedings of the court. She gave me the impression of having come in
to spend an idle hour, combining a somewhat perfunctory reading of the
paper with a still more perfunctory attention to the rather gruesome
entertainment that the inquest afforded.

The next witness called was the doctor who had made the official
examination of the body; on whom my bereaved friend bestowed a
listless, incurious glance and then returned to her newspaper. He was
a youngish man, though his hair was turning gray, with a quiet but
firm and confident manner and a very clear, pleasant voice. The
preliminaries having been disposed of, the coroner led off with the
question:

“You have made an examination of the body of the deceased?”

“Yes. It is that of a well-proportioned, fairly muscular man of about
sixty, quite healthy with the exception of the heart, one of the
valves of which—the mitral valve—was incompetent and allowed some
leakage of blood to take place.”

“Was the heart affection sufficient to account for the death of
deceased?”

“No. It was quite a serviceable heart. There was good
compensation—that is to say, there was extra growth of muscle to make
up for the leaky valve. So far as his heart was concerned, deceased
might have lived for another twenty years.”

“Were you able to ascertain what actually was the cause of death?”

“Yes. The cause of death was aconitine poisoning.”

At this reply a murmur of astonishment arose from the jury, and I
heard Miss D’Arblay suddenly draw in her breath. The spectators sat up
on their benches, and even the veiled lady was so far interested as to
look up from her paper.

“How had the poison been administered?” the coroner asked.

“It had been injected under the skin by means of a hypodermic
syringe.”

“Can you give an opinion as to whether the poison was administered to
deceased by himself or by some other person?”

“It could not have been injected by deceased himself,” the witness
replied. “The needle-puncture was in the back, just below the left
shoulder-blade. It is, in my opinion, physically impossible for any
one to inject into his own body with a hypodermic syringe in that
spot. And, of course, a person who was administering an injection to
himself would select the most convenient spot—such as the front of the
thigh. But apart from the question of convenience, the place in which
the needle-puncture was found was actually out of reach.” Here the
witness produced a hypodermic syringe, the action of which he
demonstrated with the aid of a glass of water; and having shown the
impossibility of applying it to the spot that he had described, passed
the syringe round for the jury’s inspection.

“Have you formed any opinion as to the purpose for which this drug was
administered in this manner?”

“I have no doubt that it was administered for the purpose of causing
the death of deceased.”

“Might it not have been administered for medicinal purposes?”

“That is quite inconceivable. Leaving out of consideration the
circumstances—the time and place where the administration occurred—the
dose excludes the possibility of medicinal purposes. It was a lethal
dose. From the tissues round the needle-puncture we recovered the
twelfth of a grain of aconitine. That alone was more than enough to
cause death. But a quantity of the poison had been absorbed, as was
shown by the fact that we recovered a recognizable trace from the
liver.”

“What is the medicinal dose of aconitine?”

“The maximum medicinal dose is about the four-hundredth of a grain,
and even that is not very safe. As a matter of fact, aconitine is very
seldom used in medical practice. It is a dangerous drug, and of no
particular value.”

“How much aconitine do you suppose was injected?”

“Not less than the tenth of a grain—that is about forty times the
maximum medicinal dose. Probably more.”

“There can, I suppose, be no doubt as to the accuracy of the facts
that you have stated—as to the nature and quantity of the poison?”

“There can be no doubt whatever. The analysis was made in my presence
by Professor Woodford, of St. Margaret’s Hospital, after I had removed
the tissues from the body in his presence. He has not been called
because, in accordance with the procedure under Coroner’s Law, I am
responsible for the analysis and the conclusions drawn from it.”

“Taking the medical facts as known to you, are you able to form an
opinion as to what took place when the poison was administered?”

“That,” the witness replied, “is a matter of inference or conjecture.
I infer that the person who administered the poison thrust the needle
violently into the back of the deceased, intending to inject the
poison into the chest. Actually, the needle struck a rib and bent up
sharply, so that the contents of the syringe were delivered just under
the skin. Then I take it that the assailant ran away—probably towards
the pond—and deceased pursued him. Very soon the poison would take
effect, and then deceased would have fallen. He may have fallen into
the pond, or more probably, was thrown in. He was alive when he fell
into the pond, as is proved by the presence of water in the lungs; but
he must then have been insensible; and in a dying condition, for there
was no water in the stomach, which proves that the swallowing reflex
had already ceased.”

“Your considered opinion, then, based on the medical facts ascertained
by you, is, I understand, that deceased died from the effects of a
poison injected into his body by some other person with homicidal
intent?”

“Yes; that is my considered opinion, and I affirm that the facts do
not admit of any other interpretation.”

The coroner looked towards the jury. “Do any of you gentlemen wish to
ask the witness any questions?” he inquired; and when the foreman had
replied that the jury were entirely satisfied with the doctor’s
explanations, he thanked the witness, who thereupon retired. The
medical witness was succeeded by the inspector, who made a short
statement respecting the effects found on the person of deceased. They
comprised a small sum of money—under two pounds—a watch, keys, and
other articles, none of them of any appreciable value, but, such as
they were, furnishing evidence that at least petty robbery had not
been the object of the attack.

When the last witness had been heard, the coroner glanced at his notes
and then proceeded to address the jury.

“There is little, gentlemen,” he began, “that I need say to you. The
facts are before you, and they seem to admit of only one
interpretation. I remind you that, by the terms of your oath, your
finding must be ‘according to the evidence.’ Now the medical evidence
is quite clear and definite. It is to the effect that deceased met his
death by poison, administered violently by some other person: that is
by homicide. Homicide is the killing of a human being, and it may or
may not be criminal. But if the homicidal act is done with the intent
to kill; if that intention has been deliberately formed—that is to
say, if the homicidal act has been premeditated; then that homicide is
wilful murder.

“Now the person who killed the deceased came to the place where the
act was done provided with a solution of a very powerful and uncommon
vegetable poison. He was also provided with a very special
appliance—to wit, a hypodermic syringe—for injecting it into the body.
The fact that he was furnished with the poison and the appliance
creates a strong enough presumption that he came to this place with
the deliberate intention of killing the deceased. That is to say, this
fact constitutes strong evidence of premeditation.

“As to the motive for this act, we are completely in the dark; nor
have we any evidence pointing to the identity of the person who
committed that act. But a coroner’s inquest is not necessarily
concerned with motives, nor is it our business to fix the act on any
particular person. We have to find how and by what means the deceased
met his death; and for that purpose we have clear and sufficient
evidence. I need say no more, but will leave you to agree upon your
finding.”

There was a brief interval of silence when the coroner had finished
speaking. The jury whispered together for a few seconds; then the
foreman announced that they had agreed upon their verdict.

“And what is your decision, gentlemen?” the coroner asked.

“We find,” was the reply, “that deceased met his death by wilful
murder, committed by some person unknown.”

The coroner bowed. “I am in entire agreement with you, gentlemen,”
said he. “No other verdict was possible, and I am sure you will join
me in the hope that the wretch who committed this dastardly crime may
be identified and in due course brought to justice.”

This brought the proceedings to an end. As the Court rose the
spectators filed out of the building and the coroner approached Miss
D’Arblay to express once more his deep sympathy with her in her tragic
bereavement. I stood apart with Miss Boler, whose rugged face was wet
with tears, but set in a grim and wrathful scowl.

“Things have taken a terrible turn,” I ventured to observe.

She shook her head and uttered a sort of low growl. “It won’t bear
thinking of,” she said gruffly. “There is no possible retribution that
would meet the case. One has thought that some of the old punishments
were cruel and barbarous, but if I could lay my hands on the villain
that did this——” She broke off, leaving the conclusion to my
imagination, and in an extraordinarily different voice said: “Come,
Miss Marion, let us get out of this awful place.”

As we walked away slowly and in silence, I looked at Miss D’Arblay,
not without anxiety. She was very pale, and the dazed expression that
her face had borne on the fatal day of the discovery had, to some
extent, reappeared. But now the signs of bewilderment and grief were
mingled with something new. The rigid face, the compressed lips, and
lowered brows spoke of a deep and abiding wrath.

Suddenly she turned to me and said, abruptly, almost harshly:

“I was wrong in what I said to you before the inquiry. You remember
that I said that the circumstances of the loss could make no
difference; but they make a whole world of difference. I had supposed
that my dear father had died as he had thought he would die; that it
was the course of Nature, which we cannot rebel against. Now I know,
from what the doctor said, that he might have lived on happily for the
full span of human life but for the malice of this unknown wretch. His
life was not lost; it was stolen—from him and from me.”

“Yes,” I said somewhat lamely. “It is a horrible affair.”

“It is beyond bearing!” she exclaimed. “If his death had been natural,
I would have tried to resign myself to it. I would have tried to put
my grief away. But to think that his happy, useful life has been
snatched from him—that he has been torn from us who loved him by the
deliberate act of this murderer—it is unendurable. It will be with me
every hour of my life until I die. And every hour I shall call on God
for justice against this wretch.”

I looked at her with a sort of admiring surprise. A quiet, gentle girl
as I believed her to be at ordinary times, now, with her flushed
cheeks, her flashing eyes and ominous brows, she reminded me of one of
the heroines of the French Revolution. Her grief seemed to be merged
in a longing for vengeance.

While she had been speaking Miss Boler had kept up a running
accompaniment in a deep, humming bass. I could not catch the words—if
there were any—but was aware only of a low, continuous bourdon. She
now said with grim decision:

“God will not let him escape. He shall pay the debt to the uttermost
farthing.” Then, with sudden fierceness, she added: “If I should ever
meet with him I could kill him with my own hand.”

After this both women relapsed into silence, which I was loth to
interrupt. The circumstances were too tragic for conversation. When we
reached their gate Miss D’Arblay held out her hand and once again
thanked me for my help and sympathy.

“I have done nothing,” said I, “that any stranger would not have done,
and I deserve no thanks. But I should like to think that you will look
on me as a friend, and if you should need any help will let me have
the privilege of being of use to you.”

“I look on you as a friend already,” she replied; “and I hope you will
come and see us sometimes—when we have settled down to our new
conditions of life.”

As Miss Boler seemed to confirm this invitation, I thanked them both
and took my leave, glad to think that I had now a recognized status as
a friend and might pursue a project which had formed in my mind even
before we had left the court-house.

The evidence of the murder, which had fallen like a thunderbolt on us
all, had a special significance for me; for I knew that Dr. Thorndyke
was behind this discovery, though to what extent I could not judge.
The medical witness was an obviously capable man, and it might be that
he would have made the discovery without assistance. But a
needle-puncture in the back is a very inconspicuous thing. Ninety-nine
doctors in a hundred would almost certainly have overlooked it,
especially in the case of a body apparently “found drowned,” and
seeming to call for no special examination beyond the search for gross
injuries. The revelation was very characteristic of Thorndyke’s
methods and principles. It illustrated in a most striking manner the
truth which he was never tired of insisting on: that it is never safe
to accept obvious appearances, and that every case, no matter how
apparently simple and commonplace, should be approached with suspicion
and scepticism and subjected to the most rigorous scrutiny. That was
precisely what had been done in this case; and thereby an obvious
suicide had been resolved into a cunningly planned and skilfully
executed murder. It was quite possible that, but for my visit to
Thorndyke, those cunning plans would have succeeded and the murderer
have secured the cover of a verdict of “Death by misadventure” or
“Suicide while temporarily insane.” At any rate, the results had
justified me in invoking Dr. Thorndyke’s aid; and the question now
arose whether it would be possible to retain him for the further
investigation of the case.

This was the project that had occurred to me as I listened to the
evidence and realized how completely the unknown murderer had covered
up his tracks. But there were difficulties. Thorndyke might consider
such an investigation outside his province. Again, the costs involved
might be on a scale entirely beyond my means. The only thing to be
done was to call on Thorndyke and hear what he had to say on the
subject, and this I determined to do on the first opportunity. And
having formed this resolution, I made my way back by the shortest
route to Mecklenburgh-square, where the evening consultations were now
nearly due.



CHAPTER IV.

Mr. Bendelow

There are certain districts in London the appearance of which conveys
to the observer the impression that the houses, and indeed, the entire
streets, have been picked up second-hand. There is in this aspect a
grey, colourless, mouldy quality, reminiscent, not of the antique
shop, but rather of the marine store dealers; a quality which even
communicates itself to the inhabitants, so that one gathers the
impression that the whole neighbourhood was taken as a going concern.

It was on such a district that I found myself looking down from the
top of an omnibus a few days after the inquest (Dr. Cornish’s brougham
being at the moment under repairs and his horse “out to grass” during
the slack season), being bound for a street in the neighbourhood of
Hoxton—Market-street by name—which abutted, as I had noticed when
making out my route, on the Regent’s Canal. The said route I had
written out, and now, in the intervals of my surveys of the unlovely
prospect, I divided my attention between it and the note which had
summoned me to these remote regions.

Concerning the latter I was somewhat curious, for the envelope was
addressed, not to Dr. Cornish, but to “Dr. Stephen Gray.” This was
really quite an odd circumstance. Either the writer knew me personally
or was aware that I was acting as locum tenens for Cornish. But the
name—James Morris—was unknown to me, and a careful inspection of the
index of the ledger had failed to bring to light any one answering to
the description. So Mr. Morris was presumably a stranger to my
principal also. The note, which had been left by hand in the morning,
requested me to call “as early in the forenoon as possible,” which
seemed to hint at some degree of urgency. Naturally, as a young
practitioner, I speculated with interest, not entirely unmingled with
anxiety, on the possible nature of the case, and also on the patient’s
reasons for selecting a medical attendant whose residence was so
inconveniently far away.

In accordance with my written route, I got off the omnibus at the
corner of Shepherdess-walk, and pursuing that pastoral thoroughfare
for some distance, presently plunged into a labyrinth of streets
adjoining it and succeeded most effectually in losing myself. However,
inquiries addressed to an intelligent fish-vendor elicited a most
lucid direction and I soon found myself in a little, drab street which
justified its name by giving accommodation to a row of stationary
barrows loaded with what looked like the “throw-outs” from a colossal
spring clean. Passing along this kerb-side market and reflecting (like
Diogenes, in similar circumstances) how many things there were in the
world that I did not want, I walked slowly up the street looking for
Number 23—my patient’s number—and the canal which I had seen on the
map. I located them both at the same instant, for Number 23 turned out
to be the last house on the opposite side, and a few yards beyond it
the street was barred by a low wall, over which, as I looked, the mast
of a sailing-barge came into view and slowly crept past. I stepped up
to the wall and looked over. Immediately beneath me was the
towing-path, alongside which the barge was now bringing up and
beginning to lower her mast, apparently in order to pass under a
bridge that spanned the canal some two hundred yards farther along.

From these nautical manœuvres I transferred my attention to my
patient’s house—or, at least, so much of it as I could see; for Number
23 appeared to consist of a shop with nothing over it. There was,
however, in a wall which extended to the canal wall a side door with a
bell and knocker, so I inferred that the house was behind the shop,
and that the latter had been built on a formerly existing front
garden. The shop itself was somewhat reminiscent of the stalls down
the street, for though the fascia was newly painted (with the
inscription “J. Morris, General Dealer”) the stock-in-trade exhibited
in the window was in the last stage of senile decay. It included, I
remember, a cracked Toby jug, a mariner’s sextant of an obsolete type,
a Dutch clock without hands, a snuff-box, one or two plaster
statuettes, an invalid punch-bowl, a shiny, dark, and inscrutable oil
painting and a plaster mask, presumably the death mask of some
celebrity whose face was unknown to me.

My examination of this collection was brought to a sudden end by the
apparition of a face above the half-blind of glazed shop-door; the
face of a middle-aged woman who seemed to be inspecting me with
malevolent interest. Assuming—rather too late—a brisk, professional
manner, I opened the shop door, thereby setting a bell jangling
within, and confronted the owner of the face.

“I am Dr. Gray,” I began to explain.

“Side door,” she interrupted brusquely. “Ring the bell and knock.”

I backed out hastily and proceeded to follow the directions, giving a
tug at the bell and delivering a flourish on the knocker. The hollow
reverberations of the latter almost suggested an empty house, but my
vigorous pull at the bell-handle produced no audible result, from
which I inferred—wrongly, as afterwards appeared—that it was out of
repair. After waiting quite a considerable time, I was about to repeat
the performance when I heard sounds within; and then the door was
opened, to my surprise, by the identical sour-faced woman whom I had
seen in the shop. As her appearance and manner did not invite
conversation, and she uttered no word, I followed her in silence
through a long passage, or covered way, which ran parallel to the side
of the shop and presumably crossed the site of the garden. It ended at
a door which opened into the hall proper; a largish square space into
which the doors of the ground-floor rooms opened. It contained the
main staircase and was closed in at the farther end by a heavy curtain
which extended from wall to wall.

We proceeded in this funereal manner up the stairs to the first floor
on the landing of which my conductress halted and for the first time
broke the silence.

“You will probably find Mr. Bendelow asleep or dozing,” she said in a
rather gruff voice. “If he is, there is no need for you to disturb
him.”

“Mr. Bendelow!” I exclaimed. “I understood that his name was Morris.”

“Well, it isn’t,” she retorted. “It is Bendelow. My name is Morris and
so is my husband’s. It was he who wrote to you.”

“By the way,” said I, “how did he know my name? I am acting for Dr.
Cornish, you know.”

“I didn’t know,” said she, “and I don’t suppose he did. Probably the
servant told him. But it doesn’t matter. Here you are, and you will do
as well as another. I was telling you about Mr. Bendelow. He is in a
pretty bad way. The specialist whom Mr. Morris took him to—Dr. Artemus
Cropper—said he had cancer of the bi-lorus, whatever that is——”

“Pylorus,” I corrected.

“Well, pylorus, then, if you prefer it,” she said impatiently. “At any
rate, whatever it is, he’s got cancer of it; and, as I said before, he
is in a pretty bad way. Dr. Cropper told us what to do, and we are
doing it. He wrote out full directions as to diet—I will show them to
you presently—and he said that Mr. Bendelow was to have a dose of
morphia if he complained of pain—which he does, of course; and that,
as there was no chance of his getting better, it didn’t matter how
much morphia he had. The great thing was to keep him out of pain. So
we give it to him twice a day—at least, my husband does—and that keeps
him fairly comfortable. In fact, he sleeps most of the time, and is
probably dozing now; so you are not likely to get much out of him,
especially as he is rather hard of hearing even when he is awake. And
now you had better come in and have a look at him.”

She advanced to the door of a room and opened it softly, and I
followed in a somewhat uncomfortable frame of mind. It seemed to me
that I had no function but that of a mere figure-head. Dr. Cropper,
whom I knew by name as a physician of some reputation, had made the
diagnosis and prescribed the treatment, neither of which I, as a mere
beginner, would think of contesting. It was an unsatisfactory, even an
ignominious, position from which my professional pride revolted. But
apparently it had to be accepted.

Mr. Bendelow was a most remarkable-looking man. Probably he had always
been somewhat peculiar in appearance; but now the frightful emaciation
(which strongly confirmed Cropper’s diagnosis) had so accentuated his
original peculiarities that he had the appearance of some dreadful,
mirthless caricature. Under the influence of the remorseless disease,
every structure which was capable of shrinking had shrunk to the
vanishing-point, leaving the unshrinkable skeleton jutting out with a
most horrible and grotesque effect. His great hooked nose, which must
always have been strikingly prominent, stuck out now, thin and sharp,
like the beak of some bird of prey. His heavy, beetling brows, which
must always have given to his face a frowning sullenness, now overhung
sockets which had shrunk away into mere caverns. His naturally high
cheek-bones were now not only prominent, but exhibited the details of
their structure as one sees them in a dry skull. Altogether, his
aspect was at once pitiable and forbidding. Of his age I could form no
estimate. He might have been a hundred. The wonder was that he was
still alive; that there was yet left in that shrivelled body enough
material to enable its mechanism to continue its functions.

He was not asleep, but was in that somnolent, lethargic state that is
characteristic of the effects of morphia. He took no notice of me when
I approached the bed, nor even when I spoke his name somewhat loudly.

“I told you you wouldn’t get much out of him,” said Mrs. Morris,
looking at me with a sort of grim satisfaction. “He doesn’t have a
great deal to say to any of us nowadays.”

“Well,” said I, “there is no need to rouse him, but I had better just
examine him, if only as a matter of form. I can’t take the case
entirely on hearsay.”

“I suppose not,” she agreed. “You know best. Do what you think
necessary, but don’t disturb him more than you can help.”

It was not a prolonged examination. The first touch of my fingers on
the shrunken abdomen made me aware of the unmistakable hard mass and
rendered further exploration needless. There could be no doubt as to
the nature of the case or of what the future held in store. It was
only a question of time, and a short time at that.

The patient submitted to the examination quite passively, but he
seemed to be fully aware of what was going on, for he looked at me in
a sort of drunken, dreamy fashion, but without any sign of interest in
my proceedings. When I had finished, I looked him over again, trying
to reconstitute him as he might have been before this deadly disease
fastened on him. I observed that he seemed to have a fair crop of hair
of a darkish iron-grey. I say “seemed,” because the greater part of
his head was covered by a skull cap of black silk; but a fringe of
hair straying from under it on to the forehead suggested that he was
not bald. His teeth, too, which were rather conspicuous, were natural
teeth and in good preservation. In order to verify this fact, I
stooped and raised his lip the better to examine them. But at this
point Mrs. Morris intervened.

“There, that will do,” she said impatiently. “You are not a dentist,
and his teeth will last as long as he will want them. If you have
finished you had better come with me and I will show you Dr. Cropper’s
prescriptions. Then you can tell me if you have any further directions
to give.”

She led the way out of the room, and when I had made a farewell
gesture to the patient (of which he took no notice) I followed her
down the stairs to the ground floor where she ushered me into a small,
rather elegantly furnished room. Here she opened the flap of a bureau
and from one of the little drawers took an open envelope which she
handed to me. It contained one or two prescriptions for occasional
medicines, and a sheet of directions relative to the diet and general
management of the patient, including the administration of morphia.
The latter read, under the general heading, “Simon Bendelow, Esq.”:

“As the case progresses, it will probably be necessary to administer
morphine regularly, but the amount given should, if possible, be
restricted to ¼ gr. Morph. Sulph., not more than twice a day; but, of
course, the hopeless prognosis and probable early termination of the
case make some latitude admissible.”

Although I was in complete agreement with the writer, I was a little
puzzled by these documents. They were signed “Artemus Cropper, M.D.,”
but they were not addressed to any person by name. They appeared to
have been given to Mr. Morris, in whose possession they now were; but
the use of the word “morphine” instead of the more familiar “morphia”
and the generally technical phraseology seemed inappropriate to
directions addressed to lay persons. As I returned them I remarked:

“These directions read as if they had been intended for the
information of a medical man.”

“They were,” she replied. “They were meant for the doctor who was
attending Mr. Bendelow at the time. When we moved to this place I got
them from him to show to the new doctor. You are the new doctor.”

“Then you haven’t been here very long?”

“No,” she replied. “We have only just moved in. And that reminds me
that our stock of morphia is running out. Could you bring a fresh tube
of the tabloids next time you call? My husband left an empty tube for
me to give you to remind you what size the tabloids are. He gives Mr.
Bendelow the injections.”

“Thank you,” said I, “but I don’t want the empty tube. I read the
prescription and shan’t forget the dose. I will bring a new tube
to-morrow—that is, if you want me to call every day. It seems hardly
necessary.”

“No, it doesn’t,” she agreed. “I should think twice a week would be
quite enough. Monday and Thursday would suit me best; if you could
manage to come about this time I should be sure to be in. My time is
rather taken up, as I haven’t a servant at present.”

It was a bad arrangement. Fixed appointments are things to avoid in
medical practice. Nevertheless I agreed to it—subject to unforeseen
obstacles—and was forthwith conducted back along the covered way and
launched into the outer world with a farewell which it would be
inadequate to describe as unemotional.

As I turned away from the door I cast a passing glance at the shop
window; and once again I perceived a face above the half-blind. It was
a man’s face this time; presumably the face of Mr. Morris. And, like
his wife, he seemed to be “taking stock of me.” I returned the
attention, and carried away with me the instantaneous mental
photograph of a man in that unprepossessing transitional state between
being clean-shaved and wearing a beard which is characterized by a
sort of grubby prickliness that disfigures the features without
obscuring them. His stubble was barely a week old, but as his
complexion and hair were dark, the effect was very untidy and
disreputable. And yet, as I have said, it did not obscure the
features. I was even able, in that momentary glance, to note a detail
which would probably have escaped a non-medical eye: the scar of a
hare-lip which had been very neatly and skilfully mended, and which a
moustache would probably have concealed altogether.

I did not, however, give much thought to Mr. Morris. It was his
dour-faced wife, with her gruff, over-bearing manner who principally
occupied my reflections. She seemed to have divined in some way that I
was but a beginner—perhaps my youthful appearance gave her the
hint—and to have treated me with almost open contempt. In truth my
position was not a very dignified one. The diagnosis of the case had
been made for me, the treatment had been prescribed for me, and was
being carried out by other hands than mine. My function was to support
a kind of legal fiction that I was conducting the case, but
principally to supply the morphia (which a chemist might have refused
to do), and when the time came, to sign the death certificate. It was
an ignominious rôle for a young and ambitious practitioner, and my
pride was disposed to boggle at it. But yet there was nothing to which
I could object. The diagnosis was undoubtedly correct, and the
treatment and management of the case exactly such as I should have
prescribed. Finally I decided that my dissatisfaction was principally
due to the unattractive personality of Mrs. Morris; and with this
conclusion I dismissed the case from my mind and let my thoughts
wander into more agreeable channels.



CHAPTER V.

Inspector Follett’s Discovery

To a man whose mind is working actively, walking is a more acceptable
mode of progression than riding in a vehicle. There is a sort of
reciprocity between the muscles and the brain—possibly due to the
close association of the motor and psychical centres—whereby the
activity of the one appears to act as a stimulus to the other. A sharp
walk sets the mind working, and, conversely, a state of lively
reflection begets an impulse to bodily movement.

Hence, when I had emerged from Market-street and set my face
homewards, I let the omnibuses rumble past unheeded. I knew my way
now. I had but to retrace the route by which I had come, and,
preserving my isolation amidst the changing crowd, let my thoughts
keep pace with my feet. And I had, in fact, a good deal to think
about; a general subject for reflection which arranged itself around
two personalities, Miss D’Arblay and Dr. Thorndyke.

To the former I had written suggesting a call on her, “subject to the
exigencies of the service,” on Sunday afternoon, and had received a
short but cordial note definitely inviting me to tea. So that matter
was settled, and really required no further consideration, though it
did actually occupy my thoughts for an appreciable part of my walk.
But that was mere self-indulgence: the preliminary savouring of an
anticipated pleasure. My cogitations respecting Dr. Thorndyke were, on
the other hand, somewhat troubled. I was eager to invoke his aid in
solving the hideous mystery which his acuteness had (I felt convinced)
brought into view. But it would probably be a costly business, and my
pecuniary resources were not great. To apply to him for services of
which I could not meet the cost was not to be thought of. The
too-common meanness of sponging on a professional man was totally
abhorrent to me.

But what was the alternative? The murder of Julius D’Arblay was one of
those crimes which offer the police no opportunity; at least, so it
seemed to me. Out of the darkness this fiend had stolen to commit this
unspeakable atrocity, and into the darkness he had straightway
vanished, leaving no trace of his identity nor any hint of his
diabolical motive. It might well be that he had vanished for ever;
that the mystery of the crime was beyond solution. But if any solution
was possible, the one man who seemed capable of discovering it was
John Thorndyke.

This conclusion, to which my reflections led again and again,
committed me to the dilemma that either this villain must be allowed
to go his way unmolested, if the police could find no clue to his
identity—a position that I utterly refused to accept; or that the one
supremely skilful investigator should be induced, if possible, to take
up the inquiry. In the end I decided to call on Thorndyke and frankly
lay the facts before him, but to postpone the interview until I had
seen Miss D’Arblay and ascertained what view the police took of the
case, and whether any new facts had transpired.

The train of reflection which brought me to this conclusion had
brought me also, by way of Pentonville, to the more familiar
neighbourhood of Clerkenwell, and I had just turned into a somewhat
squalid by-street, which seemed to bear in the right direction, when
my attention was arrested by a brass plate affixed to the door of one
of those hybrid establishments, intermediate between a shop and a
private house, known by the generic name of “Open Surgery.” The name
upon the plate—“Dr. Solomon Usher”—awakened certain reminiscences. In
my freshman days there had been a student of that name at our
hospital; a middle-aged man (elderly, we considered him, seeing that
he was near upon forty), who, after years of servitude as an
unqualified assistant, had scraped together the means of completing
his curriculum. I remembered him very well: a facetious, seedy,
slightly bibulous but entirely good-natured man, invincibly amiable
(as he had need to be), and always in the best of spirits. I recalled
the quaint figure that furnished such rich material for our schoolboy
wit; the solemn spectacles, the ridiculous side-whiskers, the
chimney-pot hat, the formal frock-coat (too often decorated with a
label secretly pinned to the coat-tail, and bearing some such
inscription as “This style 10/6,” or other scintillations of freshman
humour), and, looking over the establishment, decided that it seemed
to present a complete congruity with that well-remembered personality.
But the identification was not left to mere surmise, for even as my
eye roamed along a range of stoppered bottles that peeped over the
wire blind, the door opened and there he was, spectacles,
side-whiskers, top-hat, and frock-coat, all complete, plus an
œdematous-looking umbrella.

He did not recognize me at first—naturally, for I had changed a good
deal more than he had in the five or six years that had slipped
away—but inquired gravely if I wished to see him. I replied that it
had been the dearest wish of my heart, now at length gratified. Then,
as I grinned in his face, my identity suddenly dawned on him.

“Why, it’s Gray!” he exclaimed, seizing my hand. “God bless me, what a
surprise! I didn’t know you. Getting quite a man. Well, I am delighted
to see you. Come in and have a drink.”

He held the door open invitingly, but I shook my head.

“No, thanks,” I replied. “Not at this time in the day.”

“Nonsense,” he urged. “Do you good. I’ve just had one myself. Can’t
say more than that, excepting that I am ready to have another. Won’t
you really? Pity. Should never waste an opportunity. Which way are you
going?”

It seemed that we were going the same way for some distance and we
accordingly set off together.

“So you’ve flopped out of the nest,” he remarked, looking me over, “at
least so I judge by the adult clothes that you are wearing. Are you in
practice in these parts?”

“No,” I replied, “I am doing a locum. Only just qualified, you know.”

“Good,” said he. “A locum’s the way to begin. Try your ’prentice hand
on somebody else’s patients and pick up the art of general practice,
which they don’t teach you at the hospital.”

“You mean bookkeeping and dispensing and the general routine of the
day’s work?” I suggested.

“No, I don’t,” he replied. “I mean practice; the art of pleasing your
patients and keeping your end up. You’ve got a lot to learn, my boy.
Experientia does it. Scientific stuff is all very well at the
hospital, but in practice it is experience, gumption, tact, knowledge
of human nature, that counts.”

“I suppose a little knowledge of diagnosis and treatment is useful?” I
suggested.

“For your own satisfaction, yes,” he admitted, “but for practical
purposes a little knowledge of men and women is a good deal better. It
isn’t your scientific learning that brings you kudos, nor is it
out-of-the-way cases. It is just common sense brought to bear on
common ailments. Take the case of an aurist. You think that he lives
by dealing with obscure and difficult middle and internal ear cases.
Nothing of the kind. He lives on wax. Wax is the foundation of his
practice. Patient comes to him as deaf as a post. He does all the
proper jugglery—tuning-fork, otoscope, speculum, and so on, for the
moral effect. Then he hikes out a good old plug of cerumen, and the
patient hears perfectly. Of course, he is delighted. Thinks a miracle
has been performed. Goes away convinced that the aurist is a genius;
and so he is if he has managed the case properly. I made my reputation
here on a fish-bone.”

“Well, a fish-bone isn’t always so very easy to extract,” said I.

“It isn’t,” he agreed. “Especially if it isn’t there.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“I’ll tell you about it,” he replied. “A chappie here got a fish-bone
stuck in his throat. Of course, it didn’t stay there. They never do.
But the prick in his soft palate did, and he was convinced that the
bone was still there. So he sent for a doctor. Doctor came, looked in
his throat. Couldn’t see any fish-bone, and, like a fool, said so.
Tried to persuade the patient that there was no bone there. But the
chappie said it was his throat and he knew better. He could feel it
there. So he sent for another doctor and the same thing happened. No
go. He had four different doctors and they hadn’t the sense of an
infant among them. Then he sent for me.

“Now, as soon as I heard how the land lay, I nipped into the surgery
and got a fish-bone that I keep there in a pill-box for emergencies,
stuck it into the jaws of a pair of throat forceps, and off I went.
‘Show me whereabouts it is,’ says I, handing him a probe to point
with. He showed me the spot and nearly swallowed the probe. ‘All
right,’ said I. ‘I can see it. Just shut your eyes and open your mouth
wide and I will have it out in a jiffy.’ I popped the forceps into his
mouth, gave a gentle prod with the point on the soft palate; patient
hollered out, ‘Hoo!’ I whisked out the forceps and held them up before
his eyes with the fish-bone grasped in their jaws.

“‘Ha!’ says he. ‘Thank Gawd! What a relief! I can swallow quite well
now.’ And so he could. It was a case of suggestion and
counter-suggestion. Imaginary fish-bone cured by imaginary extraction.
And it made my local reputation. Well, good-bye, old chap. I’ve got a
visit to make here. Come in one evening and smoke a pipe with me. You
know where to find me. And take my advice to heart. Never go to
extract a fish-bone without one in your pocket; and it isn’t a bad
thing to keep a dried earwig by you. I do. People will persist in
thinking they’ve got one in their ears. So long. Look me up soon,” and
with a farewell flourish of the umbrella, he turned to a shabby street
door and began to work the top bell-pull as if it were the handle of
an air-pump.

I went on my way, not a little amused by my friend’s genial cynicism,
nor entirely uninstructed. For “there is a soul of truth in things
erroneous,” as the philosopher reminds us; and if the precepts of
Solomon Usher did not sound the highest note of professional ethics,
they were based on a very solid foundation of worldly wisdom.

When, having finished my short round of visits, I arrived at my
temporary home, I was informed by the housemaid in a mysterious
whisper that a police officer was waiting to see me. “Name of
Follett,” she added. “He’s waiting in the consulting-room.”

Proceeding thither, I found my friend, the Highgate inspector, with
one eye closed, standing before a card of test-types that hung on the
wall. We greeted one another cordially and then, as I looked at him
inquiringly, he produced from his pocket without remark an official
envelope from which he extracted a coin, a silver pencil-case and a
button. These objects he laid on the writing-table and silently
directed my attention to them. A little puzzled by his manner I picked
up the coin and examined it attentively. It was a Charles the Second
guinea dated 1663, very clean and bright and in remarkably perfect
preservation. But I could not see that it was any concern of mine.

“It is a beautiful coin,” I remarked; “but what about it?”

“It doesn’t belong to you, then?” he asked.

“No. I wish it did.”

“Have you ever seen it before?”

“Never, to my knowledge.”

“What about the pencil-case?”

I picked it up and turned it over in my fingers. “No,” I said; “it is
not mine and I have no recollection of ever having seen it before.”

“And the button?”

“It is apparently a waistcoat button,” I said after having inspected
it, “apparently belonging to a tweed waistcoat; and judging by the
appearance of the thread and the wisp of cloth that it still holds, it
must have been pulled off with some violence. But it isn’t off my
waist-coat, if that is what you want to know.”

“I didn’t much think it was,” he replied, “but I thought it best to
make sure. And it didn’t come from poor Mr. D’Arblay’s waistcoat,
because I have examined that and there is no button missing. I showed
these things to Miss D’Arblay, and she is sure that none of them
belonged to her father. He never used a pencil-case—artists don’t, as
a rule—and as to the guinea, she knew nothing about it. If it was her
father’s, he must have come by it immediately before his death;
otherwise she felt sure he would have shown it to her, seeing that
they were both interested in anything in the nature of sculpture.”

“Where did you get these things?” I asked.

“From the pond in the wood,” he replied. “I will tell you how I came
to find them—that is, if I am not taking up too much of your time.”

“Not at all,” I assured him; and even as I spoke I thought of Solomon
Usher. He wouldn’t have said that. He would have anxiously consulted
his engagement-book to see how many minutes he could spare. However,
Inspector Follett was not a patient, and I wanted to hear his story.
So having established him in the easy-chair, I sat down to listen.

“The morning after the inquest,” he began, “an officer of the C.I.D.
came up to get particulars of the case and see what was to be done.
Well, as soon as I had told him all I knew and shown him our copy of
the depositions, it was pretty clear to me that he didn’t think there
was anything to be done but wait for some fresh evidence. Mind you,
Doctor, this is in strict confidence.”

“I understand that. But if the Criminal Investigation Department
doesn’t investigate crime, what the deuce is the good of it?”

“That is hardly a fair way of putting it,” he protested. “The people
at Scotland Yard have got their hands pretty full, and they can’t
spend their time in speculating about cases in which there is no
evidence. They can’t create evidence; and you can see for yourself
that there isn’t the ghost of a clue to the identity of the man who
committed this murder. But they are keeping the case in mind, and
meanwhile we have got to report any new facts that may turn up. Those
were our instructions, and when I heard them I decided to do a bit of
investigating on my own, with the Superintendent’s permission, of
course.

“Well, I began by searching the wood thoroughly, but I got nothing out
of that excepting Mr. D’Arblay’s hat, which I found in the undergrowth
not far from the main path.

“Then I thought of dragging the pond; but I decided that, as it was
only a small pond and shallow, it would be best to empty it and expose
the bottom completely. So I dammed up the little stream that feeds it,
and deepened the outflow, and very soon I had it quite empty excepting
a few small puddles. And I think it was well worth the trouble. These
things don’t tell us much, but they may be useful one day for
identification. And they do tell us something. They suggest that this
man was a collector of coins; and they make it fairly clear that there
was a struggle in the pond before Mr. D’Arblay fell down.”

“That is, assuming that the things belonged to the murderer,” I
interposed. “There is no evidence that they did.”

“No, there isn’t,” he admitted; “but if you consider the three things
together they suggest a very strong probability. Here is a waistcoat
button violently pulled off, and here are two things such as would be
carried in a waistcoat pocket and might fall out if the waistcoat were
dragged at violently when the wearer was stooping over a fallen man
and struggling to avoid being pulled down with him. And then there is
this coin. Its face value is a guinea, but it must be worth a good
deal more than that. Do you suppose anybody would leave a thing of
that kind in a shallow pond, from which it could be easily recovered
with a common landing-net? Why, it would have paid to have had the
pond dragged or even emptied. But, as I say, that wouldn’t have been
necessary.”

“I am inclined to think you are right, Inspector,” said I, rather
impressed by the way in which he had reasoned the matter out; “but
even so, it doesn’t seem to me that we are much more forward. The
things don’t point to any particular person.”

“Not at present,” he rejoined. “But a fact is a fact, and you can
never tell in advance what you may get out of it. If we should get a
hint of any other kind pointing to some particular person, these
things might furnish invaluable evidence connecting that person with
the crime. They may even give a clue now to the people at the C.I.D.,
though that isn’t very likely.”

“Then you are going to hand them over to the Scotland Yard people?”

“Certainly. The C.I.D. are the lions, you know. I’m only a jackal.”

I was rather sorry to hear this, for the idea had floated into my mind
that I should have liked Thorndyke to see these waifs, which, could
they have spoken, would have had so much to tell. To me they conveyed
nothing that threw any light on the ghastly events of that night of
horror. But to my teacher, with his vast experience and his wonderful
power of analyzing evidence they might convey some quite important
significance.

I reflected rapidly on the matter. It would not be wise to say
anything to the inspector about Thorndyke, and it was quite certain
that a loan of the articles would not be entertained. Probably a
description of them would be enough for the purpose; but still I had a
feeling that an inspection of them would be better. Suddenly I had a
bright idea, and proceeded cautiously to broach it.

“I should rather like to have a record of these things,” said I;
“particularly of the coin. Would you object to my taking an impression
of it in sealing-wax?”

Inspector Follett looked doubtful. “It would be a bit irregular,” he
said. “It is a bit irregular for me to have shown it to you, but you
are interested in the case, and you are a responsible person. What did
you want the impression for?”

“Well,” I said, “we don’t know much about that coin. I thought I might
be able to pick up some further information. Of course, I understand
that what you have told me is strictly confidential. I shouldn’t go
showing the thing about, or talking. But I should like to have the
impression to refer to if necessary.”

“Very well,” said he. “On that understanding, I have no objection. But
see that you don’t leave any wax on the coin, or the C.I.D. people
will be asking questions.”

With this permission, I set about the business gleefully, determined
to get as good an impression as possible. From the surgery I fetched
an ointment slab, a spirit lamp, a stick of sealing-wax, a teaspoon,
some powder-papers, a bowl of water, and a jar of vaseline. Laying a
paper on the slab, I put the coin on it and traced its outline with a
pencil. Then I broke off a piece of sealing-wax, melted it in the
teaspoon, and poured it out carefully into the marked circle so that
it formed a round, convex button of the right size. While the wax was
cooling to the proper consistency, I smeared the coin with vaseline,
and wiped the excess off with my handkerchief. Then I carefully laid
it on the stiffening wax and made steady pressure. After a few moments
I cautiously lifted the paper and dropped it into the water, leaving
it to cool completely. When, finally, I turned it over under water,
the coin dropped away by its own weight.

“It is a beautiful impression,” the inspector remarked, as he examined
it with the aid of my pocket lens, while I prepared to operate on the
reverse of the coin. “As good as the original. You seem rather a dab
at this sort of thing, Doctor. I wonder if you would mind doing
another pair for me?”

Of course, I complied gladly; and when the inspector departed a few
minutes later he took with him a couple of excellent wax impressions
to console him for the necessity of parting with the original.

As soon as he was gone I proceeded to execute a plan that had already
formed in my mind. First I packed the two wax impressions very
carefully in lint and bestowed them in a tin tobacco-box, which I made
up into a neat parcel and addressed it to Dr. Thorndyke. Then I wrote
him a short letter giving him the substance of my talk with Inspector
Follett and asking for an appointment early in the following week to
discuss the situation with him. I did not suppose that the wax
impressions would convey, even to him, anything that would throw fresh
light on this extraordinarily obscure crime. But one never knew. And
the mere finding of the coin might suggest to him some significance
that I had overlooked. In any case, the new incident gave me an excuse
for reopening the matter with him.

I did not trust the precious missives to the maid, but as soon as the
letter was written I took it and the parcel in my own hands to the
post, dropping the letter into the box but giving the parcel the added
security of registration. This business being thus despatched, my mind
was free to occupy itself with pleasurable anticipations of the
projected visit to Highgate on the morrow and to deal with whatever
exigencies might arise in the course of the Saturday evening
consultations.



CHAPTER VI.

Marion D’Arblay at Home

Most of us have, I imagine, been conscious at times of certain
misgivings as to whether the Progress of which we hear so much has
done for us all that it is assumed to have done; whether the undoubted
gain of advancing knowledge has not a somewhat heavy counterpoise of
loss. We moderns are accustomed to look upon a world filled with
objects that would have made our forefathers gasp with admiring
astonishment; and we are accordingly a little puffed up by our
superiority. But the museums and galleries and ancient buildings
sometimes tell a different tale. By them we are made aware that these
same “rude forefathers” were endowed with certain powers and aptitudes
that seem to be denied to the present generation.

Some such reflections as these passed through my mind as I sauntered
about the ancient village of Highgate, having arrived in the
neighbourhood nearly an hour too early. Very delightful the old
village was to look upon, and so it had been, even when the mellow red
brick was new and the plaster on the timber houses was but freshly
laid; when the great elms were saplings and the stage-wagon with its
procession of horses rumbled along the road which now resounds to the
thunder of the electric tram. It was not Time that had made beautiful
its charming old houses and pleasant streets and closes, but fine
workmanship guided by unerring taste.

At four o’clock precisely, by the chime of the church clock, I pushed
open the gate of Ivy Cottage, and as I walked up the flagged path,
read the date, 1709, on a stone tablet let into the brickwork. I had
no occasion to knock, for my approach had been observed, and as I
mounted the threshold the door opened and Miss D’Arblay stood in the
opening.

“Miss Boler saw you coming up the Grove,” she explained, as we shook
hands. “It is surprising how much of the outer world you can see from
a bay window. It is as good as a watch tower.” She disposed of my hat
and stick, and then preceded me into the room to which the window
appertained, where, beside a bright fire, Miss Boler was at the moment
occupied with a brilliantly burnished copper kettle and a silver
teapot. She greeted me with an affable smile, and as much of a bow as
was possible under the circumstances, and then proceeded to make the
tea with an expression of deep concentration.

“I do like punctual people,” she remarked, placing the teapot on a
carved wooden stand. “You know where you are with them. At the very
moment when you turned the corner, Sir, Miss Marion finished buttering
the last muffin and the kettle boiled over. So you won’t have to wait
a moment.”

Miss D’Arblay laughed softly. “You speak as if Dr. Gray had staggered
into the house in a famished condition, roaring for food,” said she.

“Well,” retorted Miss Boler, “you said ‘tea at four o’clock,’ and at
four o’clock the tea was ready and Dr. Gray was here. If he hadn’t
been he would have had to eat leathery muffins, that’s all.”

“Horrible!” exclaimed Miss D’Arblay. “One doesn’t like to think of it;
and there is no need to, as it hasn’t happened. Remember that this is
a gate-legged table, Dr. Gray, when you sit down. They are
delightfully picturesque, but exceedingly bad for the knees of the
unwary.”

I thanked her for the warning, and took my seat with due caution. Then
Miss Boler poured out the tea and uncovered the muffins with the grave
and attentive air of one performing some ceremonial rite.

As the homely, simple meal proceeded, to an accompaniment of desultory
conversation on every-day topics, I found myself looking at the two
women with a certain ill-defined surprise. Both were garbed in
unobtrusive black, and both, in moments of repose, looked somewhat
tired and worn. But in their manner and the subjects of their
conversation, they were astonishingly ordinary and normal. No
stranger, looking at them and listening to their talk, would have
dreamed of the tragedy that overshadowed their lives. But so it
constantly happens. We go into a house of mourning, and are almost
scandalized by its cheerfulness, forgetting that whereas to us the
bereavement is the one salient fact, to the bereaved there is the
necessity of taking up afresh the threads of their lives. Food must be
prepared even while the corpse lies under the roof, and the common
daily round of duty stands still for no human affliction.

But, as I have said, in the pauses of the conversation, when their
faces were in repose, both women looked strained and tired. Especially
was this so in the case of Miss D’Arblay. She was not only pale, but
she had a nervous, shaken manner which I did not like. And as I looked
anxiously at the delicate, pallid face, I noticed, not for the first
time, several linear scratches on the cheek and a small cut on the
temple.

“What have you been doing to yourself?” I asked. “You look as if you
had had a fall.”

“She has,” said Miss Boler in an indignant tone. “It is a marvel that
she is here to tell the tale. The wretches!”

I looked at Miss D’Arblay in consternation. “What wretches?” I asked.

“Ah! indeed!” growled Miss Boler. “I wish I knew. Tell him about it,
Miss Marion.”

“It was really rather a terrifying experience,” said Miss D’Arblay;
“and most mysterious. You know Southwood Lane and the long, steep hill
at the bottom of it?” I nodded, and she continued: “I have been going
down to the studio every day on my bicycle, just to tidy up, and, of
course, I went by Southwood Lane. It is really the only way. But I
always put on the brake at the top of the hill and go down quite
slowly because of the crossroads at the bottom. Well, three days ago I
started as usual and ran down the Lane pretty fast until I got on the
hill. Then I put on the brake; and I could feel at once that it wasn’t
working.”

“Has your bicycle only one brake?” I asked.

“It had. I am having a second one fixed now. Well, when I found that
the brake wasn’t acting, I was terrified. I was already going too fast
to jump off, and the speed increased every moment. I simply flew down
the hill, faster and faster with the wind whistling about my ears and
the trees and the houses whirling past like express trains. Of course,
I could do nothing but steer straight down the hill; but at the bottom
there was the Archway Road with the trams and ’buses and wagons. I
knew that if a tram crossed the bottom of the Lane as I reached the
road, it was practically certain death. I was horribly frightened.

“However, mercifully the Archway Road was clear when I flew across it,
and I steered to run on down Muswell Hill Road, which is nearly in a
line with the lane. But suddenly I saw a steam roller and a heavy
cart, side by side and taking up the whole of the road. There was no
room to pass. The only possible thing was to swerve round, if I could,
into Wood-lane. And I just managed it. But Wood-lane is pretty steep,
and I flew down it faster than ever. That nearly broke down my nerve;
for at the bottom of the lane is the wood—the horrible wood that I can
never even think of without a shudder. And there I seemed to be
rushing towards it to my death.”

She paused and drew a deep breath, and her hand shook so that the cup
which it held rattled in the saucer.

“Well,” she continued, “down the Lane I flew with my heart in my mouth
and the entrance to the wood rushing to meet me. I could see that the
opening in the hurdles was just wide enough for me to pass through,
and I steered for it. I whizzed through into the wood and the bicycle
went bounding down the steep, rough path at a fearful pace until it
came to a sharp turn; and then I don’t quite know what happened. There
was a crash of snapping branches and a violent shock, but I must have
been partly stunned, for the next thing that I remember is opening my
eyes and looking stupidly at a lady who was stooping over me. She had
seen me fly down the Lane, and had followed me into the wood to see
what happened to me. She lived in the Lane, and she very kindly took
me to her house and cared for me until I was quite recovered; and then
she saw me home and wheeled the bicycle.”

“It is a wonder you were not killed outright!” I exclaimed.

“Yes,” she agreed; “it was a narrow escape. But the odd thing is that,
with the exception of these scratches and a few slight bruises, I was
not hurt at all; only very much shaken. And the bicycle was not
damaged a bit.”

“By the way,” said I, “what had happened to the brake?”

“Ah!” exclaimed Miss Boler; “there you are. The villains!”

Miss D’Arblay laughed softly. “Ferocious Arabella!” said she. “But it
is really a most mysterious affair. Naturally, I thought that the wire
of the brake had snapped. But it hadn’t. It had been cut.”

“Are you quite sure of that?” I asked.

“Oh, there is no doubt at all,” she replied. “The man at the repair
shop showed it to me. It wasn’t merely cut in one place. A length of
it had been cut right out. And I can tell within a few minutes when it
was done, for I had been riding the machine in the morning and I know
the brake was all right then. But I left it for a few minutes outside
the gate while I went into the house to change my shoes, and when I
came out, I started on my adventurous journey. In those few minutes
some one must have come along and just snipped the wire through in two
places and taken away the piece.”

“Scoundrel!” muttered Miss Boler; and I agreed with her most
cordially.

“It was an infamous thing to do,” I exclaimed, “and the act of an
abject fool. I suppose you have no idea or suspicion as to who the
idiot might be?”

“Not the slightest,” Miss D’Arblay replied. “I can’t even guess at the
kind of person who would do such a thing. Boys are sometimes very
mischievous, but this is hardly like a boy’s mischief.”

“No,” I agreed, “it is more like the mischief of a mentally defective
adult; the sort of half-baked larrykin who sets fire to a rick if he
gets the chance.”

Miss Boler sniffed. “Looks to me more like deliberate malice,” said
she.

“Mischievous acts usually do,” I rejoined; “but yet they are mostly
the outcome of stupidity that is indifferent to consequences.”

“And it is of no use arguing about it,” said Miss D’Arblay, “because
we don’t know who did it or why he did it, and we have no means of
finding out. But I shall have two brakes in future, and I shall test
them both every time I take the machine out.”

“I hope you will,” said Miss Boler; and this closed the topic so far
as conversation went, though I suspect that, in the interval of
silence that followed, we all continued to pursue it in our thoughts.
And to all of us, doubtless, the mention of Church-yard Bottom Wood
had awakened memories of that fatal morning when the pool gave up its
dead. No reference to the tragedy had yet been made, but it was
inevitable that the thoughts which were at the back of all our minds
should sooner or later come to the surface. They were, in fact,
brought there by me, though unintentionally; for, as I sat at the
table, my eyes had strayed more than once to a bust—or rather a head,
for there were no shoulders—which occupied the centre of the
mantelpiece. It was apparently of lead, and was a portrait, and a very
good one, of Miss D’Arblay’s father. At the first glance I had
recognized the face which I had first seen through the water of the
pool. Miss D’Arblay, who was sitting facing it, caught my glance, and
said: “You are looking at that head of my dear father. I suppose you
recognized it?”

“Yes, instantly. I should take it to be an excellent likeness.”

“It is,” she replied; “and that is something of an achievement in a
self-portrait in the round.”

“Then he modelled it himself?”

“Yes, with the aid of one or two photographs and a couple of mirrors.
I helped him by taking the dimensions with callipers and drawing out a
scale. Then he made a wax cast and a fireproof mould, and we cast it
together in type-metal, as we had no means of melting bronze. Poor
Daddy! How proud he was when we broke away the mould and found the
casting quite perfect!”

She sighed as she gazed fondly on the beloved features, and her eyes
filled. Then, after a brief silence, she turned to me and asked:

“Did Inspector Follett call on you? He said he was going to.”

“Yes, he called yesterday to show me the things that he had found in
the pond. Of course, they were not mine, and he seemed to have no
doubt—and I think he is right—that they belonged to the—to the——”

“Murderer,” said Miss Boler.

“Yes. He seemed to think that they might furnish some kind of clue,
but I am afraid he had nothing very clear in his mind. I suppose that
coin suggested nothing to you?”

Miss D’Arblay shook her head. “Nothing,” she replied. “As it is an
ancient coin, the man may be a collector or a dealer——”

“Or a forger,” interposed Miss Boler.

“Or a forger. But no such person is known to us. And even that is mere
guesswork.”

“Your father was not interested in coins, then?”

“As a sculptor, yes, and more especially in medals and plaquettes. But
not as a collector. He had no desire to possess; only to create. And
so far as I know, he was not acquainted with any collectors. So this
discovery of the inspector’s, so far from solving the mystery, only
adds a fresh problem.”

She reflected for a few moments with knitted brows; then, turning to
me quickly, she asked:

“Did the inspector take you into his confidence at all? He was very
reticent to me, though most kind and sympathetic. But do you think
that he, or the others, are taking any active measures?”

“My impression,” I answered reluctantly, “is that the police are not
in a position to do anything. The truth is that this villain seems to
have got away without leaving a trace.”

“That is what I feared,” she sighed. Then with sudden passion, though
in a quiet, suppressed voice, she exclaimed: “But he must not escape!
It would be too hideous an injustice. Nothing can bring back my dear
father from the grave; but if there is a God of Justice, this
murderous wretch must be called to account and made to pay the penalty
of his crime.”

“He must,” Miss Boler assented in deep, ominous tones, “and he shall;
though God knows how it is to be done.”

“For the present,” said I, “there is nothing to be done but to wait
and see if the police are able to obtain any fresh information; and
meanwhile to turn over every circumstance that you can think of; to
recall the way your father spent his time, the people he knew, and the
possibility in each case that some cause of enmity may have arisen.”

“That is what I have done,” said Miss D’Arblay. “Every night I lie
awake, thinking, thinking; but nothing comes of it. The thing is
incomprehensible. This man must have been a deadly enemy of my
father’s. He must have hated him with the most intense hatred, or he
must have had some strong reason other than mere hatred for making
away with him. But I cannot imagine any person hating my father, and I
certainly have no knowledge of any such person, nor can I conceive of
any reason that any human creature could have had for wishing for my
father’s death. I cannot begin to understand the meaning of what has
happened.”

“But yet,” said I, “there must be a meaning. This man—unless he was a
lunatic, which he apparently was not—must have had a motive for
committing the murder. That motive must have had some background, some
connexion with circumstances of which somebody has knowledge. Sooner
or later those circumstances will almost certainly come to light, and
then the motive for the murder will come into view. But once the
motive is known, it should not be difficult to discover who could be
influenced by such a motive. Let us, for the present, be patient and
see how events shape, but let us also keep a constant watch for any
glimmer of light, for any fact that may bear on either the motive or
the person.”

The two women looked at me earnestly and with an expression of
respectful confidence, of which I knew myself to be wholly
undeserving.

“It gives me new courage,” said Miss D’Arblay, “to hear you speak in
that reasonable, confident tone. I was in despair, but I feel that you
are right. There must be some explanation of this awful thing; and if
there is, it must be possible to discover it. But we ought not to put
the burden of our troubles on you, though you have been so kind.”

“You have done me the honour,” said I, “to allow me to consider myself
your friend. Surely friends should help to bear one another’s
burdens.”

“Yes,” she replied, “in reason; and you have given most generous help
already. But we must not put too much on you. When my father was
alive, he was my great interest and chief concern. Now that he is
gone, the great purpose of my life is to find the wretch who murdered
him and to see that justice is done. That is all that seems to matter
to me. But it is my own affair. I ought not to involve my friends in
it.”

“I can’t admit that,” said I. “The foundation of friendship is
sympathy and service. If I am your friend, then what matters to you
matters to me; and I may say that in the very moment when I first knew
that your father had been murdered, I made the resolve to devote
myself to the discovery and punishment of his murderer by any means
that lay in my power. So you must count me as your ally as well as
your friend.”

As I made this declaration—to an accompaniment of approving growls
from Miss Boler—Marion D’Arblay gave me one quick glance and then
looked down; and once more, her eyes filled. For a few moments she
made no reply; and when, at length, she spoke, her voice trembled.

“You leave me nothing to say,” she murmured, “but to thank you from my
heart. But you little know what it means to us, who felt so helpless,
to know that we have a friend so much wiser and stronger than
ourselves.”

I was a little abashed, knowing my own weakness and helplessness, to
find her putting so much reliance on me. However, there was Thorndyke
in the background; and now I was resolved that, if the thing was in
any way to be compassed, his help must be secured without delay.

A longish pause followed, and as it seemed to me that there was
nothing more to say on this subject until I had seen Thorndyke, I
ventured to open a fresh topic.

“What will happen to your father’s practice?” I asked. “Will you be
able to get any one to carry it on for you?”

“I am glad you asked that,” said Miss D’Arblay, “because, now that you
are our counsellor we can take your opinion, I have already talked the
matter over with Arabella—with Miss Boler.”

“There’s no need to stand on ceremony,” the latter lady interposed.
“Arabella is good enough for me.”

“Arabella is good enough for any one,” said Miss D’Arblay. “Well, the
position is this. The part of my father’s practice that was concerned
with original work—pottery figures and reliefs and models for
goldsmith’s work—will have to go. No one but a sculptor of his own
class could carry that on. But the wax figures for the shop windows
are different. When he first started, he used to model the heads and
limbs in clay and make plaster casts from which to make the gelatine
moulds for the wax-work. But as time went on, these casts accumulated
and he very seldom had need to model fresh heads or limbs. The old
casts could be used over and over again. Now there is a large
collection of plaster models in the studio—heads, arms, legs, and
faces, especially faces—and as I have a fair knowledge of the
wax-work, from watching my father and sometimes helping him, it seemed
that I might be able to carry on that part of the practice.”

“You think you could make the wax figures yourself?” I asked.

“Of course she could,” exclaimed Miss Boler. “She’s her father’s
daughter. Julius D’Arblay was a man who could do anything he turned
his hand to and do it well. And Miss Marion is just like him. She is
quite a good modeller—so her father said; and she wouldn’t have to
make the figures. Only the wax parts.”

“Then they are not wax all over?” said I.

“No,” answered Miss D’Arblay. “They are just dummies; wooden
frameworks covered with stuffed canvas, with wax heads, busts, and
arms, and shaped legs. That was what poor Daddy used to hate about
them. He would have liked to model complete figures.”

“And as to the business side. Could you dispose of them?”

“Yes, if I could do them satisfactorily. The agent who dealt with my
father’s work has already written to me asking if I could carry on. I
know he will help me so far as he can. He was quite fond of my
father.”

“And you have nothing else in view?”

“Nothing by which I could earn a real living. For the last year or two
I have worked at writing and illuminating; addresses, testimonials,
and church services, when I could get them, and filled in the time
writing special window-tickets. But that isn’t very remunerative,
whereas the wax figures would yield quite a good living. And then,”
she added, after a pause, “I have the feeling that Daddy would have
liked me to carry on his work, and I should like it myself. He taught
me quite a lot and I think he meant me to join him when he got old.”

As she had evidently made up her mind, and as her decision seemed
quite a wise one, I concurred with as much enthusiasm as I could
muster.

“I am glad you agree,” said she, “and I know Arabella does. So that is
settled, subject to my being able to carry out the plan. And now, if
we have finished, I should like to show you some of my father’s works.
The house is full of them and so, even, is the garden. Perhaps we had
better go there first before the light fails.”

As the treasures of this singularly interesting home were presented,
one after another, for my inspection, I began to realize the truth of
Miss Boler’s statement. Julius D’Arblay had been a remarkably
versatile man. He had worked in all sorts of mediums and in all
equally well. From the carved stone sundial and the leaden garden
figures to the clock-case decorated with gilded gesso and enriched
with delicate bronze plaquettes, all his works were eloquent of
masterly skill and a fresh, graceful fancy. It seems to me little
short of a tragedy that an artist of his ability should have spent the
greater part of his time in fabricating those absurd, posturing
effigies that simper and smirk so grotesquely in the enormous windows
of Vanity Fair.

I had intended, in compliance with the polite conventions, to make
this, my first visit, a rather short one; but a tentative movement to
depart only elicited protests, and I was easily persuaded to stay
until the exigencies of Dr. Cornish’s practice seemed to call me. When
at last I shut the gate of Ivy Cottage behind me and glanced back at
the two figures standing in the lighted doorway, I had the feeling of
turning away from a house with which, and its inmates, I had been
familiar for years.

On my arrival at Mecklenburgh-square I found a note which had been
left by hand earlier in the evening. It was from Dr. Thorndyke, asking
me, if possible, to lunch with him at his chambers on the morrow. I
looked over my visiting list, and finding that Monday would be a light
day—most of my days here were light days—I wrote a short letter
accepting the invitation and posted it forthwith.



CHAPTER VII.

Enlarging Thorndyke’s Knowledge

“I am glad you were able to come,” said Thorndyke, as we took our
places at the table. “Your letter was a shade ambiguous. You spoke of
discussing the D’Arblay case, but I think you had something more than
discussion in your mind.”

“You are quite right,” I replied. “I had in my mind to ask if it would
be possible for me to retain you—I believe that is the correct
expression—to investigate the case, as the police seem to think there
is nothing to go on; and if the costs would be likely to be within my
means.”

“As to the costs,” said he, “we can dismiss them. I see no reason to
suppose that there would be any costs.”

“But your time, Sir——” I began.

He laughed derisively. “Do you propose to pay me for indulging in my
pet hobby? No, my dear fellow, it is I who should pay you for bringing
a most interesting and intriguing case to my notice. So your questions
are answered. I shall be delighted to look into this case, and there
will be no costs unless we have to pay for some special services. If
we do, I will let you know.”

I was about to utter a protest, but he continued:

“And now, having disposed of the preliminaries, let us consider the
case itself. Your very shrewd and capable inspector believes that the
Scotland Yard people will take no active measures unless some new
facts turn up. I have no doubt he is right, and I think they are
right, too. They can’t spend a lot of time—which means public money—on
a case in which hardly any data are available, and which holds out no
promise of any result. But we mustn’t forget that we are in the same
boat. Our chances of success are infinitesimal. This investigation is
a forlorn hope. That, I may say, is what commends it to me; but I want
you to understand clearly that failure is what we have to expect.”

“I understand that,” I answered gloomily, but nevertheless rather
disappointed at this pessimistic view. “There seems to be nothing
whatever to go upon.”

“Oh, it isn’t so bad as that,” he rejoined. “Let us just run over the
data that we have. Our object is to fix the identity of the man who
killed Julius D’Arblay. Let us see what we know about him. We will
begin with the evidence at the inquest. From that we learned: 1. That
he is a man of some education, ingenious, subtle, resourceful. This
murder was planned with extraordinary ingenuity and foresight. The
body was found in the pond with no telltale mark on it but an almost
invisible pinprick in the back. The chances were a thousand to one, or
more, against that tiny puncture ever being observed; and if it had
not been observed, the verdict would have been ‘Found drowned,’ or
‘Found dead,’ and the fact of the murder would never have been
discovered.

“2. We also learn that he has some knowledge of poisons. The common,
vulgar, poisoner is reduced to fly-papers, weed-killer, or
rat-poison—arsenic or strychnine. But this man selects the most
suitable of all poisons for his purpose, and administers it in the
most effective manner; with a hypodermic syringe.

“3. We learned further that he must have had some extraordinarily
strong reason for making away with D’Arblay. He made most elaborate
plans, he took endless trouble—for instance, it must have been no easy
matter to get possession of that quantity of aconitine (unless he were
a doctor, which God forbid!). That strong reason—the motive, in
fact—is the key of the problem. It is the murderer’s one vulnerable
point, for it can hardly be beyond discovery; and its discovery must
be our principal objective.”

I nodded, not without some self-congratulation as I recalled how I had
made this very point in my talk with Miss D’Arblay.

“Those,” Thorndyke continued, “are the data that the inquest
furnished. Now we come to those added by Inspector Follett.”

“I don’t see that they help us at all,” said I. “The ancient coin was
a curious find, but it doesn’t appear to tell us anything new
excepting that this man may have been a collector or a dealer. On the
other hand, he may not. It doesn’t seem to me that the coin has any
significance.”

“Doesn’t it really?” said Thorndyke, as he refilled my glass. “You are
surely overlooking the very curious coincidence that it presents.”

“What coincidence is that?” I asked, in some surprise.

“The coincidence,” he replied, “that both the murderer and the victim
should be, to a certain extent, connected with a particular form of
activity. Here is a man who commits a murder and who, at the time of
committing it appears to have been in possession of a coin, which is
not a current coin, but a collector’s piece; and behold! the murdered
man is a sculptor—a man who, presumably, was capable of making a coin,
or at least the working model.”

“There is no evidence,” I objected, “that D’Arblay was capable of
cutting a die. He was not a die sinker.”

“There was no need for him to be,” Thorndyke rejoined. “Formerly, the
medallist who designed the coin cut the die himself. But that is not
the modern practice. Nowadays, the designer makes the model, first in
wax and then in plaster, on a comparatively large scale. The model of
a shilling may be three inches or more in diameter. The actual
die-sinking is done by a copying machine which produces a die of the
required size by mechanical reduction. I think there could be no doubt
that D’Arblay could have modelled the design for a coin on the usual
scale, say three or four inches in diameter.”

“Yes,” I agreed, “he certainly could, for I have seen some of his
small relief work; some little plaquettes, not more than two inches
long and most delicately and beautifully modelled. But still, I don’t
see the connexion, otherwise than as a rather odd coincidence.”

“There may be nothing more,” said he. “There may be nothing in it at
all. But odd coincidences should always be noted with very special
attention.”

“Yes, I realize that. But I can’t imagine what significance there
could be in the coincidence.”

“Well,” said Thorndyke, “let us take an imaginary case, just as an
illustration. Suppose this man to have been a fraudulent dealer in
antiquities; and suppose him to have obtained enlarged photographs of
a medal or coin of extreme rarity and of great value, which was in
some museum or private collection. Suppose him to have taken the
photographs to D’Arblay and commissioned him to model from them a pair
of exact replicas in hardened plaster. From those plaster models he
could, with a copying machine, produce a pair of dies with which he
could strike replicas in the proper metal and of the exact size; and
these could be sold for large sums to judiciously chosen collectors.”

“I don’t believe D’Arblay would have accepted such a commission,” I
exclaimed indignantly.

“We may assume that he would not, if the fraudulent intent had been
known to him. But it would not have been; and there is no reason why
he should have refused a commission merely to make a copy. Still, I am
not suggesting that anything of the kind really happened. I am simply
giving you an illustration of one of the innumerable ways in which a
perfectly honest sculptor might be made use of by a fraudulent dealer.
In that case his honesty would be a source of danger to him; for if a
really great fraud were perpetrated by means of his work, it would
clearly be to the interest of the perpetrator to get rid of him. An
honest and unconscious collaborator in a crime is apt to be a
dangerous witness if questions arise.”

I was a good deal impressed by this demonstration. Here, it seemed to
me, was something very like a tangible clue. But at this point
Thorndyke again applied a cold douche.

“Still,” he said, “we are only dealing with generalities, and rather
speculative ones. Our assumptions are subject to all sorts of
qualifications. It is possible, for instance, though very improbable,
that D’Arblay may have been murdered in error by a perfect stranger;
that he may have walked into an ambush prepared for some one else.
Again, the coin may not have belonged to the murderer at all, though
that is also most improbable. But there are numerous possibilities of
error; and we can eliminate them only by following up each suggested
clue and seeking verification or disproof. Every new fact that we
learn is a multiple gain. For as money makes money, so knowledge
begets knowledge.”

“That is very true,” I answered dejectedly—for it sounded rather like
a platitude; “but I don’t see any means of following up any of these
clues.”

“We are going to follow up one of them after lunch, if you have time,”
said he. As he spoke, he took from the table drawer a paper packet and
a jeweller’s leather case. “This,” he said, handing me the packet,
“contains your sealing-wax moulds. You had better take care of them
and keep the box with the marked side up to prevent the wax from
warping. Here are a pair of casts in hardened plaster—‘fictile ivory,’
as it is called—which my assistant, Polton, has made.”

He opened the case and passed it to me, when I saw that it was lined
with purple velvet and contained what looked like two old ivory
replicas of the mysterious coin.

“Mr. Polton is quite an artist,” I said, regarding them admiringly.
“But what are you going to do with these?”

“I had intended to take them round to the British Museum and show them
to the keeper of the coins and medals, or one of his colleagues. But I
think I will just ask a few questions and hear what he says before I
produce the casts. Have you time to come round with me?”

“I shall make time. But what do you want to know about the coin?”

“It is just a matter of verification,” he replied. “My books on the
British coinage describe the Charles the Second guinea as having a
tiny elephant under the bust on the obverse, to show that the gold
from which it was minted came from the Guinea Coast.”

“Yes,” said I. “Well, there is a little elephant under the bust in
this coin.”

“True,” he replied. “But this elephant has a castle on his back, and
would ordinarily be described as an elephant and castle, to
distinguish him from the plain elephant which appeared on some coins.
What I want to ascertain is whether there were two different types of
guinea. The books make no mention of a second variety.”

“Surely they would have referred to it if there had been,” said I.

“So I thought,” he replied; “but it is better to make sure than to
think.”

“I suppose it is,” I agreed without much conviction, “though I don’t
see that, even if there were two varieties, that fact would have any
bearing on what we want to know.”

“Neither do I,” he admitted. “But then you can never tell what a fact
will prove until you are in possession of the fact. And now, as we
seem to have finished, perhaps we had better make our way to the
Museum.”

The department of coins and medals is associated in my mind with an
impassive-looking Chinese person in bronze who presides over the upper
landing of the main staircase. In fact, we halted for a moment before
him to exchange a final word.

“It will probably be best,” said Thorndyke, “to say nothing about this
coin, or, indeed, about anything else. We don’t want to enter into any
explanations.”

“No,” I agreed. “It is best to keep one’s own counsel;” and with this
we entered the hall, where Thorndyke led the way to a small door and
pressed the electric bell-push. An attendant admitted us, and when we
had signed our names in the visitors’ book, he ushered us into the
keeper’s room. As we entered, a keen-faced, middle-aged man who was
seated at a table inspected us over his spectacles, and, apparently
recognizing Thorndyke, rose and held out his hand.

“Quite a long time since I have seen you,” he remarked after the
preliminary greetings. “I wonder what your quest is this time.”

“It is a very simple one,” said Thorndyke. “I am going to ask if you
can let me look at a Charles the Second guinea dated 1663.”

“Certainly I can,” was the reply, accompanied by an inquisitive glance
at my friend. “It is not a rarity, you know.”

He crossed the room to a large cabinet, and having run his eye over
the multitudinous labels, drew out a small, very shallow drawer. With
this in his hand he returned, and picking a coin out of its circular
pit, held it out to Thorndyke, who took it from him, holding it
delicately by the edge. He looked at it attentively for a few moments,
and then silently presented the obverse for my inspection. Naturally
my eye at once sought the little elephant under the bust, and there it
was; but there was no castle on its back.

“Is this the only type of guinea issued at that date?” Thorndyke
asked.

“The only type,” was the reply. “This is the first issue of the
guinea.”

“There was no variation or alternative form?”

“There was a form which had no elephant under the bust. Only those
which were minted from African gold bore the elephant.”

“I notice that this coin has a plain elephant under the bust; but I
seem to have heard of a guinea, bearing this date, which had an
elephant and castle under the bust. You are sure there was no such
guinea?”

Our official friend shook his head as he took the coin from Thorndyke
and replaced it in its cell. “As sure,” he replied, “as one can be of
a universal negative. The elephant and castle did not appear until
1685.” He picked up the drawer and was just moving away towards the
cabinet when there came a sudden change in his manner.

“Wait!” he exclaimed, stopping and putting down the drawer. “You are
quite right. Only it was not an issue; it was a trial piece, and only
a single coin was struck. I will tell you about it. There is a rather
curious story hanging to that piece.

“This guinea, as you probably know, was struck from dies cut by John
Roettier, and was one of the first coined by the mill-and-screw
process in place of the old hammer-and-pile method. Now when Roettier
had finished the dies, a trial piece was struck; and in striking that
piece the obverse die cracked right across, but apparently only at the
last turn of the screw, for the trial piece was quite perfect. Of
course, Roettier had to cut a new die; and for some reason he made a
slight alteration. The first die had an elephant and castle under the
bust. In the second one he changed this to a plain elephant. So your
impression was, so far, correct; but the coin, if it still exists, is
absolutely unique.”

“Is it not known, then, what became of that trial piece?”

“Oh, yes—up to a point. That is the queerest part of the story. For a
time it remained in the possession of the Slingsby family—Slingsby was
the Master of the Mint when it was struck. Then it passed through the
hands of various collectors, and finally was bought by an American
collector named Van Zellen. Now Van Zellen was a millionaire, and his
collection was a typical millionaire’s collection. It consisted
entirely of things of enormous value which no ordinary man could
afford, or of unique things of which nobody could possibly have a
duplicate. It seems that he was a rather solitary man, and that he
spent most of his evenings alone in his museum, gloating over his
possessions.

“One morning Van Zellen was found dead in the little study attached to
the museum. That was about eighteen months ago. There was an empty
champagne bottle on the table and a half-emptied glass, which smelt of
bitter almonds, and in his pocket was an empty phial labelled
‘Hydrocyanic Acid.’ At first it was assumed that he had committed
suicide, but when, later, the collection was examined, it was found
that a considerable part of it was missing. A clean sweep had been
made of the gems, jewels, and other portable objects of value, and,
among other things, this unique trial guinea had vanished. Surely you
remember the case?”

“Yes,” replied Thorndyke. “I do, now you mention it, but I never heard
what was stolen. Do you happen to know what the later developments
were?”

“There were none. The identity of the murderer was never even guessed
at, and not a single item of the stolen property has ever been traced.
To this day the crime remains an impenetrable mystery—unless you know
something about it,” and again our friend cast an inquisitive glance
at Thorndyke.

“My practice,” the latter replied, “does not extend to the United
States. Their own very efficient investigators seem to be able to do
all that is necessary. But I am very much obliged to you for having
given us so much of your time, to say nothing of this extremely
interesting information. I shall make a note of it, for American crime
occasionally has its repercussions on this side.”

I secretly admired the adroit way in which Thorndyke had evaded the
rather pointed question without making any actual mis-statement. But
the motive for the evasion was not very obvious to me. I was about to
put a question on the subject, but he anticipated it, for, as soon as
we were outside, he remarked with a chuckle: “It is just as well that
we didn’t begin by exhibiting the casts. We could hardly have sworn
our friend to secrecy, seeing that the original is undoubtedly stolen
property.”

“But aren’t you going to draw the attention of the police to the
fact?”

“I think not,” he replied. “They have got the original, and no doubt
they have a list of the stolen property. We must assume that they will
make use of their knowledge; but if they don’t, it may be all the
better for us. The police are very discreet; but they do sometimes
give the Press more information than I should. And what is told to the
Press is told to the criminal.”

“And why not?” I asked. “What is the harm of his knowing?”

“My dear Gray!” exclaimed Thorndyke. “You surprise me. Just consider
the position. This man aimed at being entirely unsuspected. That
failed. But still his identity is unknown, and he is probably
confident that it will never be ascertained. Then he is, so far, off
his guard. There is no need for him to disappear or go into hiding.
But let him know that he is being tracked and he will almost certainly
take fresh precautions against discovery. Probably he will slip away
beyond our reach. Our aim must be to encourage in him a feeling of
perfect security; and that aim commits us to the strictest secrecy. No
one must know what cards we hold or that we hold any; or even that we
are taking a hand.”

“What about Miss D’Arblay?” I asked anxiously. “May I not tell her
that you are working on her behalf?”

He looked at me somewhat dubiously. “It would obviously be better not
to,” he said, “but that might seem a little unfriendly and
unsympathetic.”

“It would be an immense relief to her to know that you are trying to
help her, and I think you could trust her to keep your secrets.”

“Very well,” he conceded. “But warn her very thoroughly. Remember that
our antagonist is hidden from us. Let us remain hidden from him, so
far as our activities are concerned.”

“I will make her promise absolute secrecy,” I agreed: and then, with a
slight sense of anti-climax, I added: “But we don’t seem to have so
very much to conceal. This curious story of the stolen coin is
interesting, but it doesn’t appear to get us any more forward.”

“Doesn’t it?” he asked. “Now I was just congratulating myself on the
progress that we had made; on the way in which we are narrowing down
the field of inquiry. Let us trace our progress. When you found the
body there was no evidence as to the cause of death; no suspicion of
any agent whatever. Then came the inquest, demonstrating the cause of
death and bringing into view a person of unknown identity, but having
certain distinguishing characteristics. Then Follett’s discovery added
some further characteristics and suggested certain possible motives
for the crime. But still there was no hint as to the person’s identity
or position in life. Now we have good evidence that he is a
professional criminal of a dangerous type, that he is connected with
another crime and with a quantity of easily identified stolen
property. We also know that he was in America about eighteen months
ago, and we can easily get exact information as to dates and locality.
This man is no longer a mere formless shadow. He is in a definite
category of possible persons.”

“But,” I objected, “the fact that he had the coin in his possession
does not prove that he is the man who stole it.”

“Not by itself,” Thorndyke agreed. “But taken in conjunction with the
crime, it is almost conclusive. You appear to be overlooking the
striking similarity of the two crimes. Each was a violent murder
committed by means of poison; and in each case, the poison selected
was the most suitable one for the purpose. The one, aconitine, was
calculated to escape detection; the other, hydrocyanic acid—the most
rapidly acting of all poisons—was calculated to produce almost instant
death in a man who was probably struggling and might have raised an
alarm. I think we are fairly justified in assuming that the murderer
of Van Zellen was the murderer of D’Arblay. If that is so, we have two
groups of circumstances to investigate, two tracks by which to follow
him; and, sooner or later, I feel confident, we shall be able to give
him a name. Then if we have kept our own counsel, and he is
unconscious of the pursuit, we shall be able to lay our hands on him.
But here we are at the Foundling Hospital. It is time for each of us
to get back to the routine of duty.”



CHAPTER VIII.

Simon Bendelow, Deceased

It was near the close of my incumbency of Dr. Cornish’s
practice—indeed, Cornish had returned on the previous evening—that my
unsatisfactory attendance on Mr. Simon Bendelow came to an end. It had
been a wearisome affair. In medical practice, perhaps even more than
in most human activities, continuous effort calls for the sustenance
of achievement. A patient who cannot be cured or even substantially
relieved is of all patients the most depressing. Week after week I had
made my fruitless visits, had watched the silent, torpid sufferer grow
yet more shrivelled and wasted, speculating even a little impatiently
on the possible duration of his long-drawn-out passage to the grave.
But at last the end came.

“Good morning, Mrs. Morris,” I said as that grim female opened the
door and surveyed me impassively, “and how is our patient to-day?”

“He isn’t our patient any longer,” she replied. “He’s dead.”

“Ha!” I exclaimed. “Well, it had to be, sooner or later. Poor Mr.
Bendelow! When did he die?”

“Yesterday afternoon, about five,” she answered.

“H’m. If you had sent me a note I could have brought the certificate.
However, I can post it to you. Shall I go up and have a look at him?”

“You can if you like,” she replied. “But the ordinary certificate
won’t be enough in this case. He is going to be cremated.”

“Oh, indeed!” said I, once more unpleasantly conscious of my
inexperience. “What sort of certificate is required for cremation?”

“Oh, all sorts of formalities have to be gone through,” she answered.
“Just come into the drawing-room, and I will tell you what has to be
done.”

She preceded me along the passage, and I followed meekly,
anathematizing myself for my ignorance, and my instructors for having
sent me forth crammed with academic knowledge, but with the practical
business of my profession all to learn.

“Why are you having him cremated?” I asked, as we entered the room and
shut the door.

“Because it is one of the provisions of his will,” she answered. “I
may as well let you see it.”

She opened a bureau and took from it a foolscap envelope, from which
she drew out a folded document. This she first unfolded and then
re-folded, so that its concluding clauses were visible, and laid it on
the flap of the bureau. Placing her finger on it, she said: “That is
the cremation clause. You had better read it.”

I ran my eye over the clause, which read: “I desire that my body shall
be cremated, and I appoint Sarah Elizabeth Morris, the wife of the
aforesaid James Morris, to be the residuary legatee and sole executrix
of this my will.” Then followed the attestation clause, underneath
which was the shaky but characteristic signature of “Simon Bendelow,”
and opposite this the signatures of the witnesses, Anne Dewsnep and
Martha Bonington, both described as spinsters and both of a joint
address which was hidden by the folding of the document.

“So much for that,” said Mrs. Morris, returning the will to its
envelope; “and now as to the certificate. There is a special form for
cremation which has to be signed by two doctors, and one of them must
be a hospital doctor or a consultant. So I wrote off at once to Dr.
Cropper, as he knew the patient, and I have had a telegram from him
this morning saying that he will be here this evening at eight o’clock
to examine the body and sign the certificate. Can you manage to meet
him at that time?”

“Yes,” I replied, “fortunately I can, as Dr. Cornish is back.”

“Very well,” said she; “then in that case you needn’t go up now. You
will be able to make the examination together. Eight o’clock, sharp,
remember.”

With this she re-conducted me along the passage and—I had almost said
ejected me; but she sped the parting guest with a business-like
directness that was perhaps accounted for by the presence opposite the
door of one of those grim parcels-delivery vans in which undertakers
distribute their wares, and from which a rough-looking coffin was at
the moment being hoisted out by two men.

The extraordinary promptitude of this proceeding so impressed me that
I remarked: “They haven’t been long making the coffin.”

“They didn’t have to make it,” she replied. “I ordered it a month ago.
It’s no use leaving things to the last moment.”

I turned away with somewhat mixed feelings. There was certainly a
horrible efficiency about this woman. Executrix, indeed! Her
promptness in carrying out the provisions of the will was positively
appalling. She must have written to Cropper before the breath was
fairly out of poor Bendelow’s body, but her forethought in the matter
of the coffin fairly made my flesh creep.

Dr. Cornish made no difficulty about taking over the evening
consultations, in fact he had intended to do so in any case.
Accordingly, after a rather early dinner, I made my way in leisurely
fashion back to Hoxton, where, after all, I arrived fully ten minutes
too soon. I realized my prematureness when I halted at the corner of
Market-street to look at my watch; and as ten additional minutes of
Mrs. Morris’s society offered no allurement, I was about to turn back
and fill up the time with a short walk when my attention was arrested
by a mast which had just appeared above the wall at the end of the
street. With its black-painted truck and halyard blocks and its long
tricolour pennant, it looked like the mast of a Dutch schuyt or
galliot, but I could hardly believe it possible that such a craft
could make its appearance in the heart of London. All agog with
curiosity, I hurried up the street and looked over the wall at the
canal below; and there, sure enough, she was—a big Dutch sloop,
broad-bosomed, massive, and mediæval, just such a craft as one may see
in the pictures of old Vandervelde, painted when Charles the Second
was king.

I leaned on the low wall and watched her with delighted interest as
she crawled forward slowly to her berth, bringing with her, as it
seemed, a breath of the distant sea and the echo of the surf,
murmuring on sandy beaches. I noted appreciatively her old-world air,
her antique build, her gay and spotless paint, and the muslin curtains
in the little windows of her deck-house, and was, in fact, so absorbed
in watching her that the late Simon Bendelow had passed completely out
of my mind. Suddenly, however, the chiming of a clock recalled me to
my present business. With a hasty glance at my watch I tore myself
away reluctantly, darted across the street, and gave a vigorous pull
at the bell.

Dr. Cropper had not yet arrived, but the deceased had not been
entirely neglected, for when I had spent some five minutes staring
inquisitively about the drawing-room into which Mrs. Morris had shown
me, that lady returned, accompanied by two other ladies, whom she
introduced to me somewhat informally by the names of Miss Dewsnep and
Miss Bonington respectively. I recognized the names as those of the
two witnesses to the will and inspected them with furtive curiosity,
though, indeed, they were quite unremarkable excepting as typical
specimens of the genus elderly spinster.

“Poor Mr. Bendelow!” murmured Miss Dewsnep, shaking her head and
causing an artificial cherry on her bonnet to waggle idiotically. “How
beautiful he looks in his coffin!”

She looked at me as if for confirmation, so that I was fain to admit
that his beauty in this new setting had not yet been revealed to me.

“So peaceful,” she added, with another shake of her head, and Miss
Bonington chimed in with the comment, “Peaceful and restful.” Then
they both looked at me and I mumbled indistinctly that I had no doubt
he did; the fact being that the inmates of coffins are not in general
much addicted to boisterous activity.

“Ah!” Miss Dewsnep resumed, “how little did I think when I first saw
him, sitting up in bed so cheerful in that nice, sunny room in the
house at——”

“Why not?” interrupted Mrs. Morris. “Did you think he was going to
live for ever?”

“No, Mrs. Morris, ma’am,” was the dignified reply, “I did not. No such
idea ever entered my head. I know too well that we mortals are all
born to be gathered in at last as the—er—as the——”

“Sparks fly upwards,” murmured Miss Bonington.

“As the corn is gathered in at harvest time,” Miss Dewsnep continued
with slight emphasis. “But not to be cast into a burning fiery
furnace. When I first saw him in the other house at——”

“I don’t see what objection you need have to cremation,” interrupted
Mrs. Morris. “It was his own choice, and a good one, too. Look at
those great cemeteries. What sense is there in letting the dead occupy
the space that is wanted for the living?”

“Well,” said Miss Dewsnep, “I may be old-fashioned, but it does seem
to me that a nice, quiet funeral with plenty of flowers and a proper,
decent grave in a church-yard is the natural end to a human life. That
is what I look forward to, myself.”

“Then you are not likely to be disappointed,” said Mrs. Morris;
“though I don’t quite see what satisfaction you expect to get out of
your own funeral.”

Miss Dewsnep made no reply, and an interval of dismal silence
followed. Mrs. Morris was evidently impatient of Dr. Cropper’s
unpunctuality. I could see that she was listening intently for the
sound of the bell, as she had been even while the conversation was in
progress; indeed, I had been dimly conscious all the while of a sense
of tension and anxiety on her part. She had seemed to me to watch her
two friends with a sort of uneasiness, and to give a quite
uncalled-for attention to their rather trivial utterances.

At length her suspense was relieved by a loud ringing of the bell. She
started up and opened the door, but she had barely crossed the
threshold when she suddenly turned back and addressed me.

“That will be Dr. Cropper. Perhaps you had better come out with me and
meet him.”

It struck me as an odd suggestion, but I rose without comment and
followed her along the passage to the street door, which we reached
just as another loud peal of the bell sounded in the house behind us.
She flung the door wide open, and a small, spectacled man charged in
and seized my hand, which he shook with violent cordiality.

“How do you do, Mr. Morris?” he exclaimed. “So sorry to keep you
waiting, but I was unfortunately detained at a consultation.”

Here Mrs. Morris sourly intervened to explain who I was; upon which he
shook my hand again, and expressed his joy at making my acquaintance.
He also made polite inquiries as to our hostess’ health, which she
acknowledged gruffly over her shoulder as she preceded us along the
passage, which was now pitch-dark, and where Cropper dropped his hat
and trod on it, finally bumping his head against the unseen wall in a
frantic effort to recover it.

When we emerged into the dimly lighted hall, I observed the two ladies
peering inquisitively out of the drawing-room door. But Mrs. Morris
took no notice of them, leading the way directly up the stairs to the
room with which I was already familiar. It was poorly illuminated by a
single gas-bracket over the fireplace, but the light was enough to
show us a coffin resting on three chairs, and beyond it the shadowy
figure of a man whom I recognized as Mr. Morris.

We crossed the room to the coffin, which was plainly finished with
zinc fastenings, in accordance with the regulations of the cremation
authorities, and had let into the top what I first took to be a pane
of glass, but which turned out to be a plate of clear celluloid. When
we had made our salutations to Mr. Morris, Cropper and I looked in
through the celluloid window. The yellow, shrunken face of the dead
man, surmounted by the skull cap which he had always worn, looked so
little changed that he might still have been in the drowsy, torpid
state in which I had been accustomed to see him. He had always looked
so like a dead man that the final transition was hardly noticeable.

“I suppose,” said Morris, “you would like to have the coffin-lid taken
off?”

“God bless my soul, yes!” exclaimed Cropper. “What are we here for? We
shall want him out of the coffin, too.”

“Are you proposing to make a post-mortem?” I asked, observing that Dr.
Cropper had brought a good-sized handbag. “It seems hardly necessary,
as we both know what he died of.”

Cropper shook his head. “That won’t do,” said he. “You mustn’t treat a
cremation certificate as a mere formality. We have got to certify that
we have verified the cause of death. Looking at a body through a
window is not verifying the cause of death. We should cut a pretty
figure in a court of law if any question arose and we had to admit
that we had certified without any examination at all. But we needn’t
do much, you know. Just get the body out on the bed and a single small
incision will settle the nature of the growth. Then everything will be
regular and in order. I hope you don’t mind, Mrs. Morris,” he added,
suavely, turning to that lady.

“You must do what you think necessary,” she replied, indifferently.
“It is no affair of mine;” and with this she went out of the room and
shut the door.

While we had been speaking, Mr. Morris, who apparently had kept a
screwdriver in readiness for the possible contingency, had been neatly
extracting the zinc screws and now lifted off the coffin-lid. Then the
three of us raised the shrivelled body—it was as light as a
child’s—and laid it on the bed. I left Cropper to do what he thought
necessary, and while he was unpacking his instruments I took the
opportunity to have a good look at Mr. Morris; for it is a singular
fact that in all the weeks of my attendance at this house I had never
come into contact with him since that first morning when I had caught
a momentary glimpse of him as he looked out over the blind through the
glazed shop door. In the interval his appearance had changed
considerably for the better. He was no longer a merely unshaved man;
his beard had grown to a respectable length, and, so far as I could
judge in the uncertain light, the hare-lip scar was completely
concealed by his moustache.

“Let me see,” said Cropper, as he polished a scalpel on the palm of
his hand, “when did you say Mr. Bendelow died?”

“Yesterday afternoon at about five o’clock,” replied Mr. Morris.

“Did he really?” said Cropper, lifting one of the limp arms and
letting it drop on the bed. “Yesterday afternoon! Now, Gray, doesn’t
that show how careful one should be in giving opinions as to the time
that has elapsed since death? If I had been shown this body and asked
how long the man had been dead, I should have said three or four days.
There isn’t the least trace of rigor mortis left; and the other
appearances—but there it is. You are never safe in giving dogmatic
opinions.”

“No,” I agreed. “I should have said he had been dead more than
twenty-four hours. But I suppose there is a good deal of variation.”

“There is,” he replied. “You can’t apply averages to particular
cases.”

I did not consider it necessary to take any active part in the
proceedings. It was his diagnosis, and it was for him to verify it. At
his request Mr. Morris fetched a candle and held it as he was
directed; and while these preparations were in progress, I looked out
of the window, which commanded a partial view of the canal. The moon
had now risen and its full light fell on the white-painted hull of the
Dutch sloop, which had come to rest and made fast alongside a small
wharf. It was quite a pleasant picture, strangely at variance with the
squalid neighbourhood around. As I looked down on the little vessel,
with the ruddy light glowing from the deck-house windows and casting
shimmering reflections in the quiet water, the sight seemed to carry
me far away from the sordid streets around into the fellowship of the
breezy ocean and the far-away shores whence the little craft had
sailed; and I determined, as soon as our business was finished, to
seek some access to the canal and indulge myself with a quiet stroll
in the moonlight along the deserted towing-path.

“Well, Gray,” said Cropper, standing up with the scalpel and forceps
in his hands, “there it is if you want to see it. Typical carcinoma.
Now we can sign the certificates with a clear conscience. I’ll just
put in a stitch or two, and then we can put him back in his coffin. I
suppose you have got the forms?”

“They are downstairs,” said Mr. Morris. “When we have got him back I
will show you the way down.”

This, however, was unnecessary, as there was only one staircase, and I
was not a stranger. Accordingly, when we had replaced the body, we
took our leave of Mr. Morris and departed; and, glancing back as I
passed out of the door, I saw him driving in the screws with the ready
skill of a cabinet-maker.

The filling-up of the forms was a portentous business which was
carried out in the drawing-room under the superintendence of Mrs.
Morris, and was watched with respectful interest by the two spinsters.
When it was finished and I had handed the registration certificate to
Mrs. Morris, Cropper gathered up the forms “B” and “C,” and slipped
them into a long envelope on which the Medical Referee’s address was
printed.

“I will post this off to-night,” said he; “and you will send in Form
A, Mrs. Morris, when you have filled it in.”

“I have sent it off already,” she replied.

“Good,” said Dr. Cropper. “Then that is all; and now I must run away.
Can I put you down anywhere, Gray?”

“Thank you, no,” I replied. “I thought of taking a walk along the
tow-path, if you can tell me how to get down to it, Mrs. Morris.”

“I can’t,” she replied. “But when Dr. Cropper has gone, I will run up
and ask my husband. I daresay he knows.”

We escorted Cropper along the passage to the door, which he reached
without mishap, and having seen him into his brougham, turned back to
the hall, where Mrs. Morris ascended the stairs, and I went into the
drawing-room, where the two spinsters appeared to be preparing for
departure. In a couple of minutes Mrs. Morris returned, and seeing
both the ladies standing, said: “You are not going yet, Miss Dewsnep.
You must have some refreshment before you go. Besides, I thought you
wanted to see Mr. Bendelow again.”

“So we should,” said Miss Dewsnep. “Just a little peep, to see how he
looks after——”

“I will take you up in a minute,” interrupted Mrs. Morris. “When Dr.
Gray has gone.” Then addressing me, she said: “My husband says that
you can get down to the tow-path through that alley nearly opposite.
There is a flight of steps at the end which comes right out on the
path.”

I thanked her for the direction, and having bidden farewell to the
spinsters, was once more escorted along the passage and finally
launched into the outer world.



CHAPTER IX.

A Strange Misadventure

Although I had been in harness but a few weeks, it was with a pleasant
sense of freedom that I turned from the door and crossed the road
towards the alley. My time was practically my own, for, though I was
remaining with Dr. Cornish until the end of the week, he was now in
charge, and my responsibilities were at an end.

The alley was entered by an arched opening, so narrow that I had never
suspected it of being a public thoroughfare, and I now threaded it
with my shoulders almost touching the walls. Whither it finally led I
have no idea, for when I reached another arched opening in the left
hand wall and saw that this gave on a flight of stone steps, I
descended the latter and found myself on the tow-path. At the foot of
the steps I stood awhile and looked about me. The moon was nearly
full, and shone brightly on the opposite side of the canal, but the
tow-path was in deep shadow, being flanked by a high wall, behind
which were the houses of the adjoining streets. Looking back—that is,
to my left—I could just make out the bridge and the adjoining
buildings, all their unlovely details blotted out by the thin
night-haze, which reduced them to mere flat shapes of grey. A little
nearer, one or two spots of ruddy light with wavering reflections
beneath them, marked the cabin windows of the sloop, and her mast,
rising above the grey obscurity, was clearly visible against the sky.

Naturally, I turned in that direction, sauntering luxuriously and
filling my pipe as I went. Doubtless, by day the place was sordid
enough in aspect—though it is hard to vulgarize a navigable
water-way—but now, in the moon-lit haze, the scene was almost
romantic. And it was astonishingly quiet and peaceful. From above,
beyond the high wall, the noises of the streets came subdued and
distant, like sounds from another world; but here there was neither
sound nor movement. The tow-path was utterly deserted, and the only
sign of human life was the glimmer of light from the sloop.

It was delightfully restful. I found myself treading the gravel
lightly not to disturb the grateful silence, and as I strolled along,
enjoying my pipe, I let my thoughts ramble idly from one topic to
another. Somewhere above me, in that rather mysterious house, Simon
Bendelow was lying in his narrow bed, the wasted, yellow face looking
out into the darkness through that queer little celluloid window, or
perhaps Miss Dewsnep and her friend were even now taking their
farewell peep at him. I looked up, but, of course, the house was not
visible from the tow-path, nor was I now able to guess at its
position.

A little farther, and the hull of the sloop came clearly into view,
and nearly opposite to it, on the tow-path, I could see some kind of
shed or hut against the wall, with a derrick in front of it
overhanging a little quay. When I had nearly reached the shed, I
passed a door in the wall, which apparently communicated with some
house in one of the streets above. Then I came to the shed, a small
wooden building which probably served as a lighterman’s office, and I
noticed that the derrick swung from one of the corner-posts. But at
this moment my attention was attracted by sounds of mild revelry from
across the canal. Some one in the sloop’s deck-house had burst into
song.

I stepped out on to the little quay and stood at the edge, looking
across at the homely curtained windows and wondering what the interior
of the deck-house looked like at this moment. Suddenly my ear caught
an audible creak from behind me. I was in the act of turning to see
whence it came when something struck me a heavy, glancing blow on the
arm, crashed to the ground, and sent me flying over the edge of the
quay.

Fortunately the water here was not more than four feet deep, and as I
had plunged in feet first, and am a good swimmer, I never lost control
of myself. In a moment I was standing up with my head and shoulders
out of water, not particularly alarmed, though a good deal annoyed and
much puzzled as to what had happened. My first care was to recover my
hat, which was floating forlornly close by, and the next was to
consider how I should get ashore. My left arm was numb from the blow
and was evidently useless for climbing. Moreover, the face of the quay
was of smooth concrete, as was also the wall below the tow-path. But I
remembered having passed a pair of boat-steps some fifty yards back,
and decided to make for them. I had thought of hailing the sloop, but
as the droning song still came from the deck-house, it was clear that
the Dutchmen had heard nothing, and I did not think it worth while to
disturb them. Accordingly, I set forth for the steps, walking with no
little difficulty over the soft, muddy bottom, keeping close to the
side and steadying myself with my right hand, with which I could just
reach the edge of the coping.

It seemed a long journey, for one cannot progress very fast over soft
mud with the water up to one’s armpits; but at last I reached the
steps and managed to scramble up on to the tow-path. There I stood for
a moment or two irresolute. My first impulse was to hurry back as fast
as I could and seek the Morrises’ hospitality; for I was already
chilled to the bone and felt as physically wretched as the proverbial
cat in similar circumstances. But I was devoured by curiosity as to
what had happened, and moreover I believed that I had dropped my stick
on the quay. The latter consideration decided me, for it was a
favourite stick, and I set out for the quay at a very different pace
from that at which I had approached it the first time.

The mystery was solved long before I arrived at the quay; at least it
was solved in part. For the derrick which had overhung the quay, now
lay on the ground. Obviously it had fallen—and had missed my head only
by a matter of inches. But how had it come to fall? Again, obviously,
the guy-rope had given way. As it could not have broken, seeing that
the derrick was unloaded and the rope must have been strong enough to
bear the last load, I was a good deal puzzled as to how the accident
could have befallen. Nor was I much less puzzled when I had made my
inspection. The rope was, of course, unbroken and its “fall”—the part
below the pulley-blocks—passed into the shed through a window-like
hole. This I could see as I approached, and also that a door in the
end of the shed nearest to me was ajar. Opening it, I plunged into the
dark interior, and partly by touch and partly by the faint glimmer
that came in at the window, I was able to make out the state of
affairs. Just below the hole through which the rope entered was a
large cleat, on which the fall must have been delayed. But the cleat
was vacant, the rope hung down from the hole and its end lay in an
untidy raffle on the floor. It looked as if it had been cast off the
cleat; but as there had apparently been no one in the shed, the only
possible supposition was that the rope had been badly secured, that it
had gradually worked loose and had at last slipped off the cleat. But
it was difficult to understand how it had slipped right off.

I found my stick lying at the edge of the quay and close by it my
pipe. Having recovered these treasures, I set off to retrace my steps
along the tow-path, sped on my way by a jovial chorus from the sloop.
A very few minutes brought me to the steps, which I ascended two at a
time, and then, having traversed the alley, I came out sheepishly into
Market-street. To my relief, I saw a light in Mr. Morris’ shop, and
could even make out a moving figure in the background. I hurried
across, and, opening the glazed door, entered the shop, at the back of
which Mr Morris was seated at a bench filing some small object which
was fixed in a vice. He looked round at me with no great cordiality,
but suddenly observing my condition, he dropped his file on the bench,
and exclaimed:

“Good Lord, Doctor! What on earth have you been doing?”

“Nothing on earth,” I replied, with a feeble grin, “but something in
the water. I’ve been into the canal.”

“But what for?” he demanded.

“Oh, I didn’t go in intentionally,” I replied; and then I gave him a
sketch of the incident, as short as I could make it, for my teeth were
chattering and explanations were chilly work. However, he rose nobly
to the occasion. “You’ll catch your death of cold!” he exclaimed,
starting up. “Come in here, and slip off your things at once, while I
go for some blankets.”

He led me into a little den behind the shop, and, having lighted a gas
fire, went out by a back door. I lost no time in peeling off my
dripping clothes, and by the time that he returned I was in a state in
which I ought to have been when I took my plunge.

“Here you are,” said he. “Put on this dressing-gown and wrap yourself
in the blankets. We’ll draw this chair up to the fire, and then you
will be all right for the present.”

I followed his directions, pouring out my thanks as well as my
chattering teeth would let me.

“Oh, that’s all right,” said he. “If you will empty your pockets, the
missus can put some of the things through the wringer, and then
they’ll soon dry. There happens to be a good fire in the kitchen; some
advance cooking on account of the funeral. You can dry your hat and
boots here. If any one comes to the shop you might just press that
electric bell-push.”

When he had gone, I drew the Windsor armchair close to the fire and
made myself as comfortable as I could, dividing my attention between
my hat and my boots, which called for careful roasting, and the
contents of the room. The latter appeared to be a sort of store for
the reserve stock-in-trade, and certainly this was a most amazing
collection. I could not see a single article for which I would have
given sixpence. The array on the shelves suggested that the shop had
been stocked with the sweepings of all the stalls in Market-street,
with those of Shoreditch High-street thrown in. As I ran my eye along
the ranks of dial-less clocks, cracked fiddles, stopperless decanters,
and tattered theological volumes, I found myself speculating
profoundly on how Mr. Morris made a livelihood. He professed to be a
“dealer in antiques,” and there was assuredly no question as to the
antiquity of the goods in this room. But there is little pecuniary
value in the kind of antiquity that is unearthed from a dust bin.

It was really rather mysterious. Mr. Morris was a somewhat superior
man, and he did not appear to be poor. Yet this shop did not seem
capable of yielding an income that would have been acceptable to a
rag-picker. And during the whole of the time in which I sat warming
myself, there was not a single visitor to the shop. However, it was no
concern of mine; and I had just reached this sage conclusion when Mr.
Morris returned with my clothes.

“There,” he said, “they are very creased and disreputable, but they
are quite dry. They would have had to be cleaned and pressed, in any
case.”

With this he went out into the shop and resumed his filing, while I
put on the stiff and crumpled garments. When I was dressed, I followed
him and thanked him effusively for his kind offices, leaving also a
grateful message for his wife. He took my thanks rather stolidly, and
having wished me “good night,” picked up his file and fell to work
again.

I decided to walk home; principally, I think, to avoid exhibiting
myself in a public vehicle. But my self-consciousness soon wore off,
and when, in the neighbourhood of Clerkenwell, I perceived Dr. Usher,
on the opposite side of the street, I crossed the road and touched his
arm. He looked round quickly, and, recognizing me, shook hands
cordially.

“What are you doing on my beat at this time of night?” he asked. “You
are not still at Cornish’s, are you?”

“Yes,” I answered, “but not for long. I have just made my last visit
and signed the death certificate.”

“Good man,” said he. “Very methodical. Nothing like finishing a case
up neatly. They didn’t invite you to the funeral, I suppose?”

“No,” I replied, “and I shouldn’t have gone if they had.”

“Quite right,” he agreed. “Funerals are rather outside medical
practice. But you have to go sometimes. Policy, you know. I had to go
to one the day before yesterday. Beastly nuisance it was. Chappie
would insist on putting me down at my own door in the mourning coach.
Meant well, of course, but it was very awkward. All the neighbours
came to their shop doors and grinned as I got out. Felt an awful fool;
couldn’t grin back, you see. Had to keep up the farce to the end.”

“I don’t see that it was exactly a farce,” I objected.

“That is because you weren’t there,” he retorted. “It was the silliest
exhibition you ever saw. Just think of it! The parson who ran the show
had actually got a lot of schoolchildren to stand round the grave and
sing a blooming hymn: ‘Safe in the arms of’—you know the confounded
doggerel.”

“Well, why not?” I protested. “I daresay the friends of the deceased
liked it.”

“No doubt,” said he. “I expect they put the parson up to it. But it
was sickening to hear those kids bleating that stuff. How did they
know where he was—an old rip with malignant disease of the pancreas,
too!”

“Really, Usher!” I exclaimed, laughing at his quaint cynicism, “you
are unreasonable. There are no pathological disqualifications for the
better land, I hope.”

“I suppose not,” he agreed, with a grin. “Don’t have to show a clean
bill of health before they let you in. But it was a trying business,
you must admit. I hate cant of that sort; and yet one had to pull a
long face and join in the beastly chorus.”

The picture that his last words suggested was too much for my gravity.
I laughed long and joyously. However, Usher was not offended; indeed,
I suspect that he appreciated the humour of the situation as much as I
did. But he had trained himself to an outward solemnity of manner that
was doubtless a valuable asset in his particular class of practice,
and he walked at my side in unmoved gravity, taking an occasional,
quick, critical look at me. When we came to the parting of our ways he
once more shook my hand warmly and delivered a little farewell speech.

“You’ve never been to see me, Gray. Haven’t had time, I suppose. But
when you are free you might look me up one evening to have a smoke and
a glass and talk over old times. There’s always a bit of grub going,
you know.”

I promised to drop in before long, and he then added: “I gave you one
or two tips when I saw you last. Now I’m going to give you another.
Never neglect your appearance. It’s a great mistake. Treat yourself
with respect and the world will respect you. No need to be a dandy.
But just keep an eye on your tailor and your laundress—especially your
laundress. Clean collars don’t cost much and they pay; and so does a
trousers press. People expect a doctor to be well turned out. Now you
mustn’t think me impertinent. We are old pals and I want you to get
on. So long, old chap. Look me up as soon as you can”; and without
giving me the opportunity to reply, he turned about and bustled off,
swinging his umbrella and offering, perhaps, a not very impressive
illustration of his own excellent precepts. But his words served as a
reminder which caused me to pursue the remainder of my journey by way
of side-streets neither too well lighted nor too much frequented.

As I let myself in with my key and closed the street door, Cornish
stepped out of the dining-room.

“I thought you were lost, Gray,” said he. “Where the deuce have you
been all this time?” Then, as I came into the light of the hall lamp,
he exclaimed: “And what in the name of Fortune have you been up to?”

“I have had a wetting,” I explained. “I’ll tell you all about it
presently.”

“Dr. Thorndyke is in the dining-room,” said he; “came in a few minutes
ago to see you.” He seized me by the arm and ran me into the room,
where I found Thorndyke methodically filling his pipe. He looked up as
I entered and regarded me with raised eyebrows.

“Why, my dear fellow, you’ve been in the water!” he exclaimed. “But
yet your clothes are not wet. What has been happening to you?”

“If you can wait a few minutes,” I replied, “while I wash and change,
I will relate my adventures. But perhaps you haven’t time.”

“I want to hear all about it,” he replied, “so run along and be as
quick as you can.”

I bustled up to my room, and having washed and executed a lightning
change, came down to the dining-room, where I found Cornish in the act
of setting out decanters and glasses.

“I’ve told Dr. Thorndyke what took you to Hoxton,” said he, “and he
wants a full account of everything that happened. He is always
suspicious of cremation cases, as you know from his lectures.”

“Yes, I remember his warnings,” said I. “But this was a perfectly
commonplace, straightforward affair.”

“Did you go for your swim before or after the examination?” Thorndyke
asked.

“Oh, after,” I replied.

“Then let us hear about the examination first,” said he.

On this I plunged into a detailed account of all that had befallen
since my arrival at Market-street, to which Thorndyke listened, not
only patiently, but with the closest attention, and even
cross-examined me to elicit further details. Everything seemed to
interest him, from the construction of the coffin to the contents of
Mr. Morris’ shop. When I had finished, Cornish remarked:

“Well, it is a queer affair. I don’t understand that rope at all.
Ropes don’t uncleat themselves. They may slip, but they don’t come
right off the cleat. It looks more as if some mischievous fool had
cast it off for a joke.”

“But there was no one there,” said I. “The shed was empty when I
examined it, and there was not a soul in sight on the tow-path.”

“Could you see the shed when you were in the water?” Thorndyke asked.

“No. My head was below the level of the tow-path. But if any one had
run out and made off, I must have seen him on the path when I came
out. He couldn’t have got out of sight in the time. Besides, it is
incredible that even a fool should play such a trick as that.”

“It is,” he agreed. “But every explanation seems incredible. The only
plain fact is that it happened. It is a queer business altogether; and
not the least queer feature in the case is your friend Morris. Hoxton
is an unlikely place for a dealer in antiques, unless he should happen
to deal in other things as well; things, I mean, of ambiguous
ownership.”

“Just what I was thinking,” said Cornish. “Sounds uncommonly like a
fence. However, that is no business of ours.”

“No,” agreed Thorndyke, rising and knocking out his pipe. “And now I
must be going. Do you care to walk with me to the bottom of
Doughty-street, Gray?”

I assented at once, suspecting that he had something to say to me that
he did not wish to say before Cornish. And so it turned out; for as
soon as we were outside he said:

“What I really called about was this: it seems that we have done the
police an injustice. They were more on the spot than we gave them
credit for. I have learned—and this is in the strictest
confidence—that they took that coin round to the British Museum for
the expert’s report. Then a very curious fact came to light. That coin
is not the original which was stolen. It is an electrotype in gold,
made in two halves very neatly soldered together and carefully worked
on the milled edge to hide the join. That is extremely important in
several respects. In the first place, it suggests an explanation of
the otherwise incredible circumstance that it was being carried loose
in the waistcoat pocket. It had probably been recently obtained from
the electrotyper. That suggests the question, is it possible that
D’Arblay might have been that electrotyper? Did he ever work the
electrotype process? We must ascertain whether he did.”

“There is no need,” said I. “It is known to me as a fact that he did.
The little plaquettes that I took for castings are electrotypes, made
by himself. He worked the process quite a lot, and was very skilful in
finishing. For instance, he did a small bust of his daughter in two
parts and brazed them together.”

“Then, you see, Gray,” said Thorndyke, “that advances us considerably.
We now have a plausible suggestion as to the motive and a new field of
investigation. Let us suppose that this man employed D’Arblay to make
electrotype copies of certain unique objects with the intention of
disposing of them to collectors. The originals, being stolen property,
would be almost impossible to dispose of with safety, but a copy would
not necessarily incriminate the owner. But when D’Arblay had made the
copies, he would be a dangerous person, for he would know who had the
originals. Here, to a man whom we know to be a callous murderer, would
be a sufficient reason for making away with D’Arblay.”

“But do you think that D’Arblay would have undertaken such a decidedly
fishy job? It seems hardly like him.”

“Why not?” demanded Thorndyke. “There was nothing suspicious about the
transaction. The man who wanted the copies was the owner of the
originals, and D’Arblay would not know or suspect that they were
stolen.”

“That is true,” I admitted. “But you were speaking of a new field of
investigation.”

“Yes. If a number of copies of different objects have been made, there
is a fair chance that some of them have been disposed of. If they
have, and can be traced, they will give us a start along a new line,
which may bring us in sight of the man himself. Do you ever see Miss
D’Arblay now?”

“Oh, yes,” I replied. “I am quite one of the family at Highgate. I
have been there every Sunday lately.”

“Have you!” he exclaimed with a smile. “You are a pretty locum tenens.
However, if you are quite at home there you can make a few discreet
inquiries. Find out, if you can, whether any electros had been made
recently, and if so, what they were and who was the client. Will you
do that?”

I agreed readily, only too glad to take an active part in the
investigation; and having by this time reached the end of
Doughty-street, I took leave of Thorndyke, and made my way back to
Cornish’s house.



CHAPTER X.

Marion’s Peril

The mist, which had been gathering since the early afternoon, began to
thicken ominously as I approached Abbey-road, Hornsey, from Crouch End
Station, causing me to quicken my pace so that I might make my
destination before the fog closed in; for this was my first visit to
Marion D’Arblay’s studio, and the neighbourhood was strange to me. And
in fact I was none too soon; for hardly had I set my hand on the
quaint bronze knocker above the plate inscribed “Mr. J. D’Arblay,”
when the adjoining houses grew pale and shadowy and then vanished
altogether.

My elaborate knock—in keeping with the distinguished knocker—was
followed by soft, quick footsteps, the sound whereof set my heart
ticking in double-quick time; the door opened, and there stood Miss
D’Arblay, garbed in a most alluring blue smock or pinafore, with
sleeves rolled up to the elbow, with a smile of friendly welcome on
her comely face, and looking so sweet and charming that I yearned then
and there to take her in my arms and kiss her. This, however being
inadmissible, I shook her hand warmly and was forthwith conducted
through the outer lobby into the main studio, where I stood looking
about me with amused surprise. She looked at me inquiringly as I
emitted an audible chuckle.

“It is a queer-looking place,” said I; “something between a
miracle-shrine hung with votive offerings from sufferers who have been
cured of sore heads and arms and legs, and a meat emporium in a
cannibal district.”

“It is nothing of the kind!” she exclaimed indignantly. “I don’t mind
the votive offerings, but I reject the cannibal meat-market as a gross
and libellous fiction. But I suppose it does look rather queer to a
stranger.”

“To a what?” I demanded fiercely.

“Oh, I only meant a stranger to the place, of course, and you know I
did. So you needn’t be cantankerous.”

She glanced smilingly round the studio, and for the first time,
apparently, the oddity of its appearance dawned on her, for she
laughed softly and then turned a mischievous eye on me as I gaped
about me like a bumpkin at a fair. The studio was a very large and
lofty room or hall, with a partially glazed roof and a single large
window just below the skylight. The walls were fitted partly with rows
of large shelves, and the remainder with ranks of pegs. From the
latter hung row after row of casts of arms, hands, legs, and
faces—especially faces—while the shelves supported a weird succession
of heads, busts, and a few half-length but armless figures. The
general effect was very strange and uncanny, and what made it more so
was the fact that all the heads presented perfectly smooth, bare
craniums.

“Are artists’ models usually bald?” I inquired, as I noted this latter
phenomenon.

“Now you are being foolish,” she replied; “wilfully and deliberately
foolish. You know very well that all these heads have got to be fitted
with wigs; and you couldn’t fit a wig to a head that already had a
fine covering of plaster curls. But I must admit that it rather
detracts from the beauty of a girl’s head if you represent it without
hair. The models used to hate it when they were shown with heads like
old gentlemen’s, and so did poor Daddy; in fact, he usually rendered
the hair in the clay, just sketchily, for the sake of the model’s
feelings and his own, and took it off afterwards with a wire tool. But
there is the kettle boiling over. I must make the tea.”

While this ceremony was being performed I strolled round the studio
and inspected the casts, more particularly the heads and faces. Of
these latter the majority were obviously modelled, but I noticed a
number with closed eyes, having very much the appearance of death
masks. When we had taken our places at the little table near the great
gas-ring I inquired what they were.

“They do look rather cadaverous, don’t they?” she said, as she poured
out the tea; “but they are not death masks. They are casts from living
faces, mostly from the faces of models, but my father always used to
take a cast from any one who would let him, They are quite useful to
work from, though, of course, the eyes have to be put in from another
cast or from life.”

“It must be rather an unpleasant operation,” I said, “having the
plaster poured over the face. How does the victim manage to breathe?”

“The usual plan is to put little tubes or quills into the nostrils.
But my father could keep the nostrils free without any tubes. He was a
very skilful moulder; and then he always used the best plaster, which
set very quickly, so that it only took a few minutes.”

“And how are you getting on, and what were you doing when I came in?”

“I am getting on quite well,” she replied. “My work has been passed as
satisfactory, and I have three new commissions. When you came in I was
just getting ready to make a mould for a head and shoulders. After tea
I shall go on with it, and you shall help me. But tell me about
yourself. You have finished with Dr. Cornish, haven’t you?”

“Yes, I am a gentleman at large for the time being, but that won’t do.
I shall have to look out for another job.”

“I hope it will be a London job,” she said. “Arabella and I would feel
quite lonely if you went away even for a week or two. We both look
forward so much to our little family gathering on Sunday afternoon.”

“You don’t look forward to it as much as I do,” I said warmly. “It is
difficult for me to realize that there was ever a time when you were
not a part of my life. And yet we are quite new friends.”

“Yes,” she said; “only a few weeks old. But I have the same feeling. I
seem to have known you for years, and as for Arabella, she speaks of
you as if she had nursed you from infancy. You have a very insinuating
way with you.”

“Oh, don’t spoil it by calling me insinuating!” I protested.

“No, I won’t,” she replied. “It was the wrong word. I meant
sympathetic. You have the gift of entering into other people’s
troubles and feeling them as if they were your own; which is a very
precious gift—to the other people.”

“Your troubles are my own,” said I, “since I have the privilege to be
your friend. But I have been a happier man since I shared them.”

“It is very nice of you to say that,” she murmured, with a quick
glance at me and just a faint heightening of colour; and then for a
while neither of us spoke.

“Have you seen Dr. Thorndyke lately?” she asked, when she had refilled
our cups, and thereby, as it were, punctuated our silence.

“Yes,” I answered. “I saw him only a night or two ago. And that
reminds me that I was commissioned to make some inquiries. Can you
tell me if your father ever did any electrotype work for outsiders?”

“I don’t know,” she answered. “He used latterly to electrotype most of
his own work instead of sending it to the bronze-founders, but it is
hardly likely that he would do electros for outsiders. There are firms
who do nothing else, and I know that, when he was busy, he used to
send his work to them. But why do you ask?”

I related to her what Thorndyke had told me, and pointed out the
importance of ascertaining the facts, which she saw at once.

“As soon as we have finished tea,” she said, “we will go and look over
the cupboard where the electro moulds were kept—that is, the permanent
ones. The gelatine moulds for works in the round couldn’t be kept.
They were melted down again. But the water-proofed plaster moulds were
stored away in this cupboard, and the gutta-percha ones, too, until
they were wanted to soften down to make new moulds. And even if the
moulds were destroyed, Father usually kept a cast.”

“Would you be able to tell by looking through the cupboard?” I asked.

“Yes. I should know a strange mould, of course, as I saw all the
original work that he did. Have we finished? Then let us go and settle
the question now.”

She produced a bunch of keys from her pocket and crossed the studio to
a large, tall cupboard in a corner. Selecting a key, she inserted it
and was trying vainly to turn it when the door came open. She looked
at it in surprise and then turned to me with a somewhat puzzled
expression.

“This is really very curious,” she said. “When I came here this
morning I found the outer door unlocked. Naturally I thought I must
have forgotten to lock it, though that would have been an
extraordinary oversight. And now I find this door unlocked. But I
distinctly remember locking it before going away last night, when I
had put back the box of modelling wax. What do you make of that?”

“It looks as if some one had entered the studio last night with false
keys or by picking the lock. But why should they? Perhaps the cupboard
will tell. You will know if it has been disturbed.”

She ran her eyes along the shelves and said at once: “It has been. The
things are all in disorder and one of the moulds is broken. We had
better take them all out and see if anything is missing—so far as I
can judge, that is, for the moulds were just as my father left them.”

We dragged a small work-table to the cupboard and emptied the shelves
one by one. She examined each mould as we took it out, and I jotted
down a rough list at her dictation. When we had been through the whole
collection and re-arranged the moulds on the shelves—they were mostly
plaques and medallions—she slowly read through the list and reflected
for a few moments. At length she said:

“I don’t miss anything that I can remember. But the question is, Were
there any moulds or casts that I did not know about? I am thinking of
Dr. Thorndyke’s question. If there were any, they have gone, so that
question cannot be answered.”

We looked at one another gravely, and in both our minds was the same
unspoken question: “Who was it that had entered the studio last
night?”

We had just closed the cupboard and were moving away when my eye
caught a small object half-hidden in the darkness under the cupboard
itself—the bottom of which was raised by low feet about an inch and a
half from the floor. I knelt down and passed my hand into the shallow
space and was just able to hook it out. It proved to be a fragment of
a small plaster mould, saturated with wax and black-leaded on the
inside. Miss D’Arblay stooped over it eagerly and exclaimed: “I don’t
know that one. What a pity it is such a small piece. But it is
certainly part of a coin.”

“It is part of _the_ coin,” said I. “There can be no doubt of that. I
examined the cast that Dr. Thorndyke made and I recognize this as the
same. There is the lower part of the bust, the letters C A—the first
two letters of Carolus—and the tiny elephant and castle. That is
conclusive. This is the mould from which that electrotype was made.
But I had better hand it to Dr. Thorndyke to compare with the cast
that he has.”

I carefully bestowed the fragment in my tobacco-pouch, as the safest
place for the time being, and meanwhile Miss D’Arblay looked fixedly
at me with a very singular expression.

“You realize,” she said in a hushed voice, “what this means. _He_ was
in here last night.”

I nodded. The same conclusion had instantly occurred to me, and a very
uncomfortable one it was. There was something very sinister and horrid
in the thought of that murderous villain quietly letting himself into
this studio and ransacking its hiding-places in the dead of the night.
So unpleasantly suggestive was it that for a time neither of us spoke
a word, but stood looking blankly at one another in silent dismay. And
in the midst of the tense silence there came a knock at the door.

We both started as if we had been struck. Then Miss D’Arblay,
recovering herself quickly, said: “I had better go,” and hurried down
the studio to the lobby.

I listened nervously, for I was a little unstrung. I heard her go into
the lobby and open the outer door. I heard a low voice, apparently
asking a question; the outer door closed, and then came a sudden
scuffling sound and a piercing shriek. With a shout of alarm, I raced
down the studio, knocking over a chair as I ran, and darted into the
lobby just as the outer door slammed.

For a moment I hesitated. Miss D’Arblay had shrunk into a corner, and
stood in the semi-darkness with both her hands pressed tightly to her
breast. But she called out excitedly: “Follow him! I am not hurt”; and
on this I wrenched open the door and stepped out.

But the first glance showed me that pursuit was hopeless. The fog had
now become so dense that I could hardly see my own feet. I dared not
leave the threshold for fear of not being able to find my way back.
Then she would be alone—and _he_ was probably lurking close by even
now.

I stood irresolute, stock-still; listening intently. The silence was
profound. All the natural noises of a populous neighbourhood seemed to
be smothered by the dense blanket of dark yellow vapour. Not a sound
came to my ear; no stealthy footfall, no rustle of movement. Nothing
but stark silence.

Uneasily I crept back until the open doorway showed as a dim rectangle
of shadow; crept back and peered fearfully into the darkness of the
lobby. She was still standing in the corner—an upright smudge of
deeper darkness in the obscurity. But even as I looked, the shadowy
figure collapsed and slid noiselessly to the floor.

In an instant the pursuit was forgotten, and I darted into the lobby,
shutting the outer door behind me, and dropped on my knees at her
side. Where she had fallen a streak of light came in from the studio,
and the sight that it revealed turned me sick with terror. The whole
front of her smock, from the breast downwards, was saturated with
blood; both her hands were crimson and gory, and her face was
dead-white to the lips.

For an instant I was paralyzed with horror. I could see no movement of
breathing, and the white face with its parted lips and half-closed
eyes, was as the face of the dead. But when I dared to search for the
wound, I was a little reassured; for, closely as I scrutinized it, the
gory smock showed no sign of a cut excepting on the bloodstained right
sleeve. And now I noticed a deep gash on the left hand, which was
still bleeding freely, and was probably the source of the blood which
had soaked the smock. There seemed to be no vital wound.

With a deep breath of relief, I hastily tore my handkerchief into
strips and applied the improvised bandage tightly enough to control
the bleeding. Then with the scissors from my pocket-case, which I now
carried from habit, I laid open the blood-stained sleeve. The wound on
the arm, just above the elbow, was quite shallow; a glancing wound,
which tailed off upwards into a scratch. A turn of the remaining strip
of bandage secured it for the time being, and this done I once more
explored the front of the smock, pulling its folds tightly apart in
search of the dreaded cut. But there was none; and now, the bleeding
being controlled, it was safe to take measures of restoration.
Tenderly—and not without effort—I lifted her and carried her into the
studio, where was a shabby but roomy couch, on which poor D’Arblay had
been accustomed to rest when he stayed for the night. On this I laid
her, and fetching some water and a towel, dabbed her face and neck.
Presently she opened her eyes and heaved a deep sigh, looking at me
with a troubled, bewildered expression, and evidently only
half-conscious. Suddenly her eye caught the great blood-stain on her
smock, and her expression grew wild and terrified. For a few moments
she gazed at me with eyes full of horror; then, as the memory of her
dreadful experience rushed back on her, she uttered a little cry and
burst into tears, moaning and sobbing almost hysterically.

I rested her head on my shoulder and tried to comfort her; and she,
poor girl, weak and shaken by the awful shock, clung to me trembling,
and wept passionately with her face buried in my breast. As for me, I
was almost ready to weep, too, if only from sheer relief and revulsion
from my late terrors.

“Marion, darling!” I murmured into her ear as I stroked her damp hair.
“Poor dear little woman! It was horrible. But you mustn’t cry any more
now. Try to forget it, dearest.”

She shook her head passionately. “I can never do that,” she sobbed.
“It will haunt me as long as I live. Oh! and I am so frightened, even
now. What a coward I am!”

“Indeed you are not!” I exclaimed. “You are just weak from loss of
blood. Why did you let me leave you, Marion?”

“I didn’t think I was hurt, and I wasn’t particularly frightened then;
and I hoped that if you followed him he might be caught. Did you see
him?”

“No. There is a thick fog outside. I didn’t dare to leave the
threshold. Were you able to see what he was like?”

She shuddered and choked down a sob. “He is a dreadful-looking man,”
she said. “I loathed him at the first glance: a beetle-browed,
hook-nosed wretch, with a face like that of some horrible bird of
prey. But I couldn’t see him very distinctly, for it is rather dark in
the lobby, and he wore a wide-brimmed hat, pulled down over his
brows.”

“Would you know him again? And can you give a description of him that
would be of use to the police?”

“I am sure I should know him again,” she said with a shudder. “It was
a face that one could never forget. A hideous face! The face of a
demon. I can see it now, and it will haunt me, sleeping and waking,
until I die.”

Her words ended with a catch of the breath, and she looked piteously
into my face with wide, terrified eyes. I took her trembling hand and
once more drew her head to my shoulder.

“You mustn’t think that, dear,” said I. “You are all unstrung now, but
these terrors will pass. Try to tell me quietly just what this man was
like. What was his height, for instance?”

“He was not very tall. Not much taller than I. And he was rather
slightly built.”

“Could you see whether he was dark or fair?”

“He was rather dark. I could see a shock of hair sticking out from
under his hat, and he had a moustache with turned-up ends and a beard;
a rather short beard.”

“And now as to his face. You say he had a hooked nose?”

“Yes; a great, high-bridged nose like the beak of some horrible bird.
And his eyes seemed to be deep-set under heavy brows with bushy
eyebrows. The face was rather thin, with high cheek-bones; a fierce,
scowling, repulsive face.”

“And the voice? Should you know that again?”

“I don’t know,” she answered. “He spoke in quite a low tone, rather
indistinctly. And he said only a few words—something about having come
to make some inquiries about the cost of a wax model. Then he stepped
into the lobby and shut the outer door, and immediately, without
another word, he seized my right arm and struck at me. But I saw the
knife in his hand, and as I called out I snatched at it with my left
hand, so that it missed my body and I felt it cut my right arm. Then I
got hold of his wrist. But he had heard you coming, and wrenched
himself free. The next moment he had opened the door and rushed out,
shutting it behind him.”

She paused, and then added in a shaking voice: “If you had not been
here—if I had been alone——”

“We won’t think of that, Marion. You were not alone, and you will
never be again in this place. I shall see to that.”

At this she gave a little sigh of satisfaction, and looked into my
face with the pallid ghost of a smile.

“Then I shan’t be frightened any more,” she murmured; and, closing her
eyes, she lay for a while, breathing quietly as if asleep. She looked
very delicate and frail, with her waxen cheeks and the dark shadows
under her eyes, but still I noted a faint tinge of colour stealing
back into her lips. I gazed down at her with fond anxiety, as a mother
might look at a sleeping child that had just passed the crisis of a
dangerous illness. Of the bare chance that had snatched her from
imminent death I would not allow myself to think. The horror of that
moment was too fresh for the thought to be endurable. Instead I began
to occupy myself with the practical question as to how she was to be
got home. It was a long way to North Grove—some two miles I
reckoned—too far for her to walk in her present weak state; and there
was the fog. Unless it lifted it would be impossible for her to find
her way; and I could give her no help, as I was a stranger to this
locality. Nor was it by any means safe; for our enemy might still be
lurking near, waiting for the opportunity that the fog would offer.

I was still turning over these difficulties when she opened her eyes
and looked up at me a little shyly.

“I’m afraid I’ve been rather a baby,” she said, “but I am much better
now. Hadn’t I better get up?”

“No,” I answered. “Lie quiet and rest. I am trying to think how you
are to be got home. Didn’t you say something about a caretaker?”

“Yes; a woman in the little house next door, which really belongs to
the studio. Daddy used to leave the key with her at night, so that she
could clean up. But I just fetch her in when I want her help. Why do
you ask?”

“Do you think she could get a cab for us?”

“I am afraid not. There is no cab-stand anywhere near here. But I
think I could walk, unless the fog is too thick. Shall we go and see
what it is like?”

“I will go,” said I, rising. But she clung to my arm. “You are not to
go alone,” she said, in sudden alarm. “_He_ may be there still.”

I thought it best to humour her, and accordingly helped her to rise.
For a few moments she seemed rather unsteady on her feet, but soon she
was able to walk, supported by my arm, to the studio door, which I
opened, and through which wreaths of vapour drifted in. But the fog
was perceptibly thinner; and even as I was looking across the road at
the now faintly visible houses, two spots of dull yellow light
appeared up the road, and my ear caught the muffled sound of wheels.
Gradually the lights grew brighter, and at length there stole out of
the fog the shadowy form of a cab with a man leading the horse at a
slow walk. Here seemed a chance of escape from our dilemma.

“Go in and shut the door while I speak to the cabman,” said I. “He may
be able to take us. I shall give four knocks when I come back.”

She was unwilling to let me go, but I gently pushed her in and shut
the door, and then advanced to meet the cab. A few words set my
anxieties at rest, for it appeared that the cabman had to set down a
fare a little way along the street, and was very willing to take a
return fare, on suitable terms. As any terms would have been suitable
to me under the circumstances the cabman was able to make a good
bargain, and we parted with mutual satisfaction and a cordial au
revoir. Then I steered back along the fence to the studio door, on
which I struck four distinct knocks and announced myself vocally by
name. Immediately, the door opened, and a hand drew me in by the
sleeve.

“I am so glad you have come back,” she whispered. “It was horrid to be
alone in the lobby even for a few minutes. What did the cabman say?”

I told her the joyful tidings, and we at once made ready for our
departure. In a minute or two the welcome glare of the cab-lamps
reappeared, and when I had locked up the studio and pocketed the key,
I helped her into the rather ramshackle vehicle.

I don’t mind admitting that the cabman’s charges were extortionate;
but I grudged him never a penny. It was probably the slowest journey
that I had ever made, but yet the funereal pace was all too swift.
Half-ashamed as I was to admit it to myself, this horrible adventure
was bearing sweet fruit to me in the unquestioned intimacy that had
been born in the troubled hour. Little enough was said; but I sat
happily by her side, holding her uninjured hand in mine (on the
pretence of keeping it warm), blissfully conscious that our sympathy
and friendship had grown to something sweeter and more precious.

“What are we to say to Arabella?” I asked. “I suppose she will have to
be told?”

“Of course she will,” replied Marion; “you shall tell her. But,” she
added, in a lower tone, “you needn’t tell her everything—I mean what a
baby I was and how you had to comfort and soothe me. She is as brave
as a lion, and she thinks I am, too. So you needn’t undeceive her too
much.”

“I needn’t undeceive her at all,” said I, “because you are”; and we
were still arguing this weighty question when the cab drew up at Ivy
Cottage. I sent the cabman off, rejoicing, and then escorted Marion up
the path to the door, where Miss Boler was waiting, having apparently
heard the cab arrive.

“Thank goodness!” she exclaimed. “I was wondering how on earth you
would manage to get home.” Then she suddenly observed Marion’s
bandaged hand, and uttered an exclamation of alarm.

“Miss Marion has cut her hand rather badly,” I explained. “We won’t
talk about it just now. I will tell you everything presently when you
have put her to bed. Now I want some stuff to make dressings and
bandages.”

Miss Boler looked at me suspiciously, but made no comment. With
extraordinary promptitude she produced a supply of linen, warm water,
and other necessaries, and then stood by to watch the operation and
give assistance.

“It is a nasty wound,” I said, as I removed the extemporized dressing,
“but not so bad as I feared. There will be no lasting injury.”

I put on the permanent dressing and then exposed the wound on the arm,
at the sight of which Miss Boler’s eyebrows went up. But she made no
remark; and when a dressing had been put on this, too, she took charge
of the patient to conduct her up to the bedroom.

“I shall come up and see that she is all right before I go,” said I,
“and meanwhile, no questions, Arabella.”

She cast a significant look at me over her shoulder and departed with
her arm about the patient’s waist.

The rites and ceremonies abovestairs were briefer than I had
expected—perhaps the promised explanations had accelerated matters. At
any rate, in a very few minutes Miss Boler bustled into the room and
said: “You can go up now, but don’t stop to gossip. I am bursting with
curiosity.”

Thereupon I ascended to my lady’s chamber, which I entered as
diffidently and reverentially as though such visits were not the
commonplace of my professional life. As I approached the bed she
heaved a little sigh of content and murmured:

“What a fortunate girl I am! To be petted and cared for and pampered
in this way! Arabella is a perfect angel, and you, Dr. Gray——”

“Oh, Marion!” I protested. “Not Dr. Gray.”

“Well, then, Stephen,” she corrected, with a faint blush.

“That is better. And what am I?”

“Never mind,” she replied, very pink and smiling. “I expect you know.
If you don’t, ask Arabella when you go down.”

“I expect she will do most of the asking,” said I. “And I have strict
orders not to stop to gossip, so let me see the bandages, and then I
must go.”

I made my inspection without undue hurry, and, having seen that all
was well, I took her hand.

“You are to stay here until I have seen you to-morrow morning, and you
are to be a good girl and try not to think of unpleasant things.”

“Yes; I will do everything that you tell me.”

“Then I can go away happy. Good night, Marion.”

“Good night, Stephen.”

I pressed her hand and felt her fingers close on mine. Then I turned
away, and with only a moment’s pause at the door for a last look at
the sweet, smiling face, descended the stairs to confront the
formidable Arabella.

Of my cautious statement and her keen cross-examination I will say
nothing. I made the proceedings as short as was decent, for I wanted,
if possible, to take counsel with Thorndyke. On my explaining this,
the brevity of my account was condoned, and even my refusal of food.

“But remember, Arabella,” I said, as she escorted me to the gate, “she
has had a very severe shock. The less you say to her about the affair
for the present the quicker will be her recovery.”

With this warning I set forth through the rapidly thinning fog to
catch the first conveyance that I could find to bear me southward.



CHAPTER XI.

Arms and the Man

The fog had thinned to a mere haze when the porter admitted me at the
Inner Temple Gate, so that, as I passed the Cloisters and looked
through into Pump-court I could see the lighted windows of the
residents’ chambers at the far end. The sight of them encouraged me to
hope that the chambers in King’s Bench-walk might throw out a similar
hopeful gleam. Nor was I disappointed; and the warm glow from the
windows of No. 5a sent me tripping up the stairs profoundly relieved,
though a trifle abashed at the untimely hour of my visit.

The door was opened by Thorndyke himself, who instantly cut short my
apologies.

“Nonsense, Gray!” he exclaimed, shaking my hand. “It is no
interruption at all. On the contrary, how beautiful upon the staircase
are the feet of him that bringeth—well, what sort of tidings?”

“Not good, I am afraid, sir.”

“Well, let us have them. Come and sit by the fire.” He drew up an easy
chair, and, having installed me in it and taken a critical look at me,
invited me to proceed. I accordingly proceeded bluntly to inform him
that an attempt had been made to murder Miss D’Arblay.

“Ha!” he exclaimed. “These are bad tidings indeed! I hope she is not
injured in any way.”

I reassured him on this point, and gave him the details as to the
patient’s condition, and he then asked:

“When did the attempt occur, and how did you hear of it?”

“It happened this evening, and I was present.”

“You were present!” he repeated, gazing at me in the utmost
astonishment. “And what became of the assailant?”

“He vanished into the fog,” I replied.

“Ah, yes. The fog. I had forgotten that. But now let us drop this
question and answer method. Give me a narrative from the beginning,
with the events in their proper sequence. And omit nothing, no matter
how trivial.”

I took him at his word—up to a certain point. I described my arrival
at the studio, the search in the cupboard, the sinister interruption,
the attack, and the unavailing attempt at pursuit. As to what befell
thereafter I gave him a substantially complete account—with certain
reservations—up to my departure from Ivy Cottage.

“Then you never saw the man at all?”

“No, but Miss D’Arblay did;” and here I gave him such details of the
man’s appearance as I had been able to gather from Marion.

“It is quite a vivid description,” he said, as he wrote down the
details; “and now shall we have a look at that piece of the mould?”

I disinterred it from my tobacco-pouch and handed it to him. He
glanced at it and then went to a cabinet, from a drawer in which he
produced the little case containing Polton’s casts of the guinea and a
box, which he placed on the table and opened. From it he took a lump
of moulding-wax and a bottle of powdered French chalk. Pinching off a
piece of the wax, he rolled it into a ball, dusted it lightly with the
chalk powder, and pressed it with his thumb into the mould. It came
away on his thumb, bearing a perfect impression of the inside of the
mould.

“That settles it,” said he, taking the obverse cast from the case and
laying it on the table beside the wax “squeeze.” “The squeeze and the
cast are identical. There is now no possible doubt that the
electrotype guinea that was found in the pond was made by Julius
D’Arblay. Probably it had been delivered by him to the murderer on the
very evening of his death. So we are undoubtedly dealing with that
same man. It is a most alarming situation.”

“It would be alarming if it were any other man,” I remarked.

“No doubt,” he agreed. “But there is something very special about this
man. He is a criminal of a type that is almost unknown here, but is
not uncommon in South European and Slav countries. You find him, too,
in the United States, principally among the foreign-born or alien
population. He is not a normal human being. He is an inveterate
murderer, to whom a human life does not count at all. And this type of
man continually grows more and more dangerous for two reasons: first,
the murder habit becomes more confirmed with each crime; second, there
is virtually no penalty for the succeeding murders, for the first one
entails the death sentence, and fifty murders can involve no more.
This man killed Van Zellen as a mere incident of a robbery. Then he
appears to have killed D’Arblay to secure his own safety, and he is
now attempting to kill Miss D’Arblay, apparently for the same reason.
And he will kill you and he will kill me if our existence is
inconvenient or dangerous to him. We must bear that in mind, and take
the necessary measures.”

“I can’t imagine,” said I, “what motive he can have for wanting to
kill Miss D’Arblay.”

“Probably he believes that she knows something that would be dangerous
to him; something connected with those moulds, or perhaps something
else. We are rather in the dark. We don’t know for certain what it was
he came to look for when he entered the studio, or whether or not he
found what he wanted. But to return to the danger. It is obvious that
he knows the Abbey-road district well, for he found his way to the
studio in the fog. He may be living close by. There is no reason why
he should not be. His identity is quite unknown.”

“That is a horrid thought!” I exclaimed.

“It is,” he agreed; “but it is the assumption that we have to act
upon. We must not leave a loop-hole unwatched. He mustn’t get another
chance.”

“No,” I concurred warmly; “he certainly must not—if we can help it.
But it is an awful position. We carry that poor girl’s life in our
hands, and there is always the possibility that we may be caught off
our guard, just for a moment.”

He nodded gravely. “You are quite right, Gray. An awful responsibility
rests on us. I am very unhappy about this poor young lady. Of course,
there is the other side—but at present we are concerned with Miss
D’Arblay’s safety.”

“What other side is there?” I demanded.

“I mean,” he replied, “that if we can hold out, this man is going to
deliver himself into our hands.”

“What makes you think that?” I asked eagerly.

“I recognize a familiar phenomenon,” he replied. “My large experience
and extensive study of crimes against the person have shown me that in
the overwhelming majority of cases of obscure crimes the discovery has
been brought about by the criminal’s own efforts to make himself safe.
He is constantly trying to hide his tracks—and making fresh ones. Now
this man is one of those criminals who won’t let well alone. He kills
Van Zellen and disappears, leaving no trace. He seems to be quite
safe. But he is not satisfied. He can’t keep quiet. He kills D’Arblay,
he enters the studio, he tries to kill Miss D’Arblay; all to make
himself more safe. And every time he moves he tells us something fresh
about himself. If we can only wait and watch, we shall have him.”

“What has he told us about himself this time?” I asked.

“We won’t go into that now, Gray. We have other business on hand. But
you know all that I know as to the facts. If you will turn over those
facts at your leisure, you will find that they yield some very curious
and striking inferences.”

I was about to press the question when the door opened and Mr. Polton
appeared on the threshold. Observing me, he crinkled benevolently, and
then, in answer to Thorndyke’s inquiring glance, said: “I thought I
had better remind you, sir, that you have not had any supper.”

“Dear me, Polton!” Thorndyke exclaimed, “now you mention it, I believe
you are right. And I suspect that Dr. Gray is in the same case. So we
place ourselves in your hands. Supper and pistols are what we want.”

“Pistols, sir!” exclaimed Polton, opening his eyes to an unusual
extent and looking at us suspiciously.

“Don’t be alarmed, Polton,” Thorndyke chuckled. “It isn’t a duel. I
just want to go over our stock of pistols and ammunition.”

At this I thought I detected a belligerent gleam in Polton’s eye, but
even as I looked, he was gone. Not for long, however. In a couple of
minutes he was back with a large hand-bag which he placed on the table
and again retired. Thorndyke opened the bag and took out quite a
considerable assortment of weapons—single pistols, revolvers, and
automatics—which he laid out on the table, each with its box of
appropriate cartridges.

“I hate fire-arms!” he exclaimed as he viewed the collection
distastefully. “They are dangerous things, and when it comes to
business they are scurvy weapons. Any poltroon can pull a trigger. But
we must put ourselves on equal terms with our opponent, who is certain
to be provided. Which will you have? I recommend this Baby Browning
for portability. Have you had any practice?”

“Only target practice. But I am a fair shot with a revolver. I have
never used an automatic.”

“We will go over the mechanism after supper,” said he. “Meanwhile, I
hear the approach of Polton and am conscious of a voracious interest
in what he is bringing. When did you feed last?”

“I had tea at the studio about half-past four.”

“My poor Gray!” he exclaimed, “you must be starving. I ought to have
asked you sooner. However, here comes relief.” He opened a folding
table by the fire just as Polton entered with the tray, on which I was
gratified to observe a good-sized dish-cover and a claret-jug. Polton
rapidly laid the little table and then, whisking off the cover,
retired with a triumphant crinkle.

“You have a regular kitchen upstairs, I presume,” said I, as we took
our seats at the table, “as well as a laboratory? And a pretty good
cook, too, to judge by the results.”

Thorndyke chuckled. “The kitchen and the laboratory are one,” he
replied, “and Polton is the cook. An uncommonly good cook, as you
suggest, but his methods are weird. These cutlets were probably
grilled in the cupel furnace, but I have known him to do a steak with
the brazing-jet. There is nothing conventional about Polton. But
whatever he does, he does to a finish; which is fortunate, because I
thought of calling in his aid in our present difficulty.”

I looked at him inquiringly, and he continued: “If Miss D’Arblay is to
go on with her work, which she ought to, as it is her livelihood, she
must be guarded constantly. I had considered applying to Inspector
Follett, and we may have to later; but for the present it will be
better for us to keep our own counsel and play our own hand. We have
two objects in view. First—and paramount—is the necessity of securing
Miss D’Arblay’s safety. But, second, we want to lay our hands on this
man, not to frighten him away, as we might do if we put the police on
his track. When once we have him, her safety is secured for ever,
whereas if he were merely scared away he would be an abiding menace.
We have got to catch him, and at present he is catchable. Secure in
his unknown identity, he is lurking within reach, ready to strike, but
also ready to be pounced upon when we are ready to pounce. Let us keep
him confident of his safety while we are gathering up the clues.”

“H’m—yes,” I assented, without much enthusiasm. “What is it that you
propose to do?”

“Somebody,” he replied, “must keep watch over Miss D’Arblay from the
moment when she leaves her house until she returns to it. How much
time—if any—can you give up to this duty?”

“My whole time,” I answered promptly. “I shall let everything else
go.”

“Then,” said he, “I propose that you and Polton relieve one another on
duty. It will be better than for you to be there all the time.”

I saw what he meant, and agreed at once. The conventions must be
respected as far as possible.

“But,” I suggested, “isn’t Polton rather a light-weight—if it should
come to a scrap, I mean?”

“Don’t undervalue small men, even physically,” he replied. “They are
commonly better built than big men and more enduring and energetic.
Polton is remarkably strong, and he has the pluck of a bulldog. But we
must see how he is placed as regards work.”

The question was put to him and the position of affairs explained when
he came down to clear the table; whereupon it appeared (from his own
account) that he was absolutely without occupation of any kind and
pining for something to do. Thorndyke laughed incredulously but did
not contest this outrageous and barefaced untruth, merely remarking:

“I am afraid it will be rather an idle time for you.”

“Oh, no, it won’t, sir,” Polton assured him emphatically. “I’ve always
wanted to learn something about sculptor’s moulding and wax-casting,
but I’ve never had a chance. Now I shall have. And that opportunity
isn’t going to be wasted.”

Thorndyke regarded his assistant with a twinkling eye. “So it was mere
self-seeking that made you so enthusiastic,” he said. “But you are
quite a good moulder already.”

“Not a sculptor’s moulder, sir,” replied Polton; “and I know nothing
about wax-work. But I shall, before I have been there many days.”

“I am sure you will,” said Thorndyke. “Miss D’Arblay will have an
apprentice and journeyman in one. You will be able to give her quite a
lot of help; which will be valuable just now while her hand is
disabled. When do you think she will be able to go back to work,
Gray?”

“I can’t say. Not to-morrow certainly. Shall I send you a report when
I have seen her?”

“Do,” he replied; “or, better still, come in to-morrow evening and
give me the news. So, Polton, we sha’n’t want you for another day or
so.”

“Ah!” said Polton, “then I shall be able to finish that
recording-clock before I go;” upon which Thorndyke and I laughed aloud
and Polton, his mendacity thus unmasked, retired with the tray,
crinkling but unabashed.

The short remainder of the evening—or rather, of the night—was spent
in the study of the mechanism and mode of use of automatic pistols.
When I finally bestowed the “Baby,” fully loaded, in my hip-pocket,
and rose to go, Thorndyke sped me on my way with a few words of
warning and advice.

“Be constantly on your guard, Gray. You are going to make a bitter
enemy of a man who knows no scruples; indeed, you have done so
already, and something tells me that he is aware of it. Avoid all
solitary or unfrequented places. Keep to main thoroughfares and
well-lighted streets, and maintain a diligent look-out for any
suspicious appearances. You have said truly that we carry Miss
D’Arblay’s life in our hands. But to preserve her life we must
preserve our own; which we should probably prefer to do in any case.
Don’t get jumpy—I don’t much think you will; but keep your attention
alert and your weather eye-lid lifting.”

With these encouraging words and a hearty hand-shake, he let me out
and stood watching me as I descended the stairs.



CHAPTER XII.

A Dramatic Discovery

About eleven o’clock in the forenoon of the third day after the
terrible events of that unforgettable night of the great fog, Marion
and I drew up on our bicycles opposite the studio door. She was now
outwardly quite recovered, excepting as to her left hand, but I
noticed that, as I inserted the key into the door, she cast a quick,
nervous glance up and down the road; and as we passed through the
lobby, she looked down for one moment at the great blood-stain on the
floor and then hastily averted her face.

“Now,” I said, assuming a brisk, cheerful tone, “we must get to work.
Mr. Polton will be here in half an hour and we must be ready to put
his nose on the grindstone at once.”

“Then your nose will have to go on first,” she replied with a smile,
“and so will mine, with two raw apprentices to teach and an important
job waiting to be done. But, dear me! what a lot of trouble I am
giving!”

“Nothing of the kind, Marion,” I exclaimed; “you are a public
benefactor. Polton is delighted at the chance to come here and enlarge
his experience, and as for me——”

“Well? As for you?” She looked at me half-shyly, half-mischievously.
“Go on. You’ve stopped at the most interesting point.”

“I think I had better not,” said I. “We don’t want the forewoman to
get too uppish.”

She laughed softly, and when I had helped her out of her overcoat and
rolled up the sleeve of her one serviceable arm, I went out to the
lobby to stow away the bicycles and lock the outer door. When I
returned, she had got out from the cupboard a large box of flaked
gelatine and a massive spouted bucket which she was filling at the
sink.

“Hadn’t you better explain to me what we are going to do?” I asked.

“Oh, explanations are of no use,” she replied. “You just do as I tell
you and then you will know all about it. This isn’t a school; it’s a
workshop. When we have got the gelatine in to soak, I will show you
how to make a plaster case.”

“It seems to me,” I retorted, “that my instructress has graduated in
the academy of Squeers. ‘W-i-n-d-e-r winder; now go and clean one.’
Isn’t that the method?”

“Apprentices are not allowed to waste time in wrangling,” she
rejoined, severely. “Go and put on one of Daddy’s blouses and I will
set you to work.”

This practical method of instruction justified itself abundantly. The
reasons for each process emerged at once as soon as the process was
completed. And it was withal a pleasant method, for there is no
comradeship so sympathetic as the comradeship of work; nor any which
begets so wholesome and friendly an intimacy. But though there were
playful and frivolous interludes—as when the forewoman’s working hand
became encrusted with clay and had to be cleansed with a sponge by the
apprentice—we worked to such purpose that by the time Mr. Polton was
due, the plaster bust (of which a wax replica was to be made) was
firmly fixed on the work-table on a clay foundation and surrounded by
a carefully levelled platform of clay, in which it was embedded to
half its thickness. I had just finished smoothing the surface when
there came a knock at the outer door; on which Marion started
violently and clutched my arm. But she recovered in a moment, and
exclaimed in a tone of vexation:

“How silly I am! Of course, it is Mr. Polton.”

It was. I found him on the threshold in rapt contemplation of the
knocker, and looking rather like an archdeacon on tour. He greeted me
with a friendly crinkle and I then conducted him into the studio and
presented him to Marion, who shook his hand warmly and thanked him so
profusely for coming to her aid that he was quite abashed. However, he
did not waste time in compliments, but, producing an apron from his
hand-bag, took off his coat, donned the apron, rolled up so sleeves,
and beamed inquiringly at the bust.

“We are going to make a plaster case for the gelatine mould, Mr.
Polton,” Marion explained, and proceeded to a few preliminary
directions, to which the new apprentice listened with respectful
attention. But she had hardly finished when he fell to work with a
quiet, unhurried facility that filled me with envy. He seemed to know
where to find everything. He discovered the waste-paper with which to
cover the model to prevent the clay from sticking to it, he pounced on
the clay bin at the first shot, and when he had built up the shape for
the case, found the plaster-bin, mixing-bowl, and spoon as if he had
been born and bred in the workshop, stopping only for a moment to test
the condition of the gelatine in the bucket.

“Mr. Polton,” Marion said, after watching him for a while, “you are an
impostor—a dreadful impostor. You pretend to come here as an improver,
but you really know all about gelatine moulding; now, don’t you?”

Polton admitted apologetically that he “had done a little in that way.
But,” he added, in extenuation, “I have never done any work in wax.
And, talking of wax, the doctor will be here presently.”

“Dr. Thorndyke?” Marion asked.

“Yes, Miss. He had some business in Holloway, so he thought he would
come on here to make your acquaintance and take a look at the
premises.”

“All the same, Mr. Polton,” said I, “I don’t quite see the connexion
between Dr. Thorndyke and wax.”

He crinkled with a slightly embarrassed air and explained that he must
have been thinking of something that the doctor had said to him; but
his explanations were cut short by a knock at the door.

“That is his knock,” said Polton; and he and I together proceeded to
open the door, when I inducted the distinguished visitor into the
studio and presented him to the presiding goddess. I noticed that each
of them inspected the other with some curiosity, and that the first
impressions appeared to be mutually satisfactory, though Marion was at
first a little overawed by Thorndyke’s impressive personality.

“You mustn’t let me interrupt your work,” the latter said, when the
preliminary politenesses had been exchanged. “I have just come to fill
in Dr. Gray’s outline sketches with details of my own observing. I
wanted to see you—to convert a name into an actual person, to see the
studio for the same reason, and to get as precise a description as
possible of the man whom we are trying to identify. Will it distress
you to recall his appearance?”

She had turned a little pale at the mention of her late assailant, but
she answered stoutly enough: “Not at all; besides, it is necessary.”

“Thank you,” said he; “then I will read out the description that I had
from Dr. Gray, and we will see if you can add anything to it.”

He produced a note-book, from which he read out the particulars that I
had given him, at the conclusion of which he looked at her
inquiringly.

“I think that is all that I remember,” she said. “There was very
little light, and I really only glanced at him.”

Thorndyke looked at her reflectively. “It is a fairly full
description,” said he. “Perhaps the nose is a little sketchy. You
speak of a hooked nose with a high bridge. Was it a curved nose of the
Jewish type, or a squarer, Roman nose?”

“It was rather square in profile; a Wellington nose, but with a rather
broad base. Like a vulture’s beak, and very large.”

“Was it actually a hook-nose? I mean, had it a drooping tip?”

“Yes, the tip projected downwards and it was rather sharp—not
bulbous.”

“And the chin? Should you call it a pronounced or a retreating chin?”

“Oh, it was quite a projecting chin, rather of the Wellington type.”

Thorndyke reflected once more; then, having jotted down the answers to
his questions, he closed the book and returned it to his pocket.

“It is a great thing to have a trained eye,” he remarked. “In your one
glance you saw more than an ordinary person would have noted in a
leisurely inspection in a good light. You have no doubt that you would
know this man again if you should meet him?”

“Not the slightest,” she replied, with a shudder. “I can see him now
if I shut my eyes.”

“Well,” he rejoined, with a smile, “I wouldn’t recall that unpleasant
vision too often, if I were you. And now, may I, without disturbing
you further, just take a look round the premises?”

“But, of course, Dr. Thorndyke,” she replied. “Do exactly what you
please.”

With this permission, he drew away and stood for some moments letting
a very reflective eye travel round the interior; and meanwhile I
watched him curiously and wondered what he had really come for. His
first proceeding was to walk slowly round the studio and examine
closely, one by one, all the casts which hung on pegs. Next, in the
same systematic manner, he inspected all the shelves, mounting a chair
to examine the upper ones. It was after scrutinizing one of the latter
that he turned towards Marion and asked:

“Have you moved these casts lately, Miss D’Arblay?”

“No,” she replied; “so far as I know, they have not been touched for
months.”

“Some one has moved them within the last day or two,” said he.
“Apparently the nocturnal explorer went over the shelves as well as
the cupboard.”

“I wonder why,” said Marion. “There were no moulds on the shelves.”

Thorndyke made no rejoinder, but as he stood on the chair he once more
ran his eye round the studio. Suddenly he stepped down from the chair,
picked it up, carried it over to the tall cupboard, and once more
mounted it. His stature enabled him easily to look over the cornice on
to the top of the cupboard, and it was evident that something there
had attracted his attention.

“Here is a derelict of some sort,” he announced, “which certainly has
not been moved for some months.” As he spoke, he reached over the
cornice into the enclosed space and lifted out an excessively grimy
plaster mask, from which he blew the thick coating of dust, and then
stood for a while looking at it thoughtfully.

“A striking face this,” he remarked, “but not attractive. It rather
suggests a Russian or Polish Jew; do you recognize the person, Miss
D’Arblay?”

He stepped down from the chair, and handed the mask to Marion, who had
advanced to look at it, and who now held it in her hand regarding it
with a frown of perplexity.

“This is very curious,” she said. “I thought I knew all the casts that
have been made here. But I have never seen this one before, and I
don’t know the face. I wonder who he was. It doesn’t look like an
English face, but I should hardly have taken it for the face of a Jew,
with that rather small and nearly straight nose.”

“The East-European Jews are not a very pure breed,” said Thorndyke.
“You will see many a face of that type in Whitechapel High-street and
the Jewish quarters hard by.”

At this point, deserting the work-table, I came and looked over
Marion’s shoulder at the mask which she was holding at arm’s length.
And then I got a surprise of the most singular kind, for I recognized
the face at a glance.

“What is it, Gray?” asked Thorndyke, who had apparently observed my
astonishment.

“This is the most extraordinary coincidence!” I exclaimed. “Do you
remember my speaking to you about a certain Mr. Morris?”

“The dealer in antiques?” he queried.

“Yes. Well, this is his face.”

He regarded me for some moments with a strangely intent expression.
Then he asked: “When you say that this is Morris’ face, do you mean
that it resembles his face, or that you identify it positively?”

“I identify it positively. I can swear to the identity. It isn’t a
face that one would forget. And if any doubt were possible, there is
this hare-lip scar, which you can see quite plainly on the cast.”

“Yes, I noticed that. And Morris has a hare-lip scar, hasn’t he?”

“Yes; and in the same position and of the same character. I think you
can take it as a fact that this cast was undoubtedly taken from
Morris’ face.”

“Which,” said Thorndyke, “is a really important fact and one that is
worth looking into.”

“In what way is it important?” I asked.

“In this respect,” he answered. “This man, Morris, is unknown to Miss
D’Arblay; but he was not unknown to her father. Here we have evidence
that Mr. D’Arblay had dealings with people of whom his daughter had no
knowledge. The circumstances of the murder made it clear that there
must be such people; but here we have proof of their existence, and we
can give to one of them ‘a local habitation and a name.’ And you will
notice that this particular person is a dealer in curios and possibly
in more questionable things. There is just a hint that he may have had
some rather queer acquaintances.”

“He seemed to have had rather a fancy for plaster masks,” I remarked.
“I remember that he had one in his shop window.”

“Did your father make many life or death masks as commissions, Miss
D’Arblay?” Thorndyke asked.

“Only one or two, so far as I know,” she replied. “There is very
little demand for portrait masks nowadays. Photography has superseded
them.”

“That is what I should have supposed,” said he. “This would be just a
chance commission. However, as it establishes the fact that this man
Morris was in some way connected with your father, I think I should
like to have a record of his appearance. May I take this mask away
with me to get a photograph of it made? I will take great care of it,
and let you have it back safely.”

“Certainly,” replied Marion; “but why not keep it, if it is of any
interest to you? I have no use for it.”

“That is very good of you,” said he; “and if you will give me some rag
and paper to pack it in, I will take myself off, and leave you to
finish your work in peace.”

Marion took the cast from him, and, having procured some rag and
paper, began very carefully to wrap it up. While she was thus engaged,
Thorndyke stood, letting his eye travel once more round the studio.

“I see,” he remarked, “that you have quite a number of masks moulded
from life, or death. Do I understand that they were not commissions?”

“Very few of them were,” Marion replied. “Most of them were taken from
professional models, but some from acquaintances whom my father bribed
with the gift of a duplicate mask.”

“But why did he make them? They could not have been used for producing
wax faces for the show figures; for you could hardly turn a shop
window into a wax-work exhibition with lifelike portraits of real
persons.”

“No,” Marion agreed, “that wouldn’t do at all. These masks were
principally used for reference as to details of features when my
father was modelling a head in clay. But he did sometimes make moulds
for the wax from these masks, only he obliterated the likeness, so
that the wax face was not a portrait.”

“By working on the wax, I suppose?”

“Yes; or more usually by altering the mask before making the mould. It
is quite easy to alter a face. Let me show you.”

She lifted one of the masks from its peg and laid it on the table.

“You see,” she said, “that this is the face of a young girl—one of my
father’s models. It is a round, smooth, smiling face, with a very
short, weak chin and a projecting upper lip. We can change all that in
a moment.”

She took up a lump of clay and, pinching off a pellet, laid it on the
right cheek-bone and spread it out. Having treated the other side in
the same manner, she rolled an elongated pellet, with which she built
up the lower lip. Then, with a larger pellet, she enlarged the chin
downwards and forwards, and, having added a small touch to each of the
eyebrows, she dipped a sponge in thick clay-water, or “slip,” and
dabbed the mask all over to bring it to a uniform colour.

“There,” she said, “it is very rough, but you see what I mean.”

The result was truly astonishing. The weak, chubby, girlish face had
been changed by these few touches into the strong, coarse face of a
middle-aged woman.

“It really is amazing!” I exclaimed. “It is a perfectly different
face. I wouldn’t have believed that such a thing was possible.”

“It is a most striking and interesting demonstration,” said Thorndyke.
“But yet I don’t know that we need be so surprised. If we consider
that of all the millions of persons in this island alone each one has
a face which is different from any other, and yet that all those faces
are made up of the same anatomical parts, we realize that the
differences which distinguish one face from another must be
excessively subtle and minute.”

“We do,” agreed Marion, “especially when we are modelling a portrait
bust and the likeness won’t come although every part appears to be
correct and all the measurements seem to agree. A true likeness is an
extraordinarily subtle and exact piece of work.”

“So I have always thought,” said Thorndyke. “But I mustn’t delay you
any longer. May I have my precious parcel?”

Marion handed him the not very presentable bundle with a smile and a
bow. He then took his leave of her and I escorted him to the door,
where he paused for a moment as we shook hands.

“You are bearing my advice in mind, I hope, Gray,” he said.

“As to keeping clear of unfrequented places? Yes, I have been very
careful in that respect, and I never go abroad without the pistol. It
is in my hip-pocket now. But I have seen no sign of anything to
justify so much caution. I doubt if our friend is even aware of my
existence, and in any case, I don’t see that he has anything against
me, excepting as Miss D’Arblay’s watch-dog.”

“Don’t be too sure, Gray,” he rejoined earnestly. “There may be
certain little matters that you have overlooked. At any rate, don’t
relax your caution. Give all unfrequented places a wide berth and keep
a bright look-out.”

With this final warning, he turned away and strode off down the road
while I re-entered the studio just in time to see Polton mix the first
bowl of plaster, as Marion, having washed the clay from the
transformed mask, dried it and rehung it on its peg.



CHAPTER XIII.

A Narrow Escape

The statement that I had made to Thorndyke was perfectly true in
substance; but it was hardly as significant in fact as the words
implied. I had, it is true, in my journeyings abroad, restricted
myself to well-beaten thoroughfares. But then I had had no occasion to
do otherwise. Until Polton’s arrival on the scene my time had been
wholly taken up in keeping a watch on Marion; and so it would have
continued if I had followed my own inclination. But at the end of the
first day’s work she intervened resolutely.

“I am perfectly ashamed,” she said, “to occupy the time of two men,
both of whom have their own affairs to attend to, though I can’t tell
you how grateful I am to you for sacrificing yourselves.”

“We are acting under the doctor’s orders, Miss,” said Polton, thereby,
in his opinion, closing the subject.

“You mean Dr. Thorndyke’s?” said Marion, not realizing—or not choosing
to realize—that, to Polton, there was no other doctor in the world who
counted.

“Yes, Miss. The doctor’s orders must be carried out.”

“Of course they must,” she agreed warmly, “since he has been so very
good as to take all this trouble about my safety. But there is no need
for both of you to be here together. Couldn’t you arrange to take
turns on duty—alternate days or a half-day each? I hate the thought
that I am wasting the whole of both your times.”

I did not look on the suggestion with favour, for I was reluctant to
yield up to any man—even to Polton—the privilege of watching over the
safety of one who was so infinitely dear to me. Nor was Polton much
less unwilling to agree, for he loathed to leave a piece of work
uncompleted. However, Marion refused to accept our denials (as is the
way of women), and the end of it was that Polton and I had to arrange
our duties in half-day shifts, changing over at the end of each week,
the first spell allotting the mornings to me and the latter half of
the day—with the duty of seeing Marion home—to him.

Thus, during each of the following six working days, I found myself
with the entire afternoon and evening free. The former I usually spent
at the hospital, but in the evenings, feeling too unsettled for study,
I occupied myself very pleasantly with long walks through the
inexhaustible streets, extending my knowledge of the town and making
systematic explorations of such distant regions as Mile End,
Kingsland, Dalston, Wapping, and the Borough.

One evening I bethought me of my promise to look in on Usher. I did
not find myself yearning for his society, but a promise is a promise.
Accordingly, when I had finished my solitary dinner, I set forth from
my lodgings in Camden-square and made a bee-line for Clerkenwell: so
far, that is to say, as was possible, while keeping to the wider
streets. For in this respect, I followed Thorndyke’s instructions to
the letter, though, as to the other matter—that of keeping a bright
look-out—I was less attentive, my mind being much more occupied with
thoughts of Marion (who would, just now, be on her way home under
Polton’s escort) than with any considerations of my own personal
safety. Indeed, to tell the truth, I was inclined to be more than a
little sceptical as to the need for these extraordinary precautions.

I found Usher in the act of bowing out the last of the “evening
consultations,” and was welcomed by him with enthusiasm.

“Delighted to see you, old chap!” he exclaimed, shaking my hand
warmly. “It is good of you to drop in on an old fossil like me. Didn’t
much think you would. I suppose you don’t often come this way?”

“No,” I replied. “It is rather off my beat. I’ve finished with
Hoxton—for the present, at any rate.”

“So have I,” said Usher, “since poor old Crile went off to the better
land.”

“Crile?” I repeated. “Who was he?”

“Don’t you remember my telling you about his funeral, when they had
those Sunday-school kids yowling hymns round the grave? That was Mr.
Crile—Christian name, Jonathan.”

“I remember; but I didn’t realize that he was a Hoxton aristocrat.”

“Well, he was. Fifty-two, Field-street was his earthly abode. I used
to remember it by the number of weeks in the year. And glad enough I
was when he hopped off his perch, for his confounded landlady, a Mrs.
Pepper, would insist on fixing the times for my visits, and deuced
inconvenient times, too. Between four and six on Tuesdays and Fridays.
I hate patients who turn your visits into appointments. Upsets your
whole visiting-list.”

“It seems to be the fashion in Hoxton,” I remarked. “I had to make my
visits at appointed times, too. It would have been frightfully
inconvenient if I had been busy. Is it often done?”

“They will always do it if you let ’em. Of course, it is a convenience
to a woman who doesn’t keep a servant, to know what time the doctor is
going to call; but it doesn’t do to give way to ’em.”

I assented to this excellent principle, noting, however, that he
seemed to have “given way to ’em,” all the same.

As we had been talking, we had gradually drifted from the surgery up a
flight of stairs to a shabby, cosy little room on the first floor,
where a cheerful fire was burning and a copper kettle on a trivet
purred contentedly and breathed forth little clouds of steam. Usher
inducted me into a large easy chair, the depressed seat of which
suggested its customary use by an elephant of sedentary habits, and
produced from a cupboard a spirit decanter, a high-shouldered Dutch
gin-bottle, a sugar-basin, and a couple of tumblers and
sugar-crushers.

“Whisky or Hollands?” he demanded; and, as curiosity led me to select
the latter, he commented: “That’s right, Gray. Good stuff, Hollands.
Touches up the cubical epithelium—what! I am rather partial to a drop
of Hollands.”

It was no empty profession. The initial dose made me open my eyes; and
that was only a beginning. In a twinkling, as it seemed, his tumbler
was empty and the collaboration of the bottle and the copper kettle
was repeated. And so it went on for nearly an hour, until I began to
grow quite uneasy, though without any visible cause, so far as Usher
was concerned. He did not turn a hair (he hadn’t very many to turn,
for that matter, but I speak figuratively). The only effect that I
could observe was an increasing fluency of speech with a tendency to
discursiveness; and I must admit that his conversation was highly
entertaining. But his evident intention to “make a night of it” set me
planning to make my escape without appearing to slight his
hospitality. How I should have managed it, unaided by the direct
interposition of Providence, I cannot guess: for his conversation had
now taken the form of an interminable sentence punctuated by
indistinguishable commas; but in the midst of this steadily flowing
stream of eloquence the outer silence was rent by the sudden jangling
of a bell.

Usher stopped short, stared at me solemnly, deliberately emptied his
tumbler, and stood up.

“Night bell, ol’ chappie,” he explained. “Got to go out. But don’t you
disturb yourself. Back in a few minutes. Soon polish ’em off.”

“I’ll walk round with you as far as your patient’s house,” said I,
“and then I shall have to get home. It is past ten and I have a
longish walk to Camden-square.”

He was disposed to argue the point, but another violent jangling cut
his protests short and sent him hurrying down the stairs with me close
at his heels. A couple of minutes later we were out in the street,
following in the wake of a hurrying figure; and, looking at Usher as
he walked sedately at my side, with his top-hat, his whiskers, and his
inevitable umbrella, I had the feeling that all those jorums of
Hollands had been consumed in vain. In appearance, in manner, in
speech, and in gait, he was just his normal self, with never a hint of
any change from the status quo ante bellum.

Our course led us into the purlieus of St. John Street-road, where we
presently turned into a narrow, winding, and curiously desolate little
street, along which we proceeded for a few hundred yards, when our
“fore-runner” halted at a door into which he inserted a latch-key.
When we arrived at the open door, inside which a shadowy figure was
lurking, Usher stopped and held out his hand.

“Good night, old chap,” he said. “Sorry you can’t come back with me.
If you keep straight on and turn to the left at the cross-roads you
will come out presently into the King’s Cross-road. Then you’ll know
your way. So long.”

He turned into the dark passage, the door was closed, and I went on my
way.

The little meandering street was singularly silent and deserted; and
its windings cut off the light from the scanty street-lamps so that
stretches of it were in almost total darkness. As I strode forward,
the echoes of my footfalls resounded with hollow reverberations which
smote my ear—and ought to have smitten my conscience—causing me to
wonder, with grim amusement, what Thorndyke would have said if he
could have seen me thus setting his instructions at defiance. Indeed,
I was so far sensible of the impropriety of my being in such a place
at such an hour that I was about to turn to take a look back along the
street; but at the very moment that I halted within a few feet of a
street-lamp, something struck the brim of my hat with a sharp, weighty
blow like the stroke of a hammer, and I heard a dull thud from the
lamp-post.

In an instant I spun round, mighty fierce, whipping out my pistol,
cocking it, and pointing it down the street as I raced back towards
the spot from whence the missile had appeared to come. There was not a
soul in sight nor any sound of movement, and the shallow doorways
seemed to offer no possible hiding place. But some thirty yards back I
came suddenly on a narrow opening like an empty doorway, but actually
the entrance to a covered alley not more than three feet wide and as
dark as a pocket. This was evidently the ambush (which I had passed,
like a fool, without observing it), and I halted beside it, with my
pistol still pointed, listening intently and considering what I had
better do. My first impulse had been to charge into the alley, but a
moment’s reflection showed the futility of such a proceeding. Probably
my assailant had made off by some well-known outlet; but in any case
it would be sheer insanity for me to plunge into that pitch-dark
passage. For if he were still lurking there he would be invisible to
me, whereas I should be a clear silhouette against the dim light of
the street. Moreover, I had seen no one, and I could not shoot at any
chance stranger whom I might find there. Reluctantly I recognized that
there was nothing for it but to retreat cautiously and be more careful
in future.

My retirement would have looked an odd proceeding to an observer, if
there had been one, for I had to retreat crab-wise in order that I
might keep the entrance of the alley covered with my pistol and yet
see where I was going. When I reached the lamp-post I scanned the area
of lighted ground beneath it, and, almost at the first glance,
perceived an object like a largish marble lying in the road. It
proved, when I picked it up, to be a leaden ball, like an
old-fashioned musket-ball, with one flattened side, which had
prevented it from rolling away from the spot where it had fallen. I
dropped it into my pocket and resumed my masterly retreat until, at
length, the cross-roads came into view. Then I quickened my pace, and
as I reached the corner put away my pistol after slipping in the
safety catch.

Once more out in the lighted and frequented main streets, my thoughts
were free to turn over this extraordinary experience. But I did not
allow them to divert me from a very careful look-out. All my
scepticism was gone now. I realized that Thorndyke had not been making
mere vague guesses, but that he had clearly foreseen that something of
this kind would probably happen. That was, to me, the most perplexing
feature of this incomprehensible affair.

I turned it over in my mind again and again, and could make nothing of
it. I could see no adequate reason why this man should want to make
away with me. True, I was Marion’s protector; but that—even if he were
aware of it—did not seem an adequate reason. Indeed, I could not see
why he was seeking to make away with her—nor, even, was it clear to me
that there had been a reasonable motive for murdering her father. But
as to myself, I seemed to be out of the picture altogether. The man
had nothing to fear from me or to gain by my death.

That was how it appeared to me; and yet I saw plainly that I must be
mistaken. There must be something behind all this—something that was
unknown to me but was known to Thorndyke. What could it be? I found
myself unable to make any sort of guess. In the end, I decided to call
on Thorndyke the following evening, report the incident, and see if I
could get any enlightenment from him.

The first part of this programme I carried out successfully enough,
but the second presented more difficulties.

Thorndyke was not a very communicative man, and a perfectly impossible
one to pump. What he chose to tell he told freely; and beyond that, no
amount of ingenuity could extract the faintest shadow of a hint.

“I am afraid I am disturbing you, Sir,” I said in some alarm, as I
noted a portentous heap of documents on the table.

“No,” he replied. “I have nearly finished, and I shall treat you as a
friend, and keep you waiting while I do the little that is left.” He
turned to his papers and took up his pen, but paused to cast one of
his quick, penetrating glances at me.

“Has anything fresh happened?” he asked.

“Our unknown friend has had a pot at me,” I answered. “That is all.”

He laid down his pen, and leaning back in his chair, demanded
particulars. I gave him an account of what had happened on the
preceding night, and, taking the leaden ball from my pocket, laid it
on the table. He picked it up, examined it curiously, and then placed
it on the letter balance.

“Just over half an ounce,” he said. “It is a mercy it missed your
head. With that weight and the velocity indicated by the flattening,
it would have dropped you insensible with a fractured skull.”

“And then he would have come along and put the finishing touches, I
suppose. But I wonder how he shot the thing. Could he have used an air
gun?”

Thorndyke shook his head. “An air gun that would discharge a ball of
that weight would make quite a loud report, and you say you heard
nothing. You are quite sure of that, by the way?”

“Perfectly. The place was as silent as the grave.”

“Then he must have used a catapult; and an uncommonly efficient weapon
it is in skilful hands, and as portable as a pistol. You mustn’t give
him another chance, Gray.”

“I am not going to, if I can help it. But what the deuce does the
fellow want to pot at me for? It is a most mysterious thing. Do you
understand what it is all about, Sir?”

“I do not,” he replied. “My knowledge of the facts of this case is
nearly all second-hand knowledge, derived from you. You know all that
I know and probably more.”

“That is all very well, Sir,” said I; “but you foresaw that this was
likely to happen. I didn’t. Therefore you must know more about the
case than I do.”

He chuckled softly. “You are confusing knowledge and inference,” said
he. “We had the same facts, but our inferences were not the same. It
is just a matter of experience. You haven’t squeezed out of the facts
as much as they are capable of yielding. Come, now, Gray; while I am
finishing my work you shall look over my notes of this case, and then
you should take a sort of bird’s-eye view of the whole case, and see
if anything new occurs to you. And you must add to those notes that
this man has been at the enormous trouble of stalking you
continuously, that he shadowed you to Usher’s, that he waited
patiently for you to come out, that he followed you most skilfully,
and took instant advantage of the first opportunity that you gave him.
You might also note that he did not elect to overtake you and make a
direct attack on you, as he did on Miss D’Arblay. Note those facts,
and consider what their significance may be. And now just go through
this little dossier. It won’t take you many minutes.”

He took out of a drawer a small portfolio, on the cover of which was
written, “J. D’Arblay, dec’d.,” and, passing it to me, returned to his
documents. I opened it and found it to contain a number of separate
abstracts, each duly headed with its descriptive title, and an
envelope marked, “Photographs.” Glancing over the abstracts, I saw
that they dealt respectively with J. D’Arblay, The Inquest, The Van
Zellen Case, Miss D’Arblay, Dr. Gray, and Mr. Morris; the last
containing, somewhat to my surprise, all the details that I had given
Thorndyke respecting that rather mysterious person, together with an
account of my dealings with him and cross-references to the abstract
bearing my name. It was all very complete and methodical, but none of
the abstracts contained any information that was new to me. If this
represented all the facts that were known to Thorndyke, then he was no
better informed than I was. But he had evidently got a great deal more
out of the information than I had.

Returning the abstracts with some disappointment to the portfolio, I
turned to the photographs; and then I got a very thorough surprise.
There were only three, and the first two were of no great interest,
one representing the two casts of the guinea and the other the plaster
mask of Morris. But the third fairly took away my breath. It was a
very bad photograph, apparently an enlargement from a rather poor
snap-shot portrait; but, bad as it was, it gave a very vivid
presentment of one of the most evil-looking faces that I have ever
looked on; a lean, bearded face, with high cheek-bones, with heavy,
frowning brows that overhung deep-shadowed, hollow eye-sockets and an
almost grotesquely large nose, thin, curved, and sharp, that jutted
out like a great predatory beak.

I stared at the photograph in speechless amazement. At the first
glance I had been struck by the perfect way in which this crude
portrait realized Marion’s description of the man who had tried to
murder her. But that was not all. There was another resemblance which
I now perceived with even more astonishment; indeed, it was so
incredible that the perception of it reduced me to something like
stupefaction. I sat for fully a minute with the portrait in my hand,
and my thoughts surging confusedly in a vain effort to grasp the
meaning of this extraordinary likeness; then, happening to glance up
at Thorndyke, I found him quietly regarding me with undisguised
interest.

“Well,” he said, as he caught my eye.

“Who is he?” I demanded, holding up the photograph.

“That is what I want to know,” he replied. “The photograph came to me
without any description. The identity of the subject is unknown. Who
do you think he is?”

“To begin with,” I answered, “he exactly corresponds in appearance
with Miss D’Arblay’s description of her would-be murderer. Don’t you
think so?’

“I do,” he replied. “The correspondence seems complete in every
detail, so far as I can judge. That was why I secured the photograph.
But the actual resemblance will have to be settled by her. I suggest
that you take the portrait and let her see it; but you had better not
show it to her pointedly for identification. It would be better to put
it in some place where she will see it without previous suggestion or
preparation. But you said just now ‘to begin with.’ Was there anything
else that struck you about this photograph?”

“Yes,” I answered, “there was; a most amazing thing. You remember my
telling you about the patient I attended in Morris’ house?”

“The man who died of gastric cancer and was eventually cremated?”

“Yes. His name was Bendelow. Well, this photograph might have been a
portrait of Bendelow, taken with a beard and moustache before the
disease got hold of him. Excepting for the emaciation and the
beard—Bendelow was clean-shaved—I should think it would be quite an
excellent likeness of him.”

Thorndyke made no immediate reply or comment, but sat quite still,
looking at me with a very singular expression. I could see that he was
thinking rapidly and intensely, but I suspected that his thoughts were
in a good deal less confusion than mine had been.

“It is,” he remarked at length, “as you say, a most amazing affair.
The face is no ordinary face. It would be difficult to mistake it, and
one would have to go far to find another with which it could be
confused. Still, one must not forget the possibility of a chance
resemblance. Nature doesn’t take out letters-patent even for a human
face. But I will ask you, Gray, to write down and send to me all that
you know about the late Mr. Bendelow, including all the details of
your attendance on him, dead and alive.”

“I will,” said I, “though it is difficult to imagine what connexion he
could have had with the D’Arblay case.”

“It seems incredible that he could have had any,” Thorndyke agreed.
“But at present we are collecting facts, and we must note everything
impartially. It is a fatal mistake to select your facts in accordance
with the apparent probabilities. By the way, if Bendelow was like this
photograph he must have corresponded pretty exactly with Miss
D’Arblay’s very complete and lucid description. I wonder why you did
not realize that at the time.”

“That is what I have been wondering. But I suppose it was the beard
and the absence of any kind of association between Bendelow and the
D’Arblays.”

“Probably,” he agreed. “A beard and moustache alters very greatly even
a striking face like this. Incidentally, it illustrates the
superiority of a picture over a verbal description for purposes of
identification. No mere description will enable you to visualize
correctly a face which you have never seen. I shall be curious to hear
what Miss D’Arblay has to say about this photograph.”

“I will let you know without delay,” said I; and then, as he seemed to
have completed his work, and put the documents aside, I made a final
effort to extract some definite information from him.

“It is evident,” I said, “that the body of facts in your notes has
conveyed a good deal more to you than it has to me.”

“Probably,” he agreed. “If it had not, I should seem to have profited
little by years of professional practice.”

“Then,” I said persuasively, “may I ask if you have formed a really
satisfactory theory as to who this man is and why he murdered
D’Arblay?”

Thorndyke reflected for a few moments and then replied:

“My position, Gray, is this: I have arrived at a very definite theory
as to the motive of the murder, and a most extraordinary motive it is.
But there are one or two points that I do not understand. There are
some links missing from the chain of evidence. So with the identity of
the man. We know pretty certainly that he is the murderer of Van
Zellen, and we know what he is like to look at, but we can’t give him
a name and a definite personality. There are links missing there, too.
But I have great hopes of finding those missing links. If I find them
I shall have a complete case against this man, and I shall forthwith
set the law in motion. I can’t tell you more than that at present, but
I repeat that you are in possession of all the facts, and that if you
think over all that has happened and ask yourself what it can mean,
though you will not arrive at a complete solution any more than I
have, you will at least begin to see the light.”

This was all that I could get out of him, and as it was now growing
late I presently rose to take my departure. He walked with me as far
as the Middle Temple Gate and stood outside the wicket watching me as
I strode away westward.



CHAPTER XIV.

The Haunted Man

When I arrived at the studio on the following afternoon I found the
door open and Polton waiting just inside with his hat and overcoat on
and his bag in his hand.

“I am glad you are punctual, Sir,” he said, with his benevolent smile.
“I wanted to get back to the chambers in good time to-day. It won’t
matter to-morrow, which is fortunate, as you may be late.”

“Why may I be late to-morrow?” I asked.

“I have a message for you from the doctor,” he replied. “It is about
what you were discussing last night. He told me to tell you that he is
expecting a visit from an officer of the Criminal Investigation
Department, and he would like you to be present, if it would be
convenient. About half-past ten, Sir.”

“I will certainly be there,” said I.

“Thank you, Sir,” said he. “And the doctor told me to warn you, in
case you should arrive after the officer, not to make any comment on
anything that may be said, or to seem to know anything about the
subject of the interview.”

“This is very mysterious, Polton,” I remarked.

“Why, not particularly, Sir,” he replied. “You see the officer is
coming to give certain information, but he will try to get some for
himself if he can. But he won’t get anything out of the doctor; and
the only way for you to prevent his pumping you is to say nothing and
appear to know nothing.”

I laughed at his ingenuous wiliness. “Why,” I exclaimed, “you are as
bad as the doctor, Polton. A regular Machiavelli.”

“I never heard of him,” said Polton, “but most Scotsmen are pretty
close. Oh, and there is another little matter that I wanted to speak
to you about—on my own account this time. I gathered from the doctor,
in confidence, that some one had been following you about. Now, Sir,
don’t you think it would be very useful to be able to see behind you
without turning your head?”

“By Jove!” I exclaimed. “It would indeed! Capital! I never thought of
it. I will have a supplementary eye fixed in the back of my head
without delay.”

Polton crinkled deprecatingly. “No need for that, Sir,” said he. “I
have invented quite a lot of different appliances for enabling you to
see behind you; reflecting spectacles and walking sticks with prisms
in the handle, and so on. But for use at night I think this will
answer your purpose best.”

He produced from his pocket an object somewhat like a watchmaker’s
eye-glass, and having fixed it in his eye to show me how it worked,
handed it to me with the request that I would try it. I did so, and
was considerably surprised at the efficiency of the appliance; for it
gave me a perfectly clear view of the street almost directly behind
me.

“I am very much obliged to you, Polton,” I said, enthusiastically.
“This is a most valuable gift, especially under the present
circumstances.”

He was profoundly gratified. “I think you will find it useful, Sir,”
he said. “The doctor uses these things sometimes, and so do I if the
occasion arises. You see, Sir, if you are being shadowed it is a fatal
thing to turn round and look behind you. You never get a chance of
seeing what the stalker is like, and you put him on his guard.”

I saw this clearly enough and once more thanked him for his timely
gift. Then, having shaken his hand and sped him on his way, I entered
the lobby and shut the outer door, at the same time transferring
Thorndyke’s photograph from my letter-case to my jacket pocket. When I
passed through into the studio I found Marion putting the finishing
touches to a plaster case. She greeted me with a smile as I entered
and then plunged her hand once more into the bowl of rapidly
thickening plaster; whereupon I took the opportunity to lay the
photograph on a side-bench as I walked towards the table on which she
was working.

“Good afternoon, Marion,” said I.

“Good afternoon, Stephen,” she responded, adding, “I cannot shake
hands until I have washed,” and held out her emplastered hands in
evidence.

“That will be too late,” said I; and as she looked up at me
inquiringly I stooped and kissed her.

“You are very resourceful,” she remarked with a smile and a warm
blush, as she scooped up another handful of plaster; and then, as if
to cover her slight confusion, she asked: “What was all that solemn
pow-wow about with Mr. Polton? And why did he wait for you at the door
in that suspicious manner? Had he some secret message for you?”

“I don’t know whether it was intended to be secret,” I answered; “but
it isn’t going to be so far as you are concerned;” and I repeated to
her the substance of Thorndyke’s message, to which she listened with
an eagerness that rather surprised me, until her further inquiries
explained it.

“This sounds rather encouraging,” she said; “as if Dr. Thorndyke had
been making some progress in his investigations. I wonder if he has.
Do you think he really knows much more than we do?”

“I am sure he does,” I replied; “but how much more, I cannot guess. He
is extraordinarily close. But I have a feeling that the end is not so
very far off. He seems to be quite hopeful of laying his hand on this
villain.”

“Oh! I hope you are right, Stephen,” she exclaimed. “I have been
getting so anxious. There has seemed to be no end to this deadlock.
And yet it can’t go on indefinitely.”

“What do you mean, Marion?” I asked.

“I mean,” she answered, “that you can’t go on wasting your time here
and letting your career go. Of course, it is delightful to have you
here. I don’t dare to think what the place will be like without you.
But it makes me wretched to think how much you are sacrificing for
me.”

“I am not really sacrificing anything,” said I. “On the contrary, I am
spending my time most profitably in the pursuit of knowledge and most
happily in a sweet companionship which I wouldn’t exchange for
anything in the world.”

“It is very nice of you to say that,” she said, “but, still, I shall
be very relieved when the danger is over and you are free.”

“Free!” I exclaimed, “I don’t want to be free. When my apprenticeship
has run out I am coming on as journeyman. And now I had better get my
blouse on and start work.”

I went to the further end of the studio, and, taking the blouse down
from its peg, proceeded to exchange it for my coat. Suddenly I was
startled by a sharp cry, and, turning round, beheld Marion stooping
over the photograph with an expression of the utmost horror.

“Where did this come from?” she demanded, turning a white,
terror-stricken face on me.

“I put it there, Marion,” I answered somewhat sheepishly, hurrying to
her side. “But what is the matter? Do you know the man?”

“Do I know him?” she repeated. “Of course I do. It is he—the man who
came here that night.”

“Are you quite sure?” I asked. “Are you certain that it is not just a
chance resemblance?”

She shook her head emphatically. “It is he, Stephen. I can swear to
him. It is no mere resemblance. It is a likeness, and a perfect one,
though it is such a bad photograph. But where did you get it? And why
didn’t you show it to me when you came in?”

I told her how I came by it and explained Thorndyke’s instructions.

“Then,” she said, “Dr. Thorndyke knows who the man is.”

“He says he doesn’t, and he was very close and rather obscure as to
how the photograph came into his possession.”

“It is very mysterious,” said she, with another terrified glance at
the photograph. Then suddenly she snatched it up and with averted face
held it out to me. Put it away, Stephen,” she entreated. “I can’t bear
the sight of that horrible face. It brings back afresh all the terrors
of that awful night.”

I hastily returned the photograph to my letter-case, and, taking her
arm, led her back to the work-table. “Now,” I said, “let us forget it
and get on with our work;” and I proceeded to turn the case over and
fix it in the new position with lumps of clay. For a little while she
watched me in silence, and I could see by her pallor that she was
still suffering from the shock of that unexpected encounter. But
presently she picked up a scraper and joined me in trimming up the
edges of the case, cutting out the “key-ways” and making ready for the
second half; and by degrees her colour came back and the interest of
the work banished her terrors.

We were, in fact, extremely industrious. We not only finished the
case—it was an arm from the shoulder which was to be made—cut the
pouring-holes, and varnished the inside with knotting, but we filled
one-half with the melted gelatine which was to form the actual mould
in which the wax would be cast. This brought the day’s work to an end,
for nothing more could be done until the gelatine had set—a matter of
at least twelve hours.

“It is too late to begin anything fresh,” said Marion. “You had better
come and have supper with me and Arabella.”

I agreed readily enough to this proposal, and when we had tidied up in
readiness for the morning’s work we set forth at a brisk pace—for it
was a cold evening—towards Highgate, gossiping cheerfully as we went.
By the time we reached Ivy Cottage eight o’clock was striking, and
“the village” was beginning to settle down for the night. The
premature quiet reminded me that the adjacent town would presently be
settling down, too, and that I should do well to start for home before
the streets had become too deserted.

Nevertheless, so pleasantly did the time slip away in the cosy
sitting-room with my two companions that it was close upon half-past
ten when I rose to take my departure. Marion escorted me to the door,
and as I stood in the hall buttoning up my overcoat, she said:

“You needn’t worry if you are detained to-morrow. We shall be making
the wax cast of the bust, and I am certain Mr. Polton won’t leave the
studio until it is finished, whether you are there or not. He is
perfectly mad on wax-work. He wormed all the secrets of the trade out
of me the very first time we were alone, and he is extraordinarily
quick at learning. But I can’t imagine what use the knowledge will be
to him.”

“Perhaps he thinks of starting an opposition establishment,” I
suggested, “or he may have an eye to a partnership. But if he has he
will have a competitor, and one with a prior claim. Good-night, dear
child. Save some of the wax-work for me to-morrow.”

She promised to restrain Polton’s enthusiasm as far as possible, and
wishing me “Good night,” held out her hand, but submitted without
demur to being kissed; and I took my departure in high spirits, more
engrossed with the pleasant leave-taking than with the necessity of
keeping a bright look-out.

I was nearing the bottom of the High-street when the prevailing quiet
recalled me to the grim realities of my position, and I was on the
point of stopping to take a look round when I bethought me of Polton’s
appliance and also of that cunning artificer’s advice not to put a
possible “stalker” on his guard. I accordingly felt in my pocket, and
having found the appliance carefully fixed it in my eye without
altering my pace. The first result was a collision with a lamp-post,
which served to remind me of the necessity of keeping both eyes open.
The instrument was, in fact, not very easy to use while walking, and
it took me a minute or two to learn how to manage it. Presently,
however, I found myself able to divide my attention between the
pathway in front and the view behind, and then it was that I became
aware of a man following me at a distance of about a hundred yards. Of
course, there was nothing remarkable or suspicious in this, for it was
a main thoroughfare and by no means deserted at this comparatively
early hour. Nevertheless, I kept the man in view, noting that he wore
a cloth cap and a monkey-jacket, that he carried no stick or umbrella,
and that when I slightly slackened my pace he did not seem to overtake
me. As this suggested that he was accommodating his pace to mine, I
decided to put the matter to the test by giving him an opportunity to
pass me at the next side turning.

At this moment the Roman Catholic Church came into view and I recalled
that at its side a narrow lane—Dartmouth Park Hill—ran down steeply
between high fences towards Kentish Town. Instantly I decided to turn
into the lane—which bent sharply to the left behind the church—walk a
few yards down it and then return slowly. If my follower were a
harmless stranger he would then have passed on down Highgate Hill,
whereas if he were stalking me I should meet him at the entrance to
the lane and could then see what he was like.

But I was not very well satisfied with this plan, for the obvious
manœuvre would show him that he was suspected; and as I approached the
church, a better plan suggested itself. On one side by the entrance to
the lane were some low railings and a gate with large brick piers. In
a moment I had vaulted over the railings and taken up a position
behind one of the piers, where I stood motionless, listening intently.
Very soon I caught the sound of distinctly rapid footsteps, which
suddenly grew louder as my follower came opposite the entrance to the
lane, and louder still as, without a moment’s hesitation, he turned
into it.

From my hiding-place in the deep shadow of the pier I could safely
peep out into the wide space at the entrance of the lane; and as this
space was well lighted by a lamp I was able to get an excellent view
of my follower. And very much puzzled I was therewith. Naturally I had
expected to recognize the man whose photograph I had in my pocket. But
this was quite a different type of man. It is true that he was
shortish and rather slightly built, and that he had a beard: but there
the resemblance ended. His face, which I could see plainly by the
lamp-light, so far from being of an aquiline or vulturine cast, was
rather of the blunt and bibulous type. The short, though rather
bulbous nose, made up in colour what it lacked in size, and its florid
tint extended into the cheek on either side in the form of what
dermatologists call _acne rosacea_.

I say that his appearance puzzled me; but it was not his appearance
alone. For the latter showed that he was a stranger to me and
suggested that he was going down the lane on his lawful occasions; but
his movements did not support that suggestion. He had turned into the
lane and passed my hiding-place at a very quick walk. But just as he
reached the sharp turn he slackened his pace, stepping lightly, and
then stopped for a moment, listening intently and peering forward into
the darkness of the lane. At length he started again and disappeared
round the corner, and by the sound of his retreating footsteps I could
tell that he was once more putting on the pace.

I listened until these sounds had nearly died away and was just about
to emerge from my shelter when I became aware of footsteps approaching
from the opposite direction, and as I did not choose to be seen in the
act of climbing the railings I decided to remain perdu until this
person had passed. These footsteps, too, had a distinctly hurried
sound, a fact which I noted with some surprise; but I was a good deal
more surprised when the newcomer turned sharply into the entrance,
walked swiftly past my ambush, and then, as he approached the corner,
suddenly slowed down, advancing cautiously on tip-toe, and finally
halted to listen and stare into the obscurity of the lane.

I peered out at this new arrival with an amazement that I cannot
describe. Like the first man, he was a complete stranger to me: a
tallish, athletic-looking man of about thirty-five, not ill-looking,
and having something of a military air; fair-complexioned, with a
sandy moustache, but otherwise clean-shaved and dressed in a suit of
thick tweed, with no overcoat. I could see these details clearly by
the light of the lamp; and even as I was noting them, he disappeared
round the corner and I could hear him walking quickly but lightly down
the lane.

As soon as he was gone I looked out from my hiding-place and listened
attentively. There was no one in sight, nor could I hear any one
approaching. I accordingly came forth, and, quickly climbing over the
railings, stood for a few moments irresolute. The obviously reasonable
thing to do was to make off down Highgate Hill as fast as I could and
take the first conveyance that I could get homeward. But the
appearance of that second man had inflamed me with curiosity. What was
he here for? Was he shadowing me or was he in pursuit of the other
man? Either supposition was incredible, but one of them must be true.
The end of it was that curiosity got the better of discretion and I,
too, started down the lane, walking as fast as I could and treading as
lightly as circumstances permitted.

The second man was some considerable distance ahead, for his footsteps
came to me but faintly, and I did not seem to be gaining on him; and I
took it that his speed was a fair measure of that of the man in front.
Keeping thus within hearing of my quarry, I sped on, turning over the
amazing situation in my bewildered mind. The first man was a mystery
to me, though apparently not to Thorndyke. Who could he be, and why on
earth was he taking this prodigious amount of trouble to get rid of a
harmless person like myself? For there could be no mistake as to the
magnitude of the efforts that he was making. He must have waited
outside the studio; followed Marion and me to her home, and there kept
a patient vigil of over two hours, waiting for me to come out. It was
a stupendous labour. And what was it all about? I could not form the
most shadowy guess; while as to the other man, the very thought of him
reduced me to a state of hopeless bewilderment.

As my reflections petered out to this rather nebulous conclusion, I
halted for a moment to listen for the footsteps ahead. They were still
audible, though they sounded somewhat farther away. But now I caught
the sound of other footsteps, approaching from behind. Some one else
was coming down the lane. Of course, there was nothing surprising in
that circumstance, for, after all, this was a public thoroughfare,
little frequented as it was, especially after dark. Nevertheless,
something in the character of those footsteps put me on the qui vive.
For this man, too, was walking quickly—very quickly—and with a certain
stealthiness, as if he had rubber-soled boots, and, like the rest of
us, was making as little noise as possible.

I walked on at my previous rapid pace, keeping my ears cocked now both
fore and aft; and, as I went, my mind surged with wild speculations.
Could it be that I had yet another follower? The thing was becoming
grotesque. My bewilderment began to mingle with a spice of grim
amusement; but still I listened, not without anxiety, to those
footsteps from behind, which seemed to be growing rapidly more
distinct. Whoever this newcomer might be, he was no mean walker, for
he was overtaking me apace; and this fact gave a pretty broad hint as
to his size and strength.

I looked back from time to time, but without stopping or slackening my
pace, trying to pierce the deep obscurity of the narrow, closed-in
lane. But it was a dark winter’s night, and the high fences shut out
even the glimmer from the murky sky. It was not until the approaching
footfalls sounded quite near that I was able, at length, to make out a
smear of deeper darkness on the general obscurity. Then I drew out my
pistol and, withdrawing the safety catch, put my hand, grasping it,
into my overcoat pocket. Having thus made ready for possible
contingencies, I watched the black shape emerge from the darkness
until it developed into a tall, portly man, bearing down on me with
long, swinging strides, when I halted and drew back against the fence
to let him pass.

But he had no intention of passing. As he came up to me, he, too,
halted, and, looking into my face with undissembled curiosity, he
addressed me in a brusque though not uncivil tone.

“Now, sir, I must ask you to explain what is going on.”

“What do you mean?” I demanded.

“I’ll tell you,” he replied. “I saw you, a little time ago, climb over
the railings and hide behind a gate-post. Then I saw a man come up in
a deuce of a hurry and turn into the lane. I saw him stop and listen
for a moment and then bustle off down the hill. Close on this fellow’s
heels comes another man, also in a devil of a hurry. _He_ turns into
the lane, too, and suddenly he pulls up and creeps forward on tip-toe
like a cat on hot bricks. _He_ stops and listens, too; and then off he
goes down the lane like a lamplighter. Then out you come from behind
the gate-post, over the railings you climb, and then _you_ creep up to
the corner and listen, and then off _you_ go down the hill like
another lamplighter. Now, sir, what’s it all about?”

“I assume,” said I, repressing a strong tendency to giggle, “that you
have some authority for making these inquiries?”

“I have, sir,” he replied. “I am a police officer on plain-clothes
duty. I happened to be at the corner of Hornsey-lane when I saw you
coming down the High-street walking in a queer sort of way as if you
couldn’t see where you were going. So I drew back into the shadow and
had a look at you. Then I saw you nip into the lane and climb over the
railings, so I waited to see what was going to happen next. And then
those other two came along. Well, now, I ask you again, sir, what’s
going on? What is it all about?”

“The fact is,” I said a little sheepishly, “I thought the first man
was following me, so I hid just to see what he was up to.”

“What about the second man?”

“I don’t know anything about him.”

“What do you know about the first man?”

“Nothing, except that he certainly was following me.”

“Why should he be following you?”

“I can’t imagine. He is a stranger to me, and so is the other man.”

“Hm,” said the officer, regarding me with a distrustful eye. “Damn
funny affair. I think you had better walk up to the station with me
and give us a few particulars about yourself.”

“I will with pleasure,” said I. “But I am not altogether a stranger
there. Inspector Follett knows me quite well. My name is Gray—Dr.
Gray.”

The officer did not reply for a few moments. He seemed to be listening
to something. And now my ear caught the sound of footsteps approaching
hurriedly from down the lane. As they drew near, my friend peered into
the darkness and muttered in an undertone:

“Will that be one of ’em coming back?” He listened again for a moment
or two, and then, resuming his inquiries, said aloud: “You say
Inspector Follett knows you. Well, perhaps you had better come and see
Inspector Follett.”

As he finished speaking, he again listened intently, and his mouth
opened slightly. I suspect my own did, too. For the footsteps had
ceased. There was now a dead silence in the lane.

“That chap has stopped to listen,” my new friend remarked in a low
voice. “We had better see what his game is. Come along, sir;” and with
this he strode off at a pace that taxed my powers to keep up with him.

But at the very moment that he started, the footsteps became audible
again, only now they were obviously retreating; and straining my ears
I caught the faint sound of other and more distant footfalls, also
retreating, so far as I could judge, and in the same hurried fashion.

For a couple of minutes the officer swung along like a professional
pedestrian, and I struggled on just behind him, perspiring freely, and
wishing that I could shed my overcoat. Still, despite our efforts,
there was no sign of our gaining on the men ahead. My friend evidently
realized this, for he presently growled over his shoulder, “This won’t
do,” and forthwith broke into a run.

Instantly this acceleration communicated itself to the men in front.
The rhythm of both sets of footfalls showed that our fore-runners were
literally justifying that description of them; and as both had
necessarily given up any attempt to move silently, the sounds of their
retreat were borne to us quite distinctly. And from those sounds the
unsatisfactory conclusion emerged that they were drawing ahead pretty
rapidly. My friend, the officer, was, as I have said, an uncommonly
fine walker. But he was no runner. His figure was against him. He was
fully six feet in height and he had a “presence.” He could have walked
me off my legs; but when it came to running I found myself ambling
behind him with such ease that I was able to get out my pistol and,
after replacing the safety-catch, stow the weapon in my hip pocket,
out of harm’s way.

However, if my friend was no sprinter he was certainly a stayer, for
he lumbered on doggedly until the lane entered the new neighbourhood
of Dartmouth Park; and here it was that the next act opened. We had
just passed the end of the first of the streets when I saw a
surprisingly agile policeman dart out from a shady corner and follow
on in our wake in proper Lillie-bridge style. I immediately put on a
spurt and shot past my companion, and a few moments later sounds of
objurgation arose from behind. I stopped at once and turned back, just
in time to hear an apologetic voice exclaim:

“I’m sure I beg your pardon, Mr. Plonk. I didn’t reckernize you in the
dark.”

“No, of course you wouldn’t,” replied the plain-clothes officer. “Did
you see two men run past here just now?”

“I did,” answered the constable. “One after the other, and both
running as if the devil was after them. I was half-way up the street,
but I popped down to have a look at them, and when I got to the corner
I heard you coming. So I just kept out of sight and waited for you.”

“Quite right too,” said Mr. Plonk. “Well, I don’t see or hear anything
of those chaps now.”

“No,” agreed the constable, “and you are not likely to. There’s a
regular maze of new streets about here. You can take it that they’ve
got clear away.”

“Yes, I’m afraid they have,” said Plonk. “Well, it can’t be helped,
and there’s nothing much in it. Good night, constable.”

He moved off briskly, not wishing, apparently, to discuss the affair,
and in a few minutes we came to the wide cross-roads. Here he halted
and looked me over by the light of a street lamp. Apparently the
result was satisfactory, for he said: “It’s hardly worth while to take
you all the way back to the station at this time of night. Where do
you live?”

I told him Camden-square and offered a card in corroboration.

“Then you are pretty close home,” said he, inspecting my card. “Very
well, Doctor. I’ll speak to Inspector Follett about this affair, and
if you have any further trouble of this sort you had better let us
know. And you had better let us have a description of the men in any
case.”

I promised to send him the particulars on the following day, and we
then parted with mutual good wishes, he making his way towards
Holloway-road and I setting my face homeward by way of the
Brecknock-road and keeping an uncommonly sharp look-out as I went.



CHAPTER XV.

Thorndyke Proposes a New Move

On the following morning, in order to make sure of arriving before the
detective officer, I presented myself at King’s Bench-walk a good
half-hour before I was due. The door was opened by Thorndyke himself,
and as we shook hands he said: “I am glad you have come early, Gray.
No doubt Polton explained the programme to you, but I should like to
make our position quite clear. The officer who is coming here
presently is Detective-Superintendent Miller, of the Criminal
Investigation Department. He is quite an old friend, and he is coming
at my request to give me certain information. But, of course, he is a
detective officer, with his own duties to his department, and an
exceedingly shrewd, capable man. Naturally, if he can pick up any
crumbs of information from us, he will; and I don’t want him to learn
more, at present, than I choose to tell him.”

“Why do you want to keep him in the dark?” I asked.

“Because,” he replied, “we are doing quite well, and I want to get the
case complete before I call in the police. If I were to tell him all I
know and all I think, he might get too busy, and scare our man away
before we have enough evidence to justify an arrest. As soon as the
investigation is finished, and we have such evidence as will secure a
conviction, I shall turn the case over to him; meanwhile, we keep our
own counsel. Your rôle this morning will be that of listener. Whatever
happens, make no comment. Act as if you knew nothing that is not of
public knowledge.”

I promised to follow his directions to the letter, though I could not
get rid of the feeling that all this secrecy was somewhat futile. Then
I began to tell him of my experiences of the previous night, to which
he listened at first with grave interest, but with growing amusement
as the story developed. When I came to the final chase and the
pursuing policeman, he leaned back in his chair and laughed heartily.

“Why,” he exclaimed, wiping his eyes, “it was a regular procession! It
only wanted a string of sausages and a harlequin to bring it up to
pantomime form.”

“Yes,” I admitted with a grin, “it was a ludicrous affair. But it was
a mighty mysterious affair too. You see, neither of the men was the
man I had expected. There must be more people in this business than we
had supposed. Have you any idea who these men can be?”

“It isn’t much use making vague guesses,” he replied. “The important
point to note is that this incident, farcical as it turned out, might
easily have taken a tragical turn; and the moral is that for the
present you can’t be too careful in keeping out of harm’s way.”

It was obvious to me that he was evading my question; that those two
sinister strangers were not the mystery to him that they were to me,
and I was about to return to the charge with a more definitely pointed
question when an elaborate flourish on the little brass knocker of the
inner door announced a visitor.

The tall, military-looking man whom Thorndyke admitted was evidently
the Superintendent, as I gathered from the mutual greetings. He looked
rather hard at me until Thorndyke introduced me, which he did with
characteristic reticence.

“This is Dr. Gray, Miller; you may remember his name. It was he who
discovered the body of Mr. D’Arblay.”

“Yes, I remember,” said the Superintendent, shaking my hand
unemotionally and still looking at me with a slightly dubious air.

“He is a good deal interested in the case,” Thorndyke continued, “not
only professionally, but as a friend of the family—since the
catastrophe.”

“I see,” said the Superintendent, taking a final inquisitive look at
me and obviously wondering why the deuce I was there. “Well, there is
nothing of a very secret nature in what I have to tell you, and I
suppose you can rely on Dr. Gray to keep his own counsel and ours.”

“Certainly,” replied Thorndyke. “He quite understands that our talk is
confidential, even if it is not secret.”

The officer nodded, and, having been inducted into an easy chair, by
the side of which a decanter, a siphon, and a box of cigars had been
placed, settled himself comfortably, lit a cigar, mixed himself a
modest refresher, and drew from his pocket a bundle of papers secured
with red tape.

“You asked me, Doctor,” he began, “to get you all particulars up to
date of the Van Zellen case. Well, I can do that without difficulty as
the case—or at least what is left of it—is in my hands. The
circumstances of the actual crime I think you know already, so I will
take up the story from that point.

“Van Zellen, as you know, was found dead in his room, poisoned with
prussic acid, and a quantity of very valuable portable property was
missing. It was not clear whether the murderer had let himself in with
false keys or whether Van Zellen had let him in; but the place hadn’t
been broken into. The job had been done with remarkable skill, so that
not a trace of the murderer was left. Consequently, all that was left
for the police to do was to consider whether they knew of any one
whose methods agreed with those of this murderer.

“Well, they did know of such a person, but they had nothing against
him but suspicion. He had never been convicted of any serious crime,
though he had been in chokee once or twice for receiving. But there
had been a number of cases of robbery with murder—or rather murder
with robbery, for this man seemed to have committed the murder as a
preliminary precaution—and they were all of this kind; a solitary
crime, very skilfully carried out by means of poison. There was never
any trace of the criminal; but gradually the suspicions of the police
settled down on a rather mysterious individual of the name of
Bendelow; Simon Bendelow. Consequently, when the Van Zellen crime came
to light, they were inclined to put it on this man Bendelow, and they
began making fresh inquiries about him. But presently it transpired
that some one had seen a man, on the morning of the crime, coming away
from the neighbourhood of Van Zellen’s house just about the time when
the murder must have been committed.”

“Was there anything to connect him with the crime?” Thorndyke asked.

“Well, there was the time—the small hours of the morning—and the man
was carrying a good-sized hand-bag, which seemed to be pretty heavy
and which would have held the stuff that was missing. But the most
important point was the man’s appearance. He was described as a
smallish man, clean-shaved, with a big hooked nose and very heavy
eyebrows set close down over his eyes.

“Now this put Bendelow out of it as the principal suspect, because the
description didn’t fit him at all” (here I caught Thorndyke’s eye for
an instant and was warned afresh, and not unnecessarily, to make no
comment); “but,” continued the Superintendent, “it didn’t put him out
altogether. For the man whom the description did fit—and it fitted him
to a T—was a fellow named Crile—Jonathan Crile—who was a pal of
Bendelow’s and was known to have worked with him as a confederate in
the receiving business and had been in prison once or twice. So the
police started to make inquiries about Crile, and before long they
were able to run him to earth. But that didn’t do them much good; for
it turned out that Crile wasn’t in New York at all. He was in
Philadelphia; and it was clearly proved that he had been there on the
day of the murder, on the day before and the day after. So they seemed
to have drawn a blank; but they were still a bit suspicious of Mr.
Crile, who seems to have been as downy a bird as his friend Bendelow,
and of the other chappie, too. But they hadn’t a crumb of evidence
against either.

“So there the matter stuck. A complete deadlock. There was nothing to
be done; for you can’t arrest a man on mere suspicion with not a
single fact to support it. But the police kept their eye on both
gents, so far as they could, and presently they got a chance. Bendelow
made a slip—or, at any rate, they said he did. It was a little
trumpery affair, something in the receiving line, and of no importance
at all. Probably, a faked charge, too. But they thought that if they
could get him arrested they might be able to squeeze something out of
him—the police in America can do things that we aren’t allowed to. So
they tried to pounce on him. But Mr. Bendelow was a slippery customer,
and he got wind of their intentions just in time. When they got into
his rooms they found that he had left—in a deuce of a hurry, too, and
only a few minutes before they arrived. They searched the place, but
found nothing incriminating, and they tried to get on Bendelow’s
track, but they didn’t succeed. He had managed to get clear away, and
Crile seemed to have disappeared, too.

“Well, that seemed to be the end of the affair. Both of these crooks
had made off without leaving a trace, and the police—having no
evidence—didn’t worry any more about them. And so things went on for
about a year, until the Van Zellen case had been given up and nearly
forgotten. Then something happened quite recently that gave the police
a fresh start.

“It appears that there was a fire in the house in which Bendelow’s
rooms were, and a good deal of damage was done, so that they had to do
some rebuilding; and in the course of the repairs, the builder’s men
found, hidden under the floor-boards, a small parcel containing part
of the Van Zellen swag. There was nothing of real value; just coins
and medals and seal-rings and truck of that kind. But the things were
all identified by means of Van Zellen’s catalogue, and, of course, the
finding of them in what had been Bendelow’s rooms put the murder
pretty clearly on to him.

“On this, as you can guess, the police and the detective agencies got
busy. They searched high and low for the missing man, but for a long
time they could pick up no traces of him. At last they discovered that
he and Crile had taken a passage nearly a year ago on a tramp steamer
bound for England. Thereupon they sent a very smart, experienced
detective over to work at the case in conjunction with our own
detective department.

“But we didn’t have much to do with it. The American—Wilson was his
name—had all the particulars, with the prison photographs and
finger-prints of both the men, and he made most of the inquiries
himself. However, there were two things that we did for him. We handed
over to him the Van Zellen guinea and the particulars of the D’Arblay
murder; and we were able to inform him that his friend, Bendelow, was
dead.”

“How did you find that out?” Thorndyke asked.

“Oh, quite by chance. One of our men happened to be at Somerset House
looking up some details of a will when in the list of wills he came
across the name of Simon Bendelow, which he had heard from Wilson
himself. He at once got out the will, copied out the address of the
executrix and the names and addresses of the witnesses, and handed
them over to Wilson, who was mightily taken aback, as you may suppose.
However, he wasn’t taking anything for granted. He set off instantly
to look up the executrix—a Mrs. Morris. But there he got another
disappointment, for the Morrises had gone away and no one knew where
they had gone.”

“I take it,” said Thorndyke, “that probate of the will had been
granted.”

“Yes; everything in that way had been finished up. Well, on this,
Wilson went off in search of the witnesses, and he had better luck
this time. They were two elderly spinsters who lived together in a
house in Turnpike-lane, Hornsey. They didn’t know much about Bendelow,
for they had only made his acquaintance after he had taken to his bed.
They were introduced to him by his friend and landlady, Mrs. Morris,
who used to take them up to his room to talk to him and cheer him up a
bit. However, they knew all about his death, for they had seen him in
his coffin and they followed him to the Ilford Crematorium.”

“Ha!” said Thorndyke. “So he was cremated.”

“Yes,” chuckled the Superintendent, with a sly look at Thorndyke. “I
thought that would make you prick up your ears, Doctor. Yes, there
were no half measures for Mr. Bendelow. He had gone literally to
ashes. But it was all right, you know. There couldn’t have been any
hanky panky. These two ladies had not only seen him in his coffin;
they actually had a last look at him through a little celluloid window
in the coffin-lid, just before the coffin was passed through into the
cremation furnace.”

“And there was no doubt as to his identity?”

“None whatever. Wilson showed the old ladies his photograph, and they
recognized him instantly; picked his photograph out of a dozen
others.”

“Where was Bendelow living when they made his acquaintance?”

“Not far from their house; in Abbey-road, Hornsey. But the Morrises
moved afterwards to Market-street, Hoxton, and that is where he died
and where the will was signed.”

“I suppose Wilson ascertained the cause of death?”

“Oh, yes. The old ladies told him that. But he went to Somerset House
and got a copy of the death certificate. I haven’t got that, as he
took it back with him; but the cause of death was cancer of the
pylorus—that’s some part of the gizzard, I believe, but you’ll know
all about it. At any rate, there was no doubt on the subject, as the
two doctors made a post-mortem before they signed the death
certificate. It was all perfectly plain and straightforward.

“Well, so much for Mr. Bendelow. When Wilson had done with him, he
turned his attention to Crile. And then he really did get a proper
shake-up. When he was at Somerset House, looking up Bendelow’s death
certificate, it occurred to him just to run his eye down the list and
make sure that Crile was still in the land of the living. And there,
to his astonishment, he found Crile’s name. He was dead, too! And not
only was he dead: he, also, had died of cancer—it was the pancreas
this time; another part of the gizzard—and he had died at Hoxton, too,
and he had died just four days before Bendelow. The thing was
ridiculous. It looked like a conspiracy. But here again everything was
plain and above-board. Wilson got a copy of the certificate and called
on the doctor who had signed it, a man named Usher. Of course, Dr.
Usher remembered all about the case as it had occurred quite recently.
There was not a shadow of doubt that Crile was dead. Usher had helped
to put him in his coffin and had attended at his funeral; and he, too,
had no difficulty in picking out Crile’s photograph, and he had no
doubt at all as to what Crile died of. So there it was. Queer as it
looked, there was no denying the plain facts. Those two crooks had
slipped through the fingers of the law, so far as it was possible to
see.

“But I must admit that I was not quite satisfied; the circumstances
were so remarkably odd. I told Wilson so, and I advised him to look
further into the matter. I reminded him of the D’Arblay murder and the
finding of that guinea, but he said that the murder was our affair,
that the men he had come to look for were dead, and that was all that
concerned him. So back he went to New York, taking with him the death
certificates and the two photographs with the certificates of
recognition on the backs of them. But he left the notes of the case
with me, on the chance that they might be useful to me, and the two
sets of finger-prints, which certainly don’t seem likely to be of much
use under the circumstances.”

“You never know,” said Thorndyke, with an enigmatical smile.

The Superintendent gave him a quick, inquisitive look and agreed: “No,
you don’t, especially when you are dealing with Dr. John Thorndyke.”
He pulled out his watch, and, staring at it anxiously, exclaimed:
“What a confounded nuisance! I’ve got an appointment at the Law Courts
in five minutes. It is quite a small matter. Won’t take me more than
half an hour. May I come back when I have finished? I should like to
hear what you think of this extraordinary story.”

“Come back, by all means,” said Thorndyke, “and I will turn over the
facts in my mind while you are gone. Possibly some suggestion may
present itself in the interval.”

He let the officer out, and when the hurried footsteps had died away
on the stairs he closed the door and turned to me with a smile.

“Well, Gray,” he said, “what do you think of that? Isn’t it a very
pretty puzzle for a medical jurist?”

“It is a hopeless tangle to me,” I replied. “My brain is in a whirl.
You can’t dispute the facts, and yet you can’t believe them. I don’t
know what to make of the affair.”

“You note the fact that, whoever may be dead, there is somebody
alive—very much alive, and that that somebody is the murderer of
Julius D’Arblay.”

“Yes, I realize that. But obviously he can’t be either Crile or
Bendelow. The question is: Who is he?”

“You note the link between him and the Van Zellen murder; I mean the
electrotype guinea?”

“Yes, there is evidently some connexion, but I can’t imagine what it
can be. By the way, you noticed that the American police had got
muddled about the personal appearance of these two men. The
description of that man who was seen coming away from Van Zellen’s
house, and who was said to be quite unlike Bendelow, actually fitted
him perfectly. They had evidently made a mistake of some kind.”

“Yes, I noticed that. But the description may have fitted Crile
better. We must get into touch with this man, Usher. I wonder if he
will be the Usher who used to attend at St. Margaret’s.”

“He is; and I am in touch with him already. In fact, he was telling me
about this very patient, Jonathan Crile.”

“Indeed! Can you remember the substance of what he told you?”

“I think so. It wasn’t very thrilling.” And here I gave him, as well
as I could remember them, the details with which Usher had entertained
me of his attendance on the late Jonathan Crile, his dealings with the
landlady, Mrs. Pepper, and the incidents of the funeral, including
Usher’s triumphant return in the mourning coach. It seemed a dull and
trivial story, but Thorndyke listened to it with the keenest interest,
and when I had finished he asked: “He didn’t happen to mention where
Crile lived, I suppose?”

“Yes, curiously enough, he did. The address, I remember, was 52,
Field-street, Hoxton.”

“Ha!” said Thorndyke. “You are a mine of information, Gray.”

He rose and, taking down from the bookshelves Phillip’s Atlas of
London, opened it and pored over one of the maps. Then, replacing the
Atlas, he got out his notes of the D’Arblay case and searched for a
particular entry. It was evidently quite a short one, for when he had
found it he gave it but a single glance and closed the portfolio.
Then, returning to the bookshelves, he took out the Post Office
Directory and opened it at the “streets” section. Here also his search
was but a short one though it appeared to be concerned with two
separate items; for, having examined one, he turned to a different
part of the section to find the other. Finally he closed the unwieldy
volume and, having replaced it on the shelf, turned and once more
looked at me inquiringly.

“Reflecting on what Miller has told us,” he said, “does anything
suggest itself to you? Any sort of hypothesis as to what the real
facts may be?”

“Nothing whatever,” I replied. “The confusion that was already in my
mind is only the worse confounded. But that is not your case, I take
it.”

“Not entirely,” he admitted. “The fact is that I had already formed a
hypothesis as to the motives and circumstances which lay behind the
murder of Julius D’Arblay, and I find this new matter not inconsistent
with it. But that hypothesis may, nevertheless, turn out to be quite
wrong when we put it to the test of further investigation.”

“You have some further investigation in view, then.”

“Yes. I am going to make a proposal to Superintendent Miller—and here
he comes, before his time; by which I judge that he, also, is keen on
the solution of this puzzle.”

Thorndyke’s opinion seemed to be justified, for the Superintendent
entered all agog, and opened the subject at once.

“Well, Doctor, I suppose you have been thinking over Wilson’s story?
How does it strike you? Have you come to any conclusion?”

“Yes,” replied Thorndyke. “I have come to the conclusion that I can’t
accept that story at its face value as representing the actual facts.”

Miller laughed with an air of mingled amusement and vexation. “That is
just my position,” said he. “The story seems incredible, but yet you
can’t raise any objection. The evidence in support of it is absolutely
conclusive at every point. There isn’t a single weak spot in it—at
least, I haven’t found one. Perhaps you have?” And here he looked at
Thorndyke with eager inquiry in his eyes.

“I won’t say that,” Thorndyke replied. “But I put it to you, Miller,
that the alleged facts that are offered are too abnormal to be
entertained. We cannot accept that string of coincidences. It must be
obvious to you that there is a fallacy somewhere and that the actual
facts are not what they seem.”

“Yes, I feel that, myself,” rejoined Miller. “But what are we to do?
How are we to find the flaw in the evidence, if there is one? Can you
see where to look for it? I believe you can.”

“I think there is one point which ought to be verified,” said
Thorndyke. “The identification of Crile doesn’t strike me as perfectly
convincing.”

“How does his case differ from Bendelow’s?” Miller demanded.

“In two respects,” was the reply. “First, Bendelow was identified by
two persons who had known him well for some time and who gave a most
circumstantial account of his illness, his death, and the disposal of
his body; and second, Bendelow’s remains have been cremated and are
therefore, presumably, beyond our reach for purposes of
identification.”

“Well,” Miller objected, “Crile isn’t so very accessible, being some
few feet under ground.”

“Still, he is there; and he has been buried only a few weeks. It would
be possible to exhume the body and settle the question of his identity
once for all.”

“Then you are not satisfied with Dr. Usher’s identification?”

“No. Usher saw him only after a long, wasting illness, which must have
altered his appearance very greatly; whereas the photograph was taken
when Crile was in his normal health. It couldn’t have been so very
like Usher’s patient.”

“That’s true,” said Miller; “and I remember that Usher wasn’t so very
positive, according to Wilson. But he agreed that it seemed to be the
same man; and all the other facts seemed to point to the certainty
that it was really Crile. Still, you are not satisfied? It’s a pity
Wilson took the photograph back with him.”

“The photograph is of no consequence,” said Thorndyke. “You have the
finger-prints; properly authenticated finger-prints, actually taken
from the man in the presence of witnesses. After this short time it
will be possible to get perfectly recognizable finger-prints from the
body, and those finger-prints will settle the identity of Usher’s
patient beyond any possible doubt.”

The Superintendent scratched his chin thoughtfully. “It’s a bit of a
job to get an exhumation order,” said he. “Before I raise the question
with the Commissioner, I should like to have a rather more definite
opinion from you. Do you seriously doubt that the man in that coffin
is Jonathan Crile?”

“It is my opinion,” replied Thorndyke—“of course, I may be wrong—but
it is my considered opinion that the Crile who is in that coffin is
not the Crile whose finger-prints are in your possession.”

“Very well, Doctor,” said Miller, rising and picking up his hat, “that
is good enough for me. I won’t ask you for your reasons because I know
you won’t give them. But I have known you long enough to feel sure
that you wouldn’t give a definite opinion like that unless you had got
something pretty solid to go on. And I don’t think we shall have any
difficulty about the exhumation order after what you have said.”

With this the Superintendent took his leave, and very shortly
afterwards Thorndyke carried me off to lunch at his club before
dismissing me to take up my duties at the studio.



CHAPTER XVI.

A Surprise for the Superintendent

It appeared that Thorndyke was correct in his estimate of the
Superintendent’s state of mind, for that officer managed to dispose in
a very short space of time of the formalities necessary for the
obtaining of an exhumation license from the Home Office. It was less
than a week after the interview that I have recorded when I received a
note from Thorndyke asking me to join him and Miller at King’s
Bench-walk on the following morning at the unholy hour of half-past
six. He offered to put me up for the night at his chambers, but I
declined this hospitality, not wishing to trouble him unnecessarily;
and after a perfunctory breakfast by gaslight, a ride on an early
tram, and a walk through the dim, lamp-lit streets, I entered the
Temple just as the subdued notes of an invisible clock bell announced
a quarter past six. On my arrival at Thorndyke’s chambers I observed a
roomy hired carriage drawn up at the entry, and, ascending the stairs,
found “the Doctor” and Miller ready to start, each provided with a
good-sized hand-bag.

“This is a queer sort of function,” I remarked as we took our way down
the stairs; “a sort of funeral the wrong way about.”

“Yes,” Thorndyke agreed; “it is what Lewis Carroll would have called
an unfuneral—and very appropriately, too. I didn’t give you any
particulars in my note, but you understand the object of this
expedition?”

“I assume that we are going to resurrect the late Jonathan Crile,” I
replied. “It isn’t very clear to me what I have to do with the
business, as I never knew Mr. Crile, though I am delighted to have
this rather uncommon experience. But I should have thought that Usher
would be the proper person to accompany you.”

“So the Superintendent thought,” said Thorndyke, “and quite rightly;
so I have arranged to pick up Usher and take him with us. He will be
able to identify the body as that of his late patient, and you and I
will help the Superintendent to take the finger-prints.”

“I am taking your word for it, Doctor,” said Miller, “that the
finger-prints will be recognizable, and that they will be the wrong
ones.”

“I don’t guarantee that,” Thorndyke replied, “but still, I shall be
surprised if you get the right ones.”

Miller nodded with an air of satisfaction, and nothing more was said
on the subject until we drew up before Dr. Usher’s surgery. That
discreet practitioner was already waiting at the open door, and at
once took his place in the carriage, watched curiously by observers
from adjacent windows.

“This is a rum go,” he remarked, diffusing a vinous aroma into the
atmosphere of the carriage. “I really did think I had paid my last
visit to Mr. Crile. But there’s no such thing as certainty in this
world.” He chuckled softly and continued: “A bit different this
journey from the last. No hatbands this time, and no Sunday-school
children. Lord! When I think of those kids piping round the open
grave, and that our dear departed brother was wanted by the police so
badly that they were actually going to dig him up, it makes me smile,
it does, indeed.”

In effect, it made him cackle; and as Miller had not heard the account
of the funeral, it was repeated for his benefit in great detail. Then
the anecdotal ball was set rolling in a fresh direction by one or two
questions from Thorndyke, with the result that the entire history of
Usher’s attendance on the deceased, including the misdeeds of Mrs.
Pepper, was retailed with such a wealth of circumstance that the
narration lasted until we stopped at the cemetery gate.

Our arrival was not unexpected, for as we got out of the carriage, two
gentlemen approached the entrance, and one of them unlocked a gate to
admit us. He appeared to be the official in charge of the cemetery,
while the other, to whom he introduced us, was no less a person than
Dr. Garroll, the Medical Officer of Health.

“The Home Office license,” the latter explained, “directs that the
removal shall be carried out under my supervision and to my
satisfaction; very necessary in a populous neighbourhood like this.”

“Very necessary,” Thorndyke agreed gravely.

“I have provided a supply of fresh ground lime, according to the
directions,” Dr. Garroll continued; “and as a further precaution, I
have brought with me a large formalin spray. That, I think, should
satisfy all sanitary requirements.”

“It should certainly be sufficient,” Thorndyke agreed, “to meet the
requirements of the present case. Has the excavation been commenced
yet?”

“Oh, yes,” replied the cemetery official. “It was started quite early,
and has been carried down nearly to the full depth; but I thought that
the coffin had better not be uncovered until you arrived. I have had a
canvas screen put up round the grave so that the proceedings may be
quite private. We can send the labourers outside before we unscrew the
coffin-lid. You said, Superintendent, that you were anxious to avoid
any kind of publicity; and I have warned the men to say nothing to any
one about the affair.”

“Quite right,” said Miller. “We don’t want this to get into the
papers, in case—well, in any case.”

“Exactly, sir,” agreed the official, who was evidently bursting with
curiosity himself. “Exactly. Here is the screen. If you will step
inside, the excavation can be proceeded with.”

We passed inside the screen, where we found four men reposefully
contemplating a coil of stout rope, a basket, attached to another
rope, and a couple of spades. The grave yawned in the middle of the
enclosure, flanked on one side by the mound of newly dug earth and on
the other by a tub of lime and a Winchester quart bottle fitted with a
spray nozzle and a large rubber bellows.

“You can get on with the digging now,” said the official; whereupon
one of the men was let down into the grave, together with a spade and
the basket, and fell to work briskly. Then Dr. Garroll directed one of
the other men to sprinkle in a little lime; which he did, with a
pleased smile and so little discretion that the man below was seen to
stop digging, and after looking up indignantly, take off his cap,
shake it violently and ostentatiously dust his shoulders with it.

When about a dozen basketfuls of earth had been hoisted up, a hollow,
woody sound accompanying the thrusts of the spade announced that the
coffin had been reached. Thereupon more lime was sprinkled in, and Dr.
Garroll, picking up the formalin bottle, sprayed vigorously into the
cavity until a plaintive voice from below—accompanied by an
unnaturally loud sneeze—was heard to declare that “he’d ’ave brought
his umbrella if he’d knowed he was goin’ to be squirted at.” A few
minutes’ more work exposed the coffin and enabled us to read the
confirmatory inscription on the plate. Then the rope slings were let
down and with some difficulty worked into position by the excavator
below; who, when he had completed his task, climbed to the surface and
grasped one end of a sling in readiness to haul on it.

“It’s a good deal easier letting ’em down than hoisting ‘em up,” Usher
remarked, as the final shower of lime descended and the men began to
haul; “but poor old Crile oughtn’t to take much lifting. There was
nothing of him but skin and bone.”

However this might be, it took the united efforts of the four men to
draw the coffin up to the surface and slew it round clear of the
yawning grave. But at last this was accomplished, and it was lifted,
for convenience of inspection, on to one of the mounds of newly dug
earth.

“Now,” said the presiding official, “you men had better go outside and
wait down at the end of the path until you are wanted again:” an order
that was received with evident disfavour and complied with rather
sulkily. As soon as they were gone, our friend produced a couple of
screw-drivers, with which he and Miller proceeded in a very
workmanlike manner to extract the screws, while Dr. Garroll enveloped
them in a cloud of spray, and Thorndyke, Usher, and I stood apart to
keep out of range. It was not a long process; indeed, it came to an
end sooner than I had expected, for the first intimation that I
received of its completion was a loud exclamation (consisting of the
single word “Snakes!”) in the voice of Superintendent Miller. I turned
quickly and saw that officer standing with the raised coffin-lid in
his hand, staring into the interior with a look of perfectly
indescribable amazement. Instantly I rushed forward and looked into
the coffin; and then I was no less amazed. For in place of the mortal
remains of the late Jonathan Crile, was a portly sack oozing sawdust
from a hole in its side, through which coyly peeped a length of thick
lead pipe.

For a sensible time we all stood in breathless silence gazing down at
that incredible sack. Suddenly Miller looked up eagerly at Thorndyke,
whose sphinx-like countenance showed the faintest shadow of a smile.

“You knew this coffin was empty, Doctor?” said he.

Thorndyke shook his head. “If I had known,” he replied, “I should have
told you.”

“Well, you suspected that it was empty.”

“Yes,” Thorndyke admitted, “I don’t deny that.”

“I wonder why you did, and why it never occurred to me.”

“It did not occur to you, perhaps, because you were not in possession
of certain suggestive facts which are known to me. Still, if you
consider that the circumstances surrounding the alleged deaths of
these two men were so incredible as to make us both feel certain that
there was some fallacy or deception in regard to the apparent facts,
you will see that this was a very obvious possibility. Two men were
alleged to have died, and one of them was certainly cremated. It
followed that either the other man had died, as alleged, or that his
funeral was a mock funeral. There was no other alternative. You must
admit that, Miller.”

“I do, I do,” the Superintendent replied ruefully. “It is always like
this. Your explanations are so obvious when you have given them, and
yet no one thinks of them but yourself. All the same, this isn’t so
very obvious, even now. There are some extraordinary discrepancies
that have yet to be explained. But we can discuss them on the way
back. The question now is, what is to be done with this coffin?”

“The first thing to be done,” replied Thorndyke, “is to screw on the
lid. Then we can leave the cemetery authorities to deal with it. But
those men must be sworn to absolute secrecy. That is vitally
important, for if this exhumation should get reported in the Press, we
should probably lose the whole advantage of this discovery.”

“Yes, by Jove!” the Superintendent agreed, emphatically. “It would be
a disaster. At present, the late Mr. Crile is at large, perfectly
happy and secure and entirely off his guard. We can just follow him up
at our leisure and take him unawares. But if he got wind of this, he
would be out of reach in a twinkling—that is, if he is alive, which I
suppose——” and here the Superintendent suddenly paused, with knitted
brows.

“Exactly,” said Thorndyke. “The advantage of surprise is with us, and
we must keep it at all costs. You realize the position,” he added,
addressing the cemetery official and the Medical Officer.

“Perfectly,” the latter replied, a little glumly, I thought, “and you
may rely on us both to do everything that we can to keep the affair
secret.”

With this we all emerged from the screen and walked back slowly
towards the gate; and as we went, I strove vainly to get my ideas into
some kind of order. But the more I considered the astonishing event
which had just happened the more incomprehensible did it appear. And
yet I saw plainly that it could not really be incomprehensible since
Thorndyke had actually arrived at its probability in advance. The
glaring discrepancies and inconsistencies which chased one another
through my mind could not be real. They must be susceptible of
reconciliation with the observed facts. But by no effort was I able to
reconcile them.

Nor, evidently, was I alone the subject of these difficulties and
bewilderments. The Superintendent walked with corrugated brows and an
air of profound cogitation, and even Usher—when he could detach his
thoughts from the juvenile choir at the funeral—was obviously puzzled.
In fact, it was he who opened the discussion as the carriage moved
off.

“This job,” he observed with conviction, “is what the sporting men
would call a fair knock-out. I can’t make head nor tail of it. You
talk of the late Mr. Crile being at large and perfectly happy. But the
late Mr. Crile died of cancer of the pancreas. I attended him in his
illness. There was no doubt about the cancer, though I wouldn’t swear
to the pancreas. But he died of cancer all right. I saw him dead; and,
what is more, I helped to put him into that coffin. What do you say to
that, Dr. Thorndyke?”

“What is there to say?” was the elusive reply. “You are a competent
observer, and your facts are beyond dispute. But inasmuch as Mr. Crile
was not in that coffin when we opened it, the unavoidable inference is
that after you had put him in, somebody else must have taken him out.”

“Yes, that is clear enough,” rejoined Usher. “But what has become of
him? The man was dead; that I am ready to swear to. But where is he?”

“Yes,” said Miller. “That is what is bothering me. There has evidently
been some hanky-panky. But I can’t follow it. It isn’t as though we
were dealing with a supposititious body. There was a real dead man.
That isn’t disputed—at least, I take it that it isn’t.”

“It certainly is not disputed by me,” said Thorndyke.

“Then what the deuce became of him? And why, in the name of blazes,
was he taken out of the coffin? That’s what I want to know. Can you
tell me, Doctor? But there! What is the good of asking you? Of course
you know all about it! You always do. But it is the same old story.
You have got the ace of trumps up your sleeve, but you won’t bring it
out until it is time to take the trick. Now isn’t that the position,
Doctor?”

Thorndyke’s impassive face softened with a faint, inscrutable smile.

“We hold a promising hand, Miller,” he replied quietly; “but if the
ace is there, it is you who will have the satisfaction of playing it.
And I hope to see you put it down quite soon.”

Miller grunted. “Very well,” said he. “I can see that I am not going
to get any more out of you than that; so I must wait for you to
develop your plans. Meanwhile I am going to ask Dr. Usher for a signed
statement.”

“Yes, that is very necessary,” said Thorndyke. “You two had better go
on together and set down Gray and me in the Kingsland-road, where he
and I have some other business to transact.”

I glanced at him quickly as he made this astonishing statement—for we
had no business there, or anywhere else that I knew of. But I said
nothing. My recent training had not been in vain.

A few minutes later, near to Dalston Junction, he stopped the
carriage, and, having made our adieux, we got out. Then Thorndyke
strode off down the Kingsland-road but presently struck off westward
through a bewildering maze of seedy suburban streets and shabby
squares in which I was as completely lost as if I had been dropped
into the midst of the Sahara.

“What is the nature of the business that we are going to transact?” I
ventured to ask as we turned yet another corner.

“In the first place,” he replied, “I wanted to hear what conclusions
you had reached in view of this discovery at the cemetery.”

“Well, that won’t take long,” I said, with a grin. “They can be summed
up in half a dozen words: I have come to the conclusion that I am a
fool.”

He laughed good-humouredly. “There is no harm in thinking that,” he
said, “provided you are not right—which you are not. But did that
empty coffin suggest no new ideas to you?”

“On the contrary,” I replied, “it scattered the few ideas that I had.
I am in the same condition as Superintendent Miller: an inextricable
muddle.”

“But,” he objected, “you are not in the same position as the
Superintendent. If he knew all that you and I know, he wouldn’t be in
a muddle at all. What is your difficulty?”

“Primarily the discrepancies about this man Crile. There seems to be
no possible doubt that he died. But apparently he was never buried;
and you and Miller seem to believe that he is still alive. Further, I
don’t see what business Crile is of ours at all.”

“You will see that presently,” said he, “and meanwhile you must not
confuse Miller’s beliefs with mine. However,” he added, as we crossed
a bridge over a canal—presumably the Regent’s Canal—“we will adjourn
the discussion for the moment. Do you know what street that is ahead
of us?”

“No,” I answered; “I have never been here before, so far as I know.”

“That is Field-street,” said he.

“The street that the late Mr. Crile lived in?”

“Yes,” he answered; and as we passed on into the street from the foot
of the bridge, he added, pointing to a house on our left hand: “And
that is the residence of the late Mr. Crile—empty, and to let, as you
observe.”

As we walked past I looked curiously at the house, with its shabby
front and its blank, sightless windows, its desolate condition
emphasized by the bills which announced it; but I made no remark until
we came to the bottom of the street, when I recognized the cross road
as the one along which I used to pass on my way to the Morrises’
house. I mentioned the fact to Thorndyke, and he replied: “Yes. That
is where we are going now. We are going to take a look over the
premises. That house also is empty, and I have got a permit from the
agent to view it and have been entrusted with the keys.”

In a few minutes we turned into the familiar little thoroughfare, and
as we took our way past its multitudinous stalls and barrows I
speculated on the object of this exploration. But it was futile to ask
questions, seeing that I had but to wait a matter of minutes for the
answer to declare itself. Soon we reached the house and halted for a
moment to look through the glazed door into the empty shop. Then
Thorndyke inserted the key into the side door and pushed it open.

There is always something a little melancholy in the sight of an empty
house which one has known in its occupied state. Nothing, indeed,
could be more cheerless than the Morris household; yet it was with a
certain feeling of depression that I looked down the long passage
(where Cropper had bumped his head in the dark) and heard the clang of
the closing door. This was a dead house—a mere empty shell. The feeble
life that I had known in it was no more. So I reflected as I walked
slowly down the passage at Thorndyke’s side, recalling the ungracious
personalities of Mrs. Morris and her husband and the pathetic figure
of poor Mr. Bendelow.

When from the passage we came out into the hall, the sense of
desolation was intensified, for here not only the bare floor and
vacant walls proclaimed the untenanted state of the house. The big
curtain that had closed in the end of the hall, and to a great extent
furnished it, was gone, leaving the place very naked and chill.
Incidentally, its disappearance revealed a feature of whose existence
I had been unaware.

“Why,” I exclaimed, “they had a second street door. I never saw that.
It was hidden by a curtain. But it can’t open into Market-street.”

“It doesn’t,” replied Thorndyke. “It opens on Field-street.”

“On Field-street!” I repeated in surprise. “I wonder why they didn’t
let me in that way. It is really the front of the house.”

“I think,” answered Thorndyke, “that if you open the door and look
out, you will understand why you were admitted at the back.”

I unbolted the door, and, opening it, stepped out on the wide
threshold and looked up and down the street. Thorndyke was right. The
thoroughfare was undoubtedly Field-street, down which we had passed
only a few minutes ago, and close by, on the right hand, was the canal
bridge. Strongly impressed with the oddity of the affair, I turned to
re-enter, and as I turned I glanced up at the number on the door. As
my eye lighted on it I uttered a cry of astonishment. For the number
was fifty-two!

“But this is amazing!” I exclaimed, re-entering the hall—where
Thorndyke stood watching me with quiet amusement—and shutting the
door. “It seems that Usher and I were actually visiting at the same
house.”

“Evidently,” said he.

“But it almost looks as if we were visiting the same patient!”

“There can be practically no doubt that you were,” he agreed. “It was
on that assumption that I induced Miller to apply for the exhumation
order, and the empty coffin seems to confirm it completely.”

I was thunderstruck, not only by the incredible thing that had
happened, but by Thorndyke’s uncanny knowledge of all the
circumstances.

“Then,” I said, after a pause, “if Usher and I were attending the same
man, we were both attending Bendelow.”

“That is certainly what the appearances suggest,” he agreed.

“It was undoubtedly Bendelow who was cremated,” said I.

“All the circumstances seem to point to that conclusion,” he admitted,
“unless you can think of any that point in the opposite direction.”

“I cannot,” I replied. “Everything points in the same direction. The
dead man was seen and identified as Bendelow by those two ladies, Miss
Dewsnep and Miss Bonington, and they not only saw him here, but they
actually saw him in his coffin just before it was passed through into
the crematorium. And there is no doubt that they knew Bendelow by
sight, for you remember that they recognized the photograph of him
that the American detective showed them.”

“Yes,” he admitted, “that is so. But their identification is a point
that requires further investigation. And it is a vitally important
point. I have my own hypothesis as to what took place, but that
hypothesis will have to be tested; and that test will be what the
logicians would call the Experimentum Crucis. It will settle one way
or the other whether my theory of this case is correct. If my
hypothesis as to their identification is true, there will be nothing
left to investigate. The case will be complete and ready to turn over
to Miller.”

I listened to this statement in complete bewilderment. Thorndyke’s
reference to “the case” conveyed nothing definite to me. It was all so
involved that I had almost lost count of the subject of our
investigation.

“When you speak of ‘the case,’” said I, “what case are you referring
to?”

“My dear Gray!” he protested. “Do you not realize that we are trying
to discover who murdered Julius D’Arblay?”

“I thought you were,” I answered; “but I can’t connect this new
mystery with his death in any way.”

“Never mind,” said he. “When the case is completed we will have a
general elucidation. Meanwhile there is something else that I have to
show you before we go. It is through this side door.”

He led me out into a large neglected garden and along a wide path that
was all overgrown with weeds. As we went, I tried to collect and
arrange my confused ideas, and suddenly a new discrepancy occurred to
me. I proceeded to propound it.

“By the way, you are not forgetting that the two alleged deaths were
some days apart? I saw Bendelow dead on a Monday. He had died on the
preceding afternoon. But Crile’s funeral had already taken place a day
or two previously.”

“I see no difficulty in that,” Thorndyke replied. “Crile’s funeral
occurred, as I have ascertained, on a Saturday. You saw Bendelow alive
for the last time on Thursday morning. Usher was sent for, and saw
Crile dead on Thursday evening, he having evidently died—with or
without assistance—soon after you left. Of course, the date of death
given to you was false; and you mention in your notes of the case that
both you and Cropper were surprised at the condition of the body. The
previous funeral offers no difficulty, seeing that we know that the
coffin was empty. This is what I thought you might be interested to
see.”

He pointed to a flight of stone steps, at the bottom of which was a
wooden gate set in the wall that enclosed the garden. I looked at the
steps—a little vacantly, I am afraid—and inquired what there was about
them that I was expected to find of interest.

“Perhaps,” he replied, “you will see better if we open the gate.”

We descended the steps, and he inserted a key into the gate, drawing
my attention to the fact that the lock had been oiled at no very
distant date and was in quite good condition. Then he threw the gate
open, and we both stepped out on to the tow-path of the canal. I
looked about me in considerable surprise, for we were within a few
yards of the hut with the derrick and the little wharf from which I
had been flung into the canal.

“I remember this gate,” said I; “in fact, I think I mentioned it to
you in my account of my adventure here. But I little imagined that it
belonged to the Morris’ house. It would have been a short way in, if I
had known. But I expect it was locked at the time.”

“I expect it was,” Thorndyke agreed, and thereupon turned and
re-entered. We passed once more down the long passage, and came out
into Market-street, when Thorndyke locked the door and pocketed the
key.

“That is an extraordinary arrangement,” I remarked; “one house having
two frontages on separate streets.”

“It is not a very uncommon one,” Thorndyke replied. “You see how it
comes about. A house fronting on one street has a long back garden
extending to another street which is not yet fully built on. As the
new street fills up, a shop is built at the end of the garden. A small
house may be built in connexion with it and cut off from the garden,
or the shop may be connected with the original house, as in this
instance. But in either case the shop belongs to the new street and
has its own number. What are you going to do now?”

“I am going straight on to the studio,” I replied.

“You had better come and have an early lunch with me first,” said he.
“There is no occasion to hurry. Polton is there and you won’t easily
get rid of him, for I understand that Miss D’Arblay is doing the
finishing work on a wax bust.”

“I ought to see that, too,” said I.

He looked at me with a mischievous smile. “I expect you will have
plenty of opportunities in the future,” said he, “whereas Polton must
make hay while the sun shines. And, by the way, he may have something
to tell you. I have instructed him to make arrangements with those two
ladies, Miss Dewsnep and her friend, to go into the question of their
identification of Bendelow. I want you to be present at the interview,
but I have left him to fix the date. Possibly he has made the
arrangement by now. You had better ask him.”

At this moment, an eligible omnibus making its appearance, we both
climbed on board and were duly conveyed to King’s Cross, where we
alighted and lunched at a modest restaurant, thereafter separating to
go our respective ways north and south.



CHAPTER XVII.

A Chapter of Surprises

In answer to my knock the studio door was opened by Polton; and as I
met his eyes for a moment I was conscious of something unusual in his
appearance. I had scanty opportunity to examine him, for he seemed to
be in a hurry, bustling away after a few hasty words of apology and
returning whence he had come. Following close on his heels, I saw what
was the occasion of his hurry. He was engaged with a brush and a pot
of melted wax in painting a layer of the latter on the insides of the
moulds of a pair of arms, while Marion, seated on a high stool, was
working at a wax bust, which was placed on a revolving
modelling-stand, obliterating the seams and other irregularities with
a steel tool which she heated from time to time at a small spirit
lamp.

When I had made my salutations, I offered my help to Polton, which he
declined—without looking up from his work—saying that he wanted to
carry the job through by himself. I sympathized with this natural
desire, but it left me without occupation; for the work which Marion
was doing was essentially a one-person job, and in any case was far
beyond the capabilities of either of the apprentices. For a minute or
two I stood idly looking on at Polton’s proceedings, but, noticing
that my presence seemed to worry him, I presently moved away—again
with a vague impression that there was something unusual in his
appearance—and, drawing up another high stool beside Marion’s, settled
myself to take a lesson in the delicate and difficult technique of
surface finishing.

We were all very silent. My two companions were engrossed by their
respective occupations, and I must needs refrain from distracting them
by untimely conversation; so I sat, well content to watch the magical
tool stealing caressingly over the wax surface, causing the
disfiguring seams to vanish miraculously into an unbroken contour. But
my own attention was somewhat divided; for even as I watched the
growing perfection of the bust there would float into my mind now and
again an idle speculation as to the change in Polton’s appearance.
What could it be? It was something that seemed to have altered, to
some extent, his facial expression. It couldn’t be that he had shaved
off his moustache or whiskers, for he had none to shave. Could he have
parted his hair in a new way? It seemed hardly sufficient to account
for the change; and looking round at him cautiously I could detect
nothing unfamiliar about his hair.

At this point he picked up his wax-pot and carried it away to the
farther end of the studio to exchange it for another which was heating
in a water-bath. I took the opportunity to lean towards Marion and ask
in a whisper:

“Have you noticed anything unusual about Polton?”

She nodded emphatically, and cast a furtive glance over her shoulder
in his direction.

“What is it?” I asked in the same low tone.

She took another precautionary glance, and then leaning towards me
with an expression of exaggerated mystery, whispered:

“He has cut his eyelashes off.”

I gazed at her in amazement, and was about to put a further question,
but she held up a warning forefinger and turned again to her work.
However, my curiosity was now at boiling-point. As soon as Polton
returned to his bench, I slipped off my stool and sauntered over to it
on the pretence of seeing how his wax cast was progressing.

Marion’s report was perfectly correct. His eyelids were as bare of
lashes as those of a marble bust. And this was not all. Now that I
came to look at him critically, his eyebrows had a distinctly
moth-eaten appearance. He had been doing something to them, too.

It was an amazing affair. For one moment I was on the point of
demanding an explanation, but good sense and good manners conquered
the inquisitive impulse in time. Returning to my stool I cast an
enquiring glance at Marion, from whom, however, I got no enlightenment
but such as I could gather from a most alluring dimple that hovered
about the corner of her mouth and that speedily diverted my thoughts
into other channels.

My two companions continued for some time to work silently, leaving me
to my meditations—which concerned themselves alternately with Polton’s
eyelashes and the dimple aforesaid. Suddenly Marion turned to me and
asked:

“Has Mr. Polton told you that we are all to have a holiday to-morrow?”

“No,” I answered; “but Dr. Thorndyke mentioned that Mr. Polton might
have something to tell us. Why are we all to have a holiday?”

“Why, you see, sir,” said Polton, standing up and forgetting all about
his eyelashes, “the Doctor instructed me to make an appointment with
those two ladies, Miss Dewsnep and Miss Bonington, to come to our
chambers on a matter of identification. I have made the appointment
for ten o’clock to-morrow morning; and as the Doctor wants you to be
present at the interview and wants me to be in attendance, and we
can’t leave Miss D’Arblay here alone, we have arranged to shut up the
studio for to-morrow.”

“Yes,” said Marion; “and Arabella and I are going to spend the morning
looking at the shops in Regent-street, and then we are coming to lunch
with you and Dr. Thorndyke. It will be quite a red-letter day.”

“I don’t quite see what these ladies are coming to the chambers for,”
said I.

“You will see, all in good time, sir,” replied Polton; and, as if to
head me off from any further questions, he added: “I forgot to ask how
your little party went off this morning.”

“It went off with a bang,” I answered. “We got the coffin up all
right, but Mr. Fox wasn’t at home. The coffin was empty.”

“I rather think that was what the Doctor expected,” said Polton.

Marion looked at me with eager curiosity. “This sounds rather
thrilling,” she said. “May one ask who it was that you expected to
find in that coffin?”

“My impression is,” I replied, “that the missing tenant was a person
who bore a strong resemblance to that photograph that I showed you.”

“Oh, dear!” she exclaimed. “What a pity! I wish that coffin hadn’t
been empty. But, of course, it could hardly have been occupied, under
the circumstances. I suppose I mustn’t ask for fuller details?”

“I don’t imagine that there is any secrecy about the affair, so far as
you are concerned,” I answered; “but I would rather that you had the
details from Dr. Thorndyke, or, at least, with his express authority.
He is conducting the investigations, and what I know has been imparted
to me in confidence.”

This view was warmly endorsed by Polton (who had by now either
forgotten his eyelashes or abandoned concealment as hopeless). The
subject was accordingly dropped, and the two workers resumed their
occupations. When Polton had painted a complete skin of wax over the
interior of both pairs of moulds, I helped him to put the latter
together and fasten them with cords. Then into each completed mould we
poured enough melted wax to fill it, and after a few seconds poured it
out again, leaving a solid layer to thicken the skin and unite the two
halves of the wax cast. This finished Polton’s job, and shortly
afterwards he took his departure. Nor did we remain very much longer,
for the final stages of the surface finishing were too subtle to be
carried out by artificial light, and had to be postponed until
daylight was available.

As we walked homewards we discussed the situation so far as was
possible without infringing Thorndyke’s confidences.

“I am very confused and puzzled about it all,” she said. “It seems
that Dr. Thorndyke is trying to get on the track of the man who
murdered my father. But whenever I hear any details of his
investigations they always seem to be concerned with somebody else or
with something that has no apparent connexion with the crime.”

“That is exactly my condition,” said I. “He seems to be busily working
at problems that are totally irrelevant. As far as I can make out, the
murderer has never once come into sight, excepting when he appeared at
the studio that terrible night. The people in whom Thorndyke has
interested himself are mere outsiders—suspicious characters, no doubt,
but not suspected of the murder. This man, Crile, for instance, whose
empty coffin we dug up, was certainly a shady character. But he was
not the murderer, though he seems to have been associated with the
murderer at one time. Then there is that fellow Morris, whose mask we
found at the studio. He is another queer customer. But he is certainly
not the murderer, though he was also probably an associate. Thorndyke
has taken an immense interest in him. But I can’t see why. He doesn’t
seem to me to be in the picture, or, at any rate, not in the
foreground of it. Of the actual murderer we seem to know nothing at
all—at least, that is my position.”

“Do you think Dr. Thorndyke has really got anything to go on?” she
asked.

“My dear Marion,” I exclaimed, “I am confident that he has the whole
case cut and dried and perfectly clear in his mind. What I was saying
referred only to myself. _My_ ideas are all in confusion, but _his_
are not. He can see quite clearly who is in the picture and in what
part of it. The blindness is mine. But let us wait and see what
to-morrow brings forth. I have a sort of feeling—in fact, he
hinted—that this interview is the final move. He may have something to
tell you when you arrive.”

“I do hope he may,” she said earnestly; and with this we dismissed the
subject. A few minutes later we parted at the gate of Ivy Cottage, and
I took my way (by the main thoroughfares) home to my lodgings.

On the following morning I made a point of presenting myself at
Thorndyke’s chambers well in advance of the appointed time in order
that I might have a few words with him before the two ladies arrived.
With the same purpose, no doubt, Superintendent Miller took a similar
course, the result being that we converged simultaneously at the entry
and ascended the stairs together. The “oak” was already open, and the
inner door was opened by Thorndyke, who smilingly remarked that he
seemed thereby to have killed two early birds with one stone.

“So you have, Doctor,” assented the Superintendent—“two early birds
who have come betimes to catch the elusive worm—and I suspect they
won’t catch him.”

“Don’t be pessimistic, Miller,” said Thorndyke with a quiet chuckle.
“He isn’t such a slippery worm as that. I suppose you want to know
something of the programme?”

“Naturally, I do, and so, I suppose, does Dr. Gray.”

“Well,” said Thorndyke, “I am not going to tell you much——”

“I knew it,” groaned Miller.

“Because it will be better for every one to have an open mind——”

“Well,” interposed Miller, “mine is open enough. Wide open, and
nothing inside.”

“And then,” pursued Thorndyke, “there is the possibility that we shall
not get the result we hoped for, and in that case the less you expect
the less you will be disappointed.”

“But,” persisted Miller, “in general terms, what are we here for? I
understand that those two ladies, the witnesses to Bendelow’s will,
are coming presently. What are they coming for? Do you expect to get
any information out of them?”

“I have some hopes,” he replied, “of learning something from them. In
particular, I want to test them in respect of their identification of
Bendelow.”

“Ha! Then you have got a photograph of him?”

Thorndyke shook his head. “No,” he replied. “I have not been able to
get a photograph of him.”

“Then you have an exact description of him?”

“No,” was the reply. “I have no description of him at all.”

The Superintendent banged his hat on the table. “Then what the deuce
have you got, sir?” he demanded distractedly. “You must have
something, you know, if you are going to test these witnesses on the
question of identification. You haven’t got a photograph, you haven’t
got a description, and you can’t have the man himself because he is at
present reposing in a little terra-cotta pot in the form of bone-ash.
Now, what have you got?”

Thorndyke regarded the exasperated Superintendent with an inscrutable
smile and then glanced at Polton, who had just stolen into the room
and was now listening with an expression of such excessive crinkliness
that I wrote him down an accomplice on the spot.

“You had better ask Polton,” said Thorndyke. “He is the stage manager
on this occasion.”

The Superintendent turned sharply to confront my fellow apprentice,
whose eyes thereupon disappeared into a labyrinth of crow’s-feet.

“It’s no use asking me, sir,” said he. “I’m only an accessory before
the fact, so to speak. But you’ll know all about it when the ladies
arrive—and I rather think I hear ’em coming now.”

In corroboration, light footsteps and feminine voices became audible,
apparently ascending our stairs. We hastily seated ourselves while
Polton took his station by the door and Thorndyke said to me in a low
voice:

“Remember, Gray, no comments of any kind. These witnesses must act
without any sort of suggestion from anybody.”

I gave a quick assent, and at that moment Polton threw open the door
with a flourish and announced majestically:

“Miss Dewsnep, Miss Bonington.”

We all rose, and Thorndyke advanced to receive his visitors, while
Polton placed chairs for them.

“It is exceedingly good of you to take all this trouble to help us,”
said Thorndyke. “I hope it was not in any way inconvenient to you to
come here this morning.”

“Oh, not at all,” replied Miss Dewsnep; “only we are not quite clear
as to what it is that you want us to do.”

“We will go into that question presently,” said Thorndyke. “Meanwhile,
may I introduce to you these two gentlemen, who are interested in our
little business—Mr. Miller and Dr. Gray?”

The two ladies bowed; and Miss Dewsnep remarked:

“We are already acquainted with Dr. Gray. We had the melancholy
pleasure of meeting him at Mrs. Morris’ house on the sad occasion when
he came to examine the mortal remains of poor Mr. Bendelow, who is now
with the angels.”

“And no doubt,” added Miss Bonington, “in extremely congenial
society.”

At this statement of Miss Dewsnep’s the Superintendent turned and
looked at me sharply with an expression of enlightenment; but he made
no remark, and the latter lady returned to her original inquiry.

“You were going to tell us what it is that you want us to do.”

“Yes,” replied Thorndyke. “It is quite a simple matter. We want you to
look at the face of a certain person who will be shown to you, and to
tell us if you recognize and can give a name to that person.”

“Not an insane person, I hope!” exclaimed Miss Dewsnep.

“No,” Thorndyke assured her, “not an insane person.”

“Nor a criminal person in custody, I trust,” added Miss Bonington.

“Certainly not,” replied Thorndyke. “In short, let me assure you that
the inspection of this person need not cause you the slightest
embarrassment. It will be a perfectly simple affair, as you will see.
But perhaps we had better proceed at once. If you two gentlemen will
follow Polton, I will conduct the ladies upstairs myself.”

On this we rose, and Miller and I followed Polton out on to the
landing, where he turned and began to ascend the stairs at a slow and
solemn pace, as if he were conducting a funeral. The Superintendent
walked at my side and muttered as he went, being evidently in a state
of bewilderment fully equal to my own.

“Now, what the blazes,” he growled, “can the Doctor be up to now? I
never saw such a man for springing surprises on one. But who the deuce
can he have up there?”

At the top of the second flight we came on to a landing and,
proceeding along it, reached a door which Polton unlocked and opened.

“You understand, gentlemen,” he said, halting in the doorway, “that no
remarks or comments are to be made until the witnesses have gone.
Those were my instructions.”

With this he entered the room, closely followed by Miller, who, as he
crossed the threshold, set at naught Polton’s instructions by
exclaiming in a startled voice: “Snakes!”

I followed quickly, all agog with curiosity, but whatever I had
expected to see—if I had expected anything—I was totally unprepared
for what I did see.

The room was a smallish room, completely bare and empty of furniture
save for four chairs—on two of which Polton firmly seated us; and in
the middle of the floor, raised on a pair of trestles, was a coffin
covered with a black linen cloth. At this gruesome object Miller and I
gazed in speechless astonishment, but, apart from Polton’s injunction,
there was no opportunity for an exchange of sentiments; for we had
hardly taken our seats when we heard the sound of ascending footsteps
mingled with Thorndyke’s bland and persuasive accents. A few moments
later the party reached the door; and as the two ladies came in sight
of the coffin, both started back with a cry of alarm.

“Oh, dear!” exclaimed Miss Dewsnep, “it’s a dead person! Who is it,
sir? Is it any one we know?”

“That is what we want you to tell us,” Thorndyke replied.

“How mysterious!” exclaimed Miss Bonington, in a hushed voice. “How
dreadful! Some poor creature who has been found dead, I suppose? I
hope it won’t be very—er—you know what I mean, sir—when the coffin is
opened.”

“There will be no need to open the coffin,” Thorndyke reassured her.
“There is an inspection window in the coffin-lid through which you can
see the face. All you have to do is to look through the window and
tell us if the face that you see is the face of any one who is known
to you. Are you ready, Polton?”

Polton replied that he was, having taken up his position at the head
of the coffin with an air of profound gravity, approaching to gloom.
The two ladies shuddered audibly, but their nervousness being now
overcome by a devouring curiosity, they advanced, one on either side
of the coffin, and, taking up a position close to Polton, gazed
eagerly at the covered coffin. There was a solemn pause as Polton
carefully gathered up the two corners of the linen pall. Then, with a
quick movement, he threw it back. The two witnesses simultaneously
stooped and peered in at the window. Simultaneously their mouths
opened, and they sprang back with a shriek.

“Why, it’s Mr. Bendelow!”

“You are quite sure it is Mr. Bendelow?” Thorndyke asked.

“Perfectly,” replied Miss Dewsnep. “And yet,” she continued with a
mystified look, “it can’t be; for I saw him passed through the bronze
doors into the cremation furnace. I saw him with my own eyes,” she
added, somewhat unnecessarily. “And what’s more, I saw his ashes in
the casket.”

She gazed with wide-open eyes at Thorndyke, and then at her friend,
and the two women tiptoed forward and once more stared in at the
window with starting eyes and dropped chins.

“It is Mr. Bendelow,” said Miss Bonington, in an awe-stricken voice.

“But it can’t be,” Miss Dewsnep protested in tremulous tones. “You saw
him put through those doors yourself, Susan, and you saw his ashes
afterwards.”

“I can’t help that, Sarah,” the other lady retorted. “This is Mr.
Bendelow. You can’t deny that it is.”

“Our eyes must be deceived,” said Miss Dewsnep, the said eyes being
still riveted on the face within the window. “It can’t be—and yet it
is—but yet it is impossible——”

She paused suddenly, and raised a distinctly alarmed face to her
friend.

“Susan,” she said, in a low, rather shaky voice, “there is something
here with which we, as Christian women, are better not concerned.
Something against nature. The dead has been recalled from a burning
fiery furnace by some means which we may not inquire into. It were
better, Susan, that we should now depart from this place.”

This was evidently Susan’s opinion, too, for she assented with
uncommon alacrity and with a distinctly uncomfortable air; and the
pair moved with one accord towards the door. But Thorndyke gently
detained them.

“Do we understand,” he asked, “that, apart from the apparently
impossible circumstances, the body in that coffin is, in your opinion,
the body of the late Simon Bendelow?”

“You do,” Miss Dewsnep replied in a resentfully nervous tone and
regarding Thorndyke with very evident alarm. “If it were possible that
it could be, I would swear that those unnatural remains were those of
my poor friend, Mr. Bendelow. As it’s not possible, it cannot be.”

“Thank you,” said Thorndyke with the most extreme suavity of manner.
“You have done us a great service by coming here to-day, and a great
service to humanity—how great a service you will learn later. I am
afraid it has been a disagreeable experience to both of you, for which
I am sincerely sorry; but you must let me assure you that there is
nothing unlawful or supernatural in what you have seen. Later, I hope
you will be able to realize that. And now I trust that you will allow
Mr. Polton to accompany you to the dining-room and offer you a little
refreshment.”

As neither of the ladies raised any objection to this programme, we
all took our leave of them, and they departed down the stairs,
escorted by Polton. When they had gone, Miller stepped across to the
coffin and cast a curious glance in at the window.

“So that is Mr. Bendelow,” said he. “I don’t think much of him, and I
don’t see how he is going to help us. But you have given those two old
girls a rare shake-up, and I don’t wonder. Of course, this can’t be a
dead body that you have got in this coffin, but it is a most lifelike
representation of one, and it took in those poor old Judies properly.
What have you got to tell us about this affair, Doctor? I can see that
your scheme, whatever it was, has come off. They always do. But what
about it? What has this experiment proved?”

“It has turned a mere name into an actual person,” was the reply.

“Yes, I know,” rejoined Miller. “Very interesting, too. Now we know
exactly what he looked like. But what about it? And what is the next
move?”

“The next move on my part is to lay a sworn information against him as
the murderer of Julius D’Arblay; which I will do now, if you will
administer the oath and witness my signature.” As he spoke Thorndyke
produced a paper from his pocket and laid it on the coffin.

The Superintendent looked at the paper with a surprised grin.

“A little late, isn’t it,” he said, “to be swearing an information? Of
course you can if you like; but when you’ve done it, what then?”

“Then,” replied Thorndyke, “it will be for you to arrest him and bring
him to trial.”

At this reply the Superintendent’s eyes opened until his face might
have been a symbolic mask of astonishment. Grasping his hair with both
hands, he rose slowly from his chair, staring at Thorndyke as if at
some alarming apparition.

“You’ll be the death of me, Doctor!” he exclaimed. “You really will. I
am not fit for these shocks at my time of life. What is it you ask me
to do? I am to arrest this man! What man? Here is a wax-work gentleman
in a coffin—at least, I suppose that is what he is—that might have
come straight from Madame Tussaud’s. Am I to arrest him? And there is
a casket full of ashes somewhere. Am I to arrest those? Or am I off my
head or dreaming?”

Thorndyke smiled at him indulgently. “Now, Miller,” said he, “don’t
pretend to be foolish, because you are not. The man whom you are to
arrest is a live man, and what is more, he is easily accessible
whenever you choose to lay your hands on him.”

“Do you know where to find him?”

“Yes,” Thorndyke replied. “I, myself, will conduct you to his house,
which is in Abbey-road, Hornsey, nearly opposite Miss D’Arblay’s
studio.”

I gave a gasp of amazement on hearing this, which directed the
Superintendent’s attention to me.

“Very well, Doctor,” he said, “I will take your information, but you
needn’t swear to it: just sign your name. I must be off now, but I
will look in to-night about nine, if that will do, to get the
necessary particulars and settle the arrangements with you. Probably
to-morrow afternoon will be a good time to make the arrest. What do
you think?”

“I should think it would be an excellent time,” Thorndyke replied;
“but we can settle definitely to-night.”

With this, the Superintendent, having taken the signed paper from
Thorndyke, shook both our hands and bustled away with the traces of
his late surprise still visible on his countenance.

The recognition of the tenant of the coffin as Simon Bendelow had come
on me with almost as great a shock as it had on the two witnesses, but
for a different reason. My late experiences enabled me to guess at
once that the mysterious tenant was a wax-work figure, presumably of
Polton’s creation. But what I found utterly inexplicable was that such
a wax-work should have been produced in the likeness of a man whom
neither Polton nor Thorndyke had ever seen. The astonishing
conversation between the latter and Miller had, for the moment, driven
this mystery out of my mind; but as soon as the Superintendent had
gone, I stepped over to the coffin and looked in at the window. And
then I was more amazed than ever. For the face that I saw was not the
face that I had expected to see. There, it is true, was the old
familiar skull-cap, which Bendelow had worn, pulled down over the
temples above the jaw-bandage. But it was the wrong face (incidentally
I now understood what had become of Polton’s eyelashes. That
conscientious realist had evidently taken no risks.).

“But,” I protested, “this is not Bendelow. This is Morris.”

Thorndyke nodded. “You have just heard two competent witnesses declare
with complete conviction and certainty that this is Simon Bendelow;
and, as you, yourself, pointed out, there can be no doubt as to their
knowledge of Bendelow since they recognized the photograph of him that
was shown to them by the American detective.”

“That is perfectly true,” I admitted. “But it is a most
incomprehensible affair. This is not the man who was cremated.”

“Evidently not, since he is still alive.”

“But these two women saw Bendelow cremated—at least they saw him
passed through into the crematorium, which is near enough. And they
had seen him in the coffin a few minutes before I saw him in the
coffin, and they saw him again a few minutes after Cropper and Morris
and I had put him back in the coffin. And the man whom we put into the
coffin was certainly not this man.”

“Obviously not, since he helped you to put the corpse in.”

“And again,” I urged; “if the body that we put into the coffin was not
the body that was cremated, what has become of it? It wasn’t buried,
for the other coffin was empty. Those women must have made some
mistake.”

He shook his head. “The solution of the mystery is staring you in the
face,” said he. “It is perfectly obvious, and I am not going to give
you any further hints now. When we have made the arrest you shall have
a full exposition of the case. But tell me, now; did those two women
ever meet Morris?”

I considered for a few moments and then replied: “I have no evidence
that they ever met him. They certainly never did in my presence. But
even if they had, they would hardly have recognized him as the person
whom they have identified to-day. He had grown a beard and moustache,
you will remember, and his appearance was very much altered from what
it was when I first saw him.”

Thorndyke nodded. “It would be,” he agreed. Then, turning to another
subject, he said: “I am afraid it will be necessary for you to be
present at the arrest. I would much rather that you were not, for he
is a dangerous brute and will probably fight like a wild cat; but you
are the only one of us who really knows him by sight in his present
state.”

“I should like to be in at the death,” I said eagerly.

“That is well enough,” said he, “so long as it is his death. You must
bring your pistol, and don’t be afraid to use it.”

“And how shall I know when I am wanted?” I asked.

“You had better go to the studio to-morrow morning,” he replied. “I
will send a note by Polton giving you particulars of the time when we
shall call for you. And now we may as well help Polton to prepare for
our other visitors; and I think, Gray, we will say as little as
possible about this morning’s proceedings or those of to-morrow.
Explanations will come better after the event.”

With this, we went down to the dining-room, where we found Polton
sedately laying the table, having just got rid of the two ladies. We
made a show of assisting him, and I ventured to inquire:

“Who is doing the cooking to-day, Polton? Or is it to be a cold
lunch?”

He looked at me almost reproachfully as he replied:

“It is to be a hot lunch, and I am doing the cooking, of course.”

“But,” I protested, “you have been up to your eyes in other affairs
all the morning.”

He regarded me with a patronizing crinkle. “You can do a good deal,”
said he, “with one or two casseroles, a hay-box, and a four-story
cooker on a gas stove. Things don’t cook any better for your standing
and staring at them.”

Events went to prove the soundness of Polton’s culinary principles;
and the brilliant success of their application in practice gave a
direction to the conversation which led it comfortably away from other
and less discussable topics.



CHAPTER XVIII.

The Last Act

Shortly before leaving Thorndyke’s chambers with Marion and Miss Boler
I managed to secure his permission to confide to them, in general
terms, what was to happen on the morrow; and very relieved I was
thereat, for I had little doubt that questions would be asked which it
would seem ungracious to evade. Events proved that I was not mistaken;
indeed, we were hardly clear of the precincts of the Temple when
Marion opened the inquisition.

“You said yesterday,” she began, “that Dr. Thorndyke might have
something to tell us to-day, and I hoped that he might. I even tried
to pluck up courage to ask him, but then I was afraid that it might
seem intrusive. He isn’t the sort of man that you can take liberties
with. So I suppose that whatever it was that happened this morning is
a dead secret?”

“Not entirely,” I replied. “I mustn’t go into details at present, but
I am allowed to give you the most important item of information. There
is going to be an arrest to-morrow.”

“Do you mean that Dr. Thorndyke has discovered the man?” Marion
demanded incredulously.

“He says that he has, and I take it that he knows. What is more, he
offered to conduct the police to the house. He has actually given them
the address.”

“I would give all that I possess,” exclaimed Miss Boler, “to be there
and see the villain taken.”

“Well,” I said, “you won’t be far away, for the man lives in
Abbey-road, nearly opposite the studio.”

Marion stopped and looked at me aghast. “What a horrible thing to
think of,” she gasped. “Oh, I am glad I didn’t know! I could never
have gone to the studio if I had. But now we can understand how he
managed to find his way to the place that foggy night, and to escape
so easily.”

“Oh, but it is not that man,” I interposed, with a sudden sense of
hopeless bewilderment. For I had forgotten this absolute discrepancy
when I was talking to Thorndyke about the identification.

“Not that man!” she repeated, gazing at me in wild astonishment. “But
that man was my father’s murderer. I feel certain of it.”

“So do I,” was my rather lame rejoinder.

“Besides,” she persisted; “if he was not the murderer, who was he, and
why should he want to kill me?”

“Exactly,” I agreed, “it seems conclusive. But apparently it isn’t. At
any rate, the man they are going to arrest is the man whose mask
Thorndyke found at the studio.”

“Then they are going to arrest the wrong man,” said she, looking at me
with a deeply troubled face. I was uncomfortable, too, for I saw what
was in her mind. The memory of the ruffian who had made that murderous
attack on her still lingered in her mind as a thing of horror. The
thought that he was still at large and might at any moment reappear,
made it impossible for her ever to work alone in the studio, or even
to walk abroad without protection. She had looked, as I had, to the
discovery of the murderer to rid her of this abiding menace. But now
it seemed that even alter the arrest of the murderer, this terrible
menace would remain.

“I can’t understand it,” she said dejectedly. “When you showed me that
photograph of the man who tried to kill me, I naturally hoped that Dr.
Thorndyke had discovered who he was. But now it appears that he is at
large and still untraced, yet I am convinced that he is the man who
ought to have been followed.”

“Never mind, my dear,” I said cheerfully. “Let us see the affair out.
You don’t understand it and neither do I. But Thorndyke does. I have
absolute faith in him, and so, I can see, have the police.”

She assented without much conviction, and then Miss Boler began to
press for further particulars. I mentioned the probable time of the
arrest and the part that I was required to play in identifying the
accused.

“You don’t mean that you are asked to be present when the actual
arrest is made, do you?” Marion asked anxiously.

“Yes,” I answered. “You see I am the only person who really knows the
man by sight.”

“But,” she urged, “you are not a policeman. Suppose this man should be
violent, like that other man; and he probably will be.”

“Oh,” I answered airily, “that will be provided for. Besides, I am not
asked to arrest him; only to point him out to the police.”

“I wish,” she said, “you would stay in the studio until they have
secured him. Then you could go and identify him. That would be much
safer.”

“No doubt,” I agreed. “But it might lead to their arresting the wrong
man and letting the right one slip. No, Marion, we must make sure of
him if we can. Surely you are at least as anxious as any of us that he
should be caught and made to pay the penalty?”

“Yes,” she answered, “if he is really the right man—which I can hardly
believe. But still, punishing him will not bring poor Daddy back,
whereas if anything were to happen to you, Stephen—— Oh! I don’t dare
to think of it!”

“You needn’t think of it, Marion,” I rejoined, cheerfully. “I shall be
all right. And you wouldn’t have your apprentice hang back when these
Bobbies are taking the affair as a mere every-day job.”

She made no reply beyond another anxious glance; and I was glad enough
to let the subject drop, bearing in mind Thorndyke’s words with regard
to the pistol. As a diversion, I suggested a visit to the National
Gallery, which we were now approaching, and the suggestion being
adopted, without acclamation, we drifted in and rather listlessly
perambulated the galleries, gazing vacantly at the exhibits and
exchanging tepid comments. It was a spiritless proceeding, of which I
remember very little but some rather severe observations by Miss Boler
concerning a certain “hussy” (by one, Bronzino) in the great room. But
we soon gave up this hollow pretence, and went forth to board a yellow
’bus which was bound for the Archway Tavern; and so home to an early
supper.

On the following morning I made my appearance betimes at Ivy Cottage,
but it was later than usual when Marion and I started to walk in
leisurely fashion to the studio.

“I don’t know why we are going at all,” said she. “I don’t feel like
doing any work.”

“Let us forget the arrest for the moment,” said I. “There is plenty to
do. Those arms of Polton’s have got to be taken out of the moulds and
worked. It will be much better to keep ourselves occupied.”

“I suppose it will,” she agreed; and then, as we turned a corner and
came in sight of the studio, she exclaimed: “Why, what on earth is
this? There are some painters at work on the studio! I wonder who sent
them. I haven’t given any orders. There must be some extraordinary
mistake.”

There was not, however. As we came up, one of the two linen-coated
operators advanced, brush in hand, to meet us, and briefly explained
that he and his mate had been instructed by Superintendent Miller to
wash down the paint-work and keep an eye on the premises opposite.
They were, in fact, “plain-clothes” men on special duty.

“We have been here since seven o’clock,” our friend informed us, as we
made a pretence of examining the window-sashes, “and we took over from
a man who had been watching the house all night. My nabs is there all
right. He came home early yesterday evening, and he hasn’t come out
since.”

“Then you know the man by sight?” Marion asked eagerly.

“Well, Miss,” was the reply, “we have a description of him, and the
man who went into the house seemed to agree with it; and, as far as we
know, there isn’t any other man living there. But I understand that we
are relying on Dr. Gray to establish the identity. Could I have a look
at the inside woodwork?”

Marion unlocked the door and we entered, followed by the detective,
whose interest seemed to be concerned exclusively with the woodwork of
windows; and from windows in general finally became concentrated on a
small window in the lobby which commanded a view of the houses
opposite. Having examined the sashes of this, with his eye cocked on
one of the houses aforesaid, he proceeded to operate on it with his
brush, which, being wet and dirty and used with a singular lack of
care, soon covered the glass so completely with a mass of opaque
smears that it was impossible to see through it at all. Then he
cautiously raised the sash about an inch, and, whipping out a prism
binocular from under his apron, stood back a couple of feet and took a
leisurely survey through the narrow opening of one of the opposite
houses.

“Hallo!” said he. “There is a woman visible at the first-floor window.
Just have a look at her, sir. She can’t see us through this narrow
crack.”

He handed me the glass, indicating the house, and I put the instrument
to my eyes. It was a powerful glass, and seemed to bring the window
and the figure of the woman within a dozen feet of me. But at the
moment she had turned her head away, apparently to speak to some one
inside the room, and all that I could see was that she seemed to be an
elderly woman who wore what looked like an old-fashioned widow’s cap.
Suddenly she turned and looked out over the half-curtain, giving me a
perfectly clear view of her face, and then I felt myself lapsing into
the old sense of confusion and bewilderment.

I had, of course, expected to recognize Mrs. Morris. But this was
evidently not she, although not such a very different-looking woman:
an elderly, white-haired widow in a crape cap and spectacles—reading
spectacles they must be, since she was looking over and not through
them. She seemed to be a stranger—and not yet quite a stranger, for as
I looked at her some chord of memory stirred. But the cup of my
confusion was not yet full. As I stared at her, trying vainly to sound
a clearer note on that chord of memory, a man slowly emerged from the
darkness of the room behind and stood beside her, and him I recognized
instantly as the bottle-nosed person whom I had watched from my ambush
at the top of Dartmouth-Park-Hill.

“Well, sir,” said the detective, as the man and woman turned away from
the window and vanished, “what do you make of ’em? Do you recognize
’em?”

“I recognize the man,” I replied, “and I believe I have seen the woman
before, but they aren’t the people I expected to see.”

“Oh, dear!” said he. “That’s a bad look-out. Because I don’t think
there is anybody else there.”

“Then,” I said, “we have made a false shot—and yet—well, I don’t know.
I had better think this over and see if I can make anything of it.”

I turned into the studio, where I found Marion—who had been listening
attentively to this dialogue—in markedly better spirits.

“It seems a regular muddle,” she remarked cheerfully. “They have come
to arrest the wrong man and now it appears that he isn’t there.”

“Don’t talk to me for a few minutes, Marion, dear,” said I. “There is
something behind this and I want to think what it can be. I have seen
that woman somewhere, I feel certain. Now where was it?”

I cudgelled my brains for some time without succeeding in recovering
the recollections connected with her. I re-visualized the face that I
had seen through the glass, with its deep-set, hollow eyes and strong,
sharply-sloping eyebrows, and tried to connect it with some person
whom I had seen, but in vain. And then in a flash it came to me. She
was the widow whom I had noticed at the inquest. The identification,
indeed, was not very complete, for the veil that she had worn on that
occasion had considerably obscured her features. But I had no doubt
that I was right, for her present appearance agreed in all that I
could see with that of the woman at the inquest.

The next question was, Who could she be? Her association with the
bottle-nosed man connected her in some way with what Thorndyke would
have called “the case”; for that man, whoever he was, had certainly
been shadowing me. Then her presence at the inquest had now a sinister
suggestiveness. She would seem to have been there to watch
developments on behalf of others. Could she be a relative of Mrs.
Morris? A certain faint resemblance seemed to support this idea. As to
the man, I gave him up. Evidently there were several persons concerned
in this crime, but I knew too little about the circumstances to be
able to make even a profitable guess. Having reached this
unsatisfactory conclusion, I turned, a little irritably, to Marion,
exclaiming:

“I can make nothing of it. Let us get on with some work to pass the
time.”

Accordingly we began, in a half-hearted way, upon Polton’s two moulds.
But the presence of the two detectives was disturbing, especially
when, having finished the exterior, they brought their pails and
ladders inside and took up their station at the lobby window. We
struggled on for a time; but when, about noon, Miss Boler made her
appearance with a basket of provisions and a couple of bottles of
wine, we abandoned the attempt, and occupied ourselves in tidying up
and laying a table.

“Don’t you think, Marion,” I said, as we sat down to lunch (having
provided for the needs of the two “painters,” who lunched in the
lobby), “that it would be best for you and Arabella to go home before
any fuss begins?”

“Whatever Miss Marion thinks,” Arabella interposed firmly, “I am not
going home. I came down expressly to see this villain captured, and
here I stay until he is safely in custody.”

“And I,” said Marion, “am going to stay with Arabella. You know why,
Stephen. I couldn’t bear to go away and leave you here after what you
have told me. We shall be quite safe in here.”

“Well,” I temporized, seeing plainly that they had made up their
minds, “you must keep the door bolted until the business is over.”

“As to that,” said Miss Boler, “we shall be guided by circumstances;”
and from this ambiguous position neither she nor Marion would budge.

Shortly after lunch I received a further shock of surprise. In answer
to a loud single knock, I hurried out to open the door. A tradesman’s
van had drawn up at the kerb, and two men stood on the threshold, one
of them holding a good-sized parcel. I stared at the latter in
astonishment, for I recognized him instantly as the second shadower of
the Dartmouth Park Hill adventure; but before I could make any comment
both men entered—with the curt explanation “police business”—and the
last-comer shut the door, when I heard the van drive off.

“I am Detective-sergeant Porter,” the stranger explained. “You know
what I am here for, of course.”

“Yes,” I replied, and, turning to the other man, I said: “I think I
have seen you before. Are you a police-officer, too?”

My acquaintance grinned. “Retired Detective-sergeant,” he explained,
“name of Barber. At present employed by Dr. Thorndyke. I think I have
seen you before, Sir,” and he grinned again, somewhat more broadly.

“I should like to know how you were employed when I saw you last,”
said I. But here Sergeant Porter interposed: “Better leave
explanations till later, Sir. You’ve got a back gate, I think.”

“Yes,” said one of the “painters.” “At the bottom of the garden. It
opens on an alley that leads into the next road—Chilton-road.”

“Can we get into the garden through the studio?” the Sergeant asked;
and on my answering in the affirmative, he requested permission to
inspect the rear premises. I conducted both men to the back door and
let them out into the garden, where they passed out at the back gate
to reconnoitre the alley. In a minute or two they returned; and they
had hardly re-entered the studio when another knock at the door
announced more visitors. They turned out to be Thorndyke and
Superintendent Miller: of whom the latter inquired of the senior
painter:

“Is everything in going order, Jenks?”

“Yes, Sir,” was the reply. “The man is there all right. Dr. Gray saw
him; but I should mention, Sir, that he doesn’t think it’s the right
man.”

“The devil he doesn’t!” exclaimed Miller, looking at me uneasily, and
then glancing at Thorndyke.

“That man isn’t Morris,” said I. “He is that red-nosed man whom I told
you about. You remember.”

“I remember,” Thorndyke replied calmly. “Well, I suppose we shall have
to content ourselves with the red-nosed man;” upon which ex-Sergeant
Barber’s countenance became wreathed in smiles and the Superintendent
looked relieved.

“Are all the arrangements complete, Sergeant?” Miller inquired,
turning to Sergeant Porter.

“Yes, sir,” the latter replied. “Inspector Follett has got some local
men, who know the neighbourhood well, posted in the rear watching the
back garden, and there are some uniformed men waiting round both the
corners to stop him, in case he slips past us. Everything is ready,
sir.”

“Then,” said the Superintendent, “we may as well open the ball at
once. I hope it will go off quietly. It ought to. We have got enough
men on the job.”

He nodded to Sergeant Porter, who at once picked up his parcel and
went out into the garden, accompanied by Barber. Miller, Thorndyke,
and I now adjourned to the lobby window, where, with the two
painter-detectives, we established a look-out. Presently we saw the
Sergeant and Barber advancing separately on the opposite side of the
road, the latter leading and carrying the parcel. Arrived at the
house, he entered the front garden and knocked a loud single knock.
Immediately the mysterious woman appeared at the ground-floor
window—it was a bay-window—and took a long, inquisitive look at
ex-Sergeant Barber. There ensued a longish pause, during which
Sergeant Porter walked slowly past the house. Then the door opened a
very short distance—being evidently chained—and the woman appeared in
the narrow opening. Barber offered the parcel, which was much too
large to go through the opening without unchaining the door, and
appeared to be giving explanations. But the woman evidently denied all
knowledge of it, and, having refused to receive it, tried to shut the
door, into the opening of which Barber had inserted his foot; but he
withdrew it somewhat hastily as a coal-hammer descended, and before he
could recover himself the door shut with a bang and was immediately
bolted.

The ball was opened, as Miller had expressed it, and the developments
followed with a bewildering rapidity that far outpaced any possible
description.

The Sergeant returning, and joining Barber, the two men were about to
force the ground-floor window, when pistol shots and police whistles
from the rear announced a new field of operations. At once, Miller
opened the studio door and sallied forth, with the two detectives and
Thorndyke; and when I had called out to Marion to bolt the door, I
followed, shutting it after me. Meanwhile, from the rear of the
opposite houses came a confused noise of police-whistles, barking dogs
and women’s voices, with an occasional report. Following three rapid
pistol-shots there came a brief interval; then, suddenly, the door of
a house farther down the street burst open and the fugitive rushed
out, wild-eyed and terrified, his white face contrasting most
singularly with his vividly-red nose. Instantly, the two detectives
and Miller started in pursuit, followed by the Sergeant and Barber;
but the man ran like a hare and was speedily drawing ahead when
suddenly a party of constables appeared from a side turning and
blocked the road. The fugitive zigzagged and made as if he would try
to dodge between them, flinging away his empty pistol and drawing out
another. The detectives and Miller were close on him, when in an
instant he turned, and with extraordinary agility, avoided them. Then,
as the two Sergeants bore down on him, he fired at them at close
range, stopping them both, though neither actually fell. Again he
outran his pursuers, racing down the road towards us, yelling like a
maniac and firing his pistol wildly at Thorndyke and me. And suddenly
my left leg doubled up and I fell heavily to the ground nearly
opposite the studio door.

The fall confused me for a moment and as I lay, half-dazed, I was
horrified to see Marion dart out of the studio. In an instant she was
kneeling by my side with her arm around my neck. “Stephen! Oh,
Stephen, darling!” she sobbed, and gazed into my face with eyes full
of terror and affection, oblivious of everything but my peril. I
besought her to go back, and struggled to get out my pistol, for the
man, still gaining on his pursuers, was now rapidly approaching. He
had flung away his second pistol and had drawn a large knife; and as
he bore down on us, mad with rage and terror, he gibbered and grinned
like a wild cat.

When he was but a couple of dozen paces away, I saw Thorndyke raise
his pistol and take a careful aim. But before he had time to fire, a
most singular diversion occurred. From the open door of the studio,
Miss Boler emerged, swinging a massive stool with amazing ease. The
man, whose eyes were fixed on me and Marion, did not observe her until
she was within a few paces of him; when, gathering all her strength,
she hurled the heavy stool with almost incredible force. It struck him
below the knees, knocking his feet from under him, and he fell with a
sort of dive or half-somersault, falling with the hand that grasped
the knife under him.

He made no attempt to rise, but lay with slightly twitching limbs but
otherwise motionless. Miss Boler stalked up to him and stood looking
down on him with grim interest until Thorndyke, still holding his
pistol, stooped, and, grasping one arm, gently turned him over. Then
we could see the handle of the knife sticking out from his chest near
the right shoulder.

“Ha!” said Thorndyke. “Bad luck to the last. It must have gone through
the arch of the aorta. But perhaps it is just as well.”

He rose, and stepping across to where I sat, supported by Marion and
still nursing my pistol, bent over me with an anxious face.

“What is it, Gray?” he asked. “Not a fracture, I hope?”

“I don’t think so,” I replied. “Damaged muscle and perhaps nerve. It
is all numb at present, but it doesn’t seem to be bleeding much. I
think I could hobble if you would help me up.”

He shook his head and beckoned to a couple of constables, with whose
aid he carried me into the studio and deposited me on the sofa.
Immediately afterwards the two wounded officers were brought in, and I
was relieved to hear that neither of them was dangerously hurt, though
the Sergeant had a fractured arm and Barber a flesh wound of the chest
and a cracked rib. The ladies having been politely ejected into the
garden, Thorndyke examined the various injuries and applied temporary
dressings, producing the materials from a very business-like-looking
bag which he had providently brought with him. While he was thus
engaged three constables entered carrying the corpse, which, with a
few words of apology, they deposited on the floor by the side of the
sofa.

I looked down at the ill-omened figure with lively curiosity, and
especially was I impressed and puzzled by the very singular appearance
of the face. Its general colour was of that waxen pallor
characteristic of the faces of the dead, particularly of those who
have died from hemorrhage. But the nose and the acne patches remained
unchanged. Indeed, their colour seemed intensified, for their vivid
red “stared” from the surrounding white like the painted patches on a
clown’s face.

The mystery was solved when, the surgical business being concluded,
Barber came and seated himself on the edge of the sofa.

“Masterly make-up, that,” said he, nodding at the corpse. “Looks queer
enough now, but when he was alive you couldn’t spot it even in
daylight.”

“Make-up!” I exclaimed. “I didn’t know you could make-up off the
stage.”

“You can’t wear a celluloid nose off the stage, or a tie-on beard,” he
replied. “But when it is done as well as this—a touch or two of
nose-paste or toupée-paste, tinted carefully with grease-paint and
finished up with powder—it’s hard to spot. These experts in make-up
are a holy terror to the police.”

“Did you know that he was made-up?” I asked, looking at Thorndyke.

“I inferred that he was,” the latter replied, “and so did Sergeant
Barber. But now we had better see what his natural appearance is.”

He stooped over the corpse, and with a small ivory paper-knife scraped
from the end of the nose and the parts adjacent a layer of coloured
plastic material about the consistency of modelling-wax. Then with
vaseline and cotton-wool he cleaned away the red pigment until the
pallid skin showed unsullied.

“Why, it _is_ Morris after all!” I exclaimed. “It is perfectly
incredible; and you seemed to remove such a very small quantity of
paste, too! I wouldn’t have believed that it would make such a
change.”

“Not after that very instructive demonstration that Miss D’Arblay gave
us with the clay and the plaster mask?” he asked with a smile.

I smiled sheepishly in return. “I told you I was a fool, Sir;” and
then, as a new idea burst upon me, I asked: “And that other man—the
hook-nosed man?”

“Morris—that is to say, Bendelow,” he replied, “with a different, more
exaggerated, make-up.”

I was pondering with profound relief on this answer when one of the
painter-detectives entered in search of the Superintendent.

“We got into the house from the back, Sir,” he reported. “The woman is
dead. We found her lying on the bed in the first-floor front; and we
found a tumbler half-full of water and this by the bedside.”

He exhibited a small, wide-mouthed bottle labelled “Potassium
Cyanide,” which the Superintendent took from him.

“I will come and look over the house presently,” the latter said.
“Don’t let anybody in, and let me know when the cabs are here.”

“There are two here now, sir,” the detective announced, “and they have
sent down three wheeled stretchers.”

“One cab will carry our two casualties, and I expect the doctor will
want the other. The bodies can be put on two of the stretchers, but
you had better send the woman here for Dr. Gray to see.”

The detective saluted and retired, and in a few minutes a stretcher
dismounted from its carriage was borne in by two constables and placed
on the floor beside Morris’ corpse. But even now, prepared as I was,
and knowing who the new arrival must be, I looked doubtfully at the
pitiful effigy that lay before me so limp and passive that but an hour
since had been a strong, courageous, resourceful woman. Not until the
white wig, the cap, and the spectacles had been removed, the heavy
eyebrows detached with spirit, and the dark pigment cleaned away from
the eyelids, could I say with certainty that this was the corpse of
Mrs. Morris.

“Well, Doctor,” said the Superintendent, when the wounded and the dead
had been borne away and we were alone in the studio, “you have done
your part to a finish, as usual, but ours is a bit of a failure. I
_should_ have liked to bring that fellow to trial.”

“I sympathize with you,” replied Thorndyke. “The gallows ought to have
had him. But yet I am not sure that what has happened is not all for
the best. The evidence in both cases—the D’Arblay and the Van Zellen
murders—is entirely circumstantial and extremely intricate. That is
not good evidence for a jury. A conviction would not have been a
certainty either here or in America, and an acquittal would have been
a disaster that I don’t dare to think of. No, Miller, I think that, on
the whole, I am satisfied, and I think that you ought to be, too.”

“I suppose I ought,” Miller conceded, “but it _would_ have been a
triumph to put him in the dock, after he had been written off as dead
and cremated. However, we must take things as we find them; and now I
had better go and look over that house.”

With a friendly nod to me, he took himself off, and Thorndyke went off
to notify the ladies that the intruders had departed.

As he returned with them I heard Marion cross-examining him with
regard to my injuries and listened anxiously for his report.

“So far as I can see, Miss D’Arblay,” he answered, “the damage is
confined to one or two muscles. If so, there will be no permanent
disablement and he should soon be quite well again. But he will want
proper surgical treatment without delay. I propose to take him
straight to our hospital if he agrees.”

“Miss Boler and I were hoping,” said Marion, “that we might have the
privilege of nursing him at our house.”

“That is very good of you,” said Thorndyke, “and perhaps you might
look after him during his convalescence. But for the present he needs
skilled surgical treatment. If it should not be necessary for him to
stay in the hospital after the wound has been attended to, it would be
best for him to occupy one of the spare bedrooms at my chambers, where
he can be seen daily by the surgeon, and I can keep an eye on him.
Come,” he added coaxingly, “let us make a compromise. You or Miss
Boler shall come to the Temple every day for as long as you please and
do what nursing is necessary. There is a spare room, of which you can
take possession; and as to your work here, Polton will give you any
help that he can. How will that do?”

Marion accepted the offer gratefully (with my concurrence), but begged
to be allowed to accompany me to the hospital.

“That was what I was going to suggest,” said Thorndyke. “The cab will
hold the four of us, and the sooner we start the better.”

Our preparations were very soon made. Then the door was opened, I was
assisted out through a lane of hungry-eyed spectators, held at bay by
two constables, and deposited in the cab; and when the studio had been
locked up, we drove off, leaving the neighbourhood to settle down to
its normal condition.



CHAPTER XIX.

Thorndyke Disentangles the Threads

The days of my captivity at No. 5a, King’s Bench-walk passed with a
tranquillity that made me realize the weight of the incubus that had
been lifted. Now, in the mornings, when Polton ministered to me—until
Arabella arrived and was ungrudgingly installed in office—I could let
my untroubled thoughts stray to Marion, working alone in the studio
with restored security, free for ever from the hideous menace which
had hung over her. And later, when she, herself, released by her
faithful apprentice, came to take her spell of nursing, what a joy it
was to see her looking so fresh and rosy, so youthful and buoyant!

Of Thorndyke—the giver of these gifts—I saw little in the first few
days, for he had heavy arrears of work to make up. However, he paid me
brief visits from time to time, especially in the mornings and at
night, when I was alone, and very delightful those visits were. For he
had now dropped the investigator, and there had come into his manner
something new—something fatherly or elder-brotherly; and he managed to
convey to me that my presence in his chambers was a source of pleasure
to him: a refinement of hospitality that filled up the cup of my
gratitude to him.

It was on the fifth day, when I was allowed to sit up in bed—for my
injury was no more than a perforating wound of the outer side of the
calf, which had missed every important structure—that I sat watching
Marion making somewhat premature preparations for tea, and observed
with interest that a third cup had been placed on the tray.

“Yes,” Marion replied to my inquiry, “‘the Doctor’ is coming to tea
with us to-day. Mr. Polton gave me the message when he arrived.” She
gave a few further touches to the tea-set, and continued: “How sweet
Dr. Thorndyke has been to us, Stephen! He treats me as if I were his
daughter, and, however busy he is, he always walks with me to the
Temple gate and puts me into a cab. I am infinitely grateful to
him—almost as grateful as I am to you.”

“I don’t see what you have got to be grateful to me for,” I remarked.

“Don’t you?” said she. “Is it nothing to me, do you suppose, that in
the moment of my terrible grief and desolation, I found a noble,
chivalrous friend whom I trusted instantly? That I have been guarded
through all the dangers that threatened me, and that at last I have
been rescued from them and set free to go my ways in peace and
security? Surely, Stephen, dear, all this is abundant matter for
gratitude. And I owe it all to you.”

“To me!” I exclaimed in astonishment, recalling secretly what a
consummate donkey I had been. “But there, I suppose it is the way of a
woman to imagine that her particular gander is a swan.”

She smiled a superior smile. “Women,” said she, “are very intelligent
creatures. They are able to distinguish between swans and ganders,
whereas the swans themselves are apt to be muddle-headed and
self-depreciatory.”

“I agree to the muddle-headed factor,” I rejoined, “and I won’t be
unduly ostentatious as to the ganderism. But to return to Thorndyke,
it is extraordinarily good of him to allow himself to be burdened with
me.”

“With us,” she corrected.

“It is the same thing, sweetheart. Do you know if he is going to give
us a long visit?”

“I hope so,” she replied. “Mr. Polton said that he had got through his
arrears of work and had this afternoon free.”

“Then,” said I, “perhaps he will give us the elucidation that he
promised me some time ago. I am devoured by curiosity as to how he
unravelled the web of mystification that the villain, Bendelow, spun
round himself.”

“So am I,” said she; “and I believe I can hear his footsteps on the
stair.”

A few moments later Thorndyke entered the room, and having greeted us
with quiet geniality, seated himself in the easy chair by the table
and regarded us with a benevolent smile.

“We were just saying, Sir,” said I, “how very kind it is of you to
allow your chambers to be invaded by a stray cripple and his—his
belongings.”

“I believe you were going to say ‘baggage,’” Marion murmured.

“Well,” said Thorndyke, smiling at the interpolation, “I may tell you
both in confidence that you were talking nonsense. It is I who am the
beneficiary.”

“It is a part of your goodness to say so, Sir,” I said.

“But,” he rejoined, “it is the simple truth. You enable me to combine
the undoubted economic advantages of bachelordom with the satisfaction
of having a family under my roof; and you even allow me to participate
in a way, as a sort of supercargo, in a certain voyage of discovery
which is to be undertaken by two young adventurers, in the near
future—in the very near future, as I hope.”

“As I hope, too,” said I, glancing at Marion, who had become a little
more rosy than usual and who now adroitly diverted the current of the
conversation.

“We were also wondering,” said she, “if we might hope for some
enlightenment on things which have puzzled us so much lately.”

“That,” he replied, “was in my mind when I arranged to keep this
afternoon and evening free. I wanted to give Stephen—who is my
professional offspring, so to speak—a full exposition of this very
intricate and remarkable case. If you, my dear, will keep my cup
charged as occasion arises, I will begin forthwith. I will address
myself to Stephen, who has all the facts first-hand; and if, in my
exposition, I should seem somewhat callously to ignore the human
aspects of this tragic story—aspects which have meant so much in
irreparable loss and bereavement to you, poor child—remember that it
is an exposition of evidence, and necessarily passionless and
impersonal.”

“I quite realize that,” said Marion, “and you may trust me to
understand.”

He bowed gravely, and, after a brief pause, began:

“I propose to treat the subject historically, so to speak; to take you
over the ground that I traversed myself, recounting my observations
and inferences in the order in which they occurred. The inquiry falls
naturally into certain successive stages, corresponding to the
emergence of new facts, of which the first was concerned with the data
elicited at the inquest. Let us begin with them.

“First, as to the crime itself. It was a murder of a very distinctive
type. There was evidence, not only of premeditation in the bare legal
sense, but of careful preparation and planning. It was a considered
act, and not a crime of impulse or passion. What could be the motive
for such a crime? There appeared to be only two alternative
possibilities; either it was a crime of revenge or a crime of
expediency. The hypothesis of revenge could not be explored, because
there were no data excepting the evidence of the victim’s daughter,
which was to the effect that deceased had no enemies, actual or
potential; and this evidence was supported by the very deliberate
character of the crime.

“We were therefore thrown back on the hypothesis of expediency, which
was, in fact, the more probable one, and which became still more
probable as the circumstances were further examined. But having
assumed, as a working hypothesis, that this crime had been committed
in pursuit of a definite purpose which was not revenge, the next
question was: What could that purpose have been? And that question
could be answered only by a careful consideration of all that was
known of the parties to the crime: the criminal and the victim and
their possible relations to one another.

“As to the former, the circumstances indicated that he was a person of
some education, that he had an unusual acquaintance with poisons, and
such social position and personal qualities as would enable him to get
possession of them; that he was subtle, ingenious, and resourceful,
but not far-sighted, since he took risks that could have been avoided.
His mentality appeared to be that of the gambler, whose attention
tends to be riveted on the winning chances, and who makes insufficient
provision for possible failure. He staked everything on the chance of
the needle-puncture being overlooked and the presence of the poison
being undiscovered.

“But the outstanding and most significant quality was his profound
criminality. Premeditated murder is the most atrocious of crimes, and
murder for expediency is the most atrocious form of murder. This man,
then, was of a profoundly criminal type, and was most probably a
practicing criminal.

“Turning now to the victim, the evidence showed that he was a man of
high moral qualities: honest, industrious, thrifty, kindly and
amiable, and of good reputation—the exact reverse of the other. Any
illicit association between these two men was, therefore, excluded,
and yet there must have been an association of some kind. Of what kind
could it have been?

“Now, in the case of this man, as in that of the other, there was one
outstanding fact. He was a sculptor. And not only a sculptor, but an
artist in the highest class of wax-work. And not only this. He was
probably the only artist of this kind practicing in this country. For
wax-work is almost exclusively a French art. So far as I know, all the
wax figures and high-class lay figures that are made are produced in
France. This man, therefore, appeared to be the unique English
practitioner of this very curious art.

“The fact impressed me profoundly. To realize its significance we must
realize the unique character of the art. Wax-work is a fine art; but
it differs from all other fine arts in that its main purpose is one
that is expressly rejected by all those other arts. An ordinary work
of sculpture, no matter how realistic, is frankly an object of metal,
stone, or pottery. Its realism is restricted to truth of form. No
deception is aimed at but, on the contrary, is expressly avoided. But
the aim of wax-work is complete deception; and its perfection is
measured by the completeness of the deception achieved. How complete
that may be can be judged by incidents that have occurred at Madame
Tussaud’s. When that exhibition was at the old Baker-street Bazaar,
the snuff-taker—whose arms, head, and eyes were moved by
clock-work—used to be seated on an open bench; and it is recorded
that, quite frequently, visitors would sit down by him on the bench
and try to open conversation with him. So, too, the wax-work policeman
near the outer door was occasionally accosted with questions by
arriving visitors.

“Bearing this fact in mind, it is obvious that this art is peculiarly
adapted to employment in certain kinds of fraud, such as personation,
false alibi, and the like; and it is probable that the only reason why
it is not so employed is the great difficulty of obtaining first-class
wax-works.

“Naturally, then, when I observed this connexion of a criminal with a
wax-work artist, I asked myself whether the motive of the murder was
not to be sought in that artist’s unique powers. Could it be that an
attempt had been made to employ the deceased on some work designed for
a fraudulent purpose? If such an attempt had been made, whether it had
or had not been successful, the deceased would be in possession of
knowledge which would be highly dangerous to the criminal; but
especially if a work had actually been executed and used as an
instrument of fraud.

“But there were other possibilities in the case of a sculptor who was
also a medallist. He might have been employed to produce—quite
innocently—copies of valuable works which were intended for fraudulent
use; and the second stage of the investigation was concerned with
these possibilities. That stage was ushered in by Follett’s discovery
of the guinea; the additional facts that we obtained at the Museum,
and later, when we learned that the guinea that had been found was an
electrotype copy, and that deceased was an expert electrotyper, all
seemed to point to the production of forgeries as the crime in which
Julius D’Arblay had been implicated. That was the view to which we
seemed to be committed; but it did not seem to me satisfactory, for
several reasons. First, the motive was insufficient—there was really
nothing to conceal. When the forgeries were offered for sale, it would
be obvious that some one had made them, and that some one could be
traced by the purchaser through the vendor. The killing of the actual
maker would give no security to the man who sold the forgeries, and
who would have to appear in the transaction. And then, although
deceased was unique as a wax-worker, he was not as a copyist or
electrotyper. For those purposes, much more suitable accomplices might
have been found. The execution of copies by deceased appeared to be a
fact; but my own feeling was that they had been a mere by-product—that
they had been used as a means of introduction to deceased for some
other purpose connected with wax-work.

“At the end of this stage we had made some progress. We had identified
this unknown man with another unknown man, who was undoubtedly a
professional criminal. We had found, in the forged guinea, a possible
motive for the murder. But, as I have said, that explanation did not
satisfy me, and I still kept a look-out for new evidence connected
with the wax-works.

“The next stage opened on that night when you arrived at Cornishes’,
looking like a resuscitated ‘found drowned.’ Your account of your fall
into the canal and the immediately antecedent events made a deep
impression on me, though I did not, at the time, connect them with the
crime that we were investigating. But the whole affair was so abnormal
that it seemed to call for very careful consideration; and the more I
considered it the more abnormal did it appear.

“The theory of an accident could not be entertained, nor could the
dropping of that derrick have been a practical joke. Your objection
that no one was in sight had no weight, since there was a gate in the
wall by which a person could have made his escape. Some one had
attempted to murder you: and that attempt had been made immediately
after you had signed a cremation certificate. That was a very
impressive fact. As you know, it is my habit to look very narrowly at
cremation cases, for the reason that cremation offers great facilities
for certain kinds of crime. Poisoners—and particularly arsenic and
antimony poisoners—have repeatedly been convicted on evidence
furnished by an exhumed body. If such poisoners can get the corpse of
the victim cremated, they are virtually safe; for whatever suspicions
may thereafter arise, no conviction is possible, since the means of
proving the administration have been destroyed.

“Accordingly, I considered very carefully your account of the
proceedings, and as I did so strong suggestions of fraud arose in all
directions. There was, for instance, the inspection window in the
coffin. What was its object? Inspection windows are usually provided
only in cases where the condition of the body is such that it has to
be enclosed in a hermetically sealed coffin. But no such condition
existed in this case. There was no reason why the friends should not
have viewed the body in the usual manner in an open coffin. Again,
there was the curious alternation of you and the two witnesses. First
they went up and viewed deceased—through the window. Then, after a
considerable interval, you and Cropper went up and viewed deceased
through the window. Then you took out the body, examined it, and put
it back. Again, after a considerable interval, the witnesses went up a
second time and viewed the deceased—through the window.

“It was all rather queer and suspicious, especially when considered in
conjunction with the attempt on your life. Reflecting on the latter,
the question of the gate in the wall by the canal arose in my mind,
and I examined the map to see if I could locate it. It was not marked,
but the wharf was, and from this and your description it appeared
certain that the gate must be in the wall of the garden of Morris’
house. Here was another suspicious fact. For Morris—who could have let
you out by this side gate—sent you by a long, round-about route to the
tow-path. He knew which way you must be going—westward—and could have
slipped out of the gate and waited for you in the hut by the wharf. It
was possible, and there seemed to be no other explanation of what had
happened to you. Incidentally, I made another discovery. This map
showed that Morris’ house had two frontages, one on Field-street and
one on Market-street, and that you appeared to have been admitted by
the back entrance. Which was another slightly abnormal circumstance.

“I was very much puzzled by the affair. There was a distinct
suggestion that some fraud—some deception—had been practiced; that
what the spinsters saw through the coffin window was not the same
thing as that which you saw. And yet, what could the deception have
been? There was no question about the body. It was a real body. The
disease was undoubtedly genuine, and was, at least, the effective
cause of death. And the cremation was necessarily genuine; for though
you can bury an empty coffin, you can’t cremate one. The absence of
calcined bone would expose the fraud instantly.

“I considered the possibility of a second body; that of a murdered
person, for instance. But that would not do. For if a substitution had
been effected, there would still have been a redundant body to dispose
of and account for. Nothing would have been gained by the
substitution.

“But there was another possibility to which no such objection applied.
Assuming a fraud to have been perpetrated, here was a case adapted in
the most perfect manner to the use of a wax-work. Of course, a
full-length figure would have been impossible, because it would have
left no calcined bones. But the inspection window would have made it
unnecessary. A wax head would have done; or, better still, a wax mask,
which could have been simply placed over the face of the real corpse.
The more I thought about it the more was I impressed by the singular
suitability of the arrangements to the use of a wax mask. The
inspection window seemed to be designed for the very purpose—to
restrict the view to a mere face and to prevent the mask from being
touched and the fraud thus discovered—and the alternate inspections by
you and the spinsters were quite in keeping with a deception of that
kind.

“There was another very queer feature in the case. These people,
living at Hoxton, elected to employ a doctor who lived miles away at
Bloomsbury. Why did they not call in a neighbouring practitioner?
Also, they arranged the days and even the hours at which the visits
were to be made. Why? There was an evident suggestion of something
that the doctor was not to know—something or somebody that he was not
desired to see; that some preparations had to be made for his visits.

“Again, the note was addressed to Dr. Stephen Gray, not to Dr.
Cornish. They knew your name and address, although you had only just
come there, and they did not know Dr. Cornish, who was an old
resident. How was this? The only explanation seemed to be that they
had read the report of the inquest, or even been present at it. You
there stated publicly that your temporary address was at 61,
Mecklenburgh-square; that you were, in fact, a bird of passage; and
you gave your full name and your age. Now if any fraud was being
carried out, a bird of passage, who might be difficult to find later,
and a young one at that, was just the most suitable kind of doctor.

“To sum up the evidence at this stage: The circumstances, taken as a
whole, suggested in the strongest possible manner that there was
something fraudulent about this cremation. That fraud must be some
kind of substitution or personation with the purpose of obtaining a
certificate that some person had been cremated who had, in fact, not
been cremated. In that case it was nearly certain that the dead man
was not Simon Bendelow; for the certificates would be required to
agree with the false appearances, not with the true. There was a
suggestion—but only a speculative one—that the deception might have
been effected by means of a wax mask.

“There were, however, two objections. As to the wax mask, there was
the great difficulty of obtaining one. A perfect portrait mask could
have been obtained only either from an artist in Paris or from Julius
D’Arblay. The objection to the substitution theory was that there was
a real body—the body of a real person. If the cremation was in a name
which was not the name of that person, then the disappearance of that
person would remain unaccounted for.

“So you see that the whole theory of the fraud was purely conjectural.
There was not a single particle of direct evidence. You also see that
at two points there was a faint hint of a connexion between this case
and the murder of Mr. D’Arblay. These people seemed to have read of,
or attended at the inquest; and if a wax mask existed, it was quite
probably made by him.

“The next stage opens with the discovery of the mask at the studio.
But there are certain antecedent matters that must first be glanced
at. When the attempt was made to murder Marion, I asked myself four
questions: ‘1. Why did this man want to kill Marion? 2. What did he
come to the studio on the preceding night to search for? 3. Did he
find it, whatever it was? 4. Why did he delay so long to make the
search?’

“Let us begin with the second question. What had he come to look for?
The obvious suggestion was that he had come to get possession of some
incriminating object. But what was that object? Could it be the mould
of some forged coin or medal? I did not believe that it was. For since
the forgery or forgeries were extant, the moulds had no particular
significance; and what little significance they had applied to Mr.
D’Arblay, who was, technically, the forger. My feeling was that the
object was in some way connected with wax-work, and in all probability
with a wax portrait mask, as the most likely thing to be used for a
fraudulent purpose. And I need hardly say that the cremation case
lurked in the back of my mind.

“This view was supported by consideration of the third question. Did
he find what he came to seek? If he came for moulds of coins or
medals, he must have found them; for none remained. But the fact that
he came the next night and attempted to murder Marion—believing her to
be alone—suggested that his search had failed. And consideration of
the fourth question led—less decisively—to the same conclusion as to
the nature of the object sought.

“Why had he waited all this time to make the search? Why had he not
entered the studio immediately after the murder, when the place was
mostly unoccupied? The most probable explanation appeared to me to be
that he had only recently become aware that there was any
incriminating object in existence. Proceeding on the hypothesis that
he had commissioned Mr. D’Arblay to make a wax portrait mask, I
further assumed that he knew little of the process, and—perhaps
misunderstanding Mr. D’Arblay—confused the technique of wax with that
of plaster. In making a plaster mask from life—as you probably know by
this time—you have to destroy the mould to get the mask out. So when
the mask has been delivered to the client, there is nothing left.

“But to make a wax mask, you must first make one of plaster to serve
as a matrix from which to make the gelatine mould for the wax. Then,
when the wax mask has been delivered to the client, the plaster matrix
remains in the possession of the artist.

“The suggestion, then, was that this man had supposed that the mould
had been destroyed in making the mask, and that only some time after
the murder had he, in some way, discovered his mistake. When he did
discover it, he would see what an appalling blunder he had made; for
the plaster matrix was the likeness of his own face.

“You see that all this was highly speculative. It was all
hypothetical, and it might all have been totally fallacious. We still
had not a single solid fact; but all the hypothetical matter was
consistent, and each inference seemed to support the others.”

“And what,” I asked, “did you suppose was his motive for trying to
make away with Marion?”

“In the first place,” he replied, “I inferred that he looked on her as
a dangerous person who might have some knowledge of his transactions
with her father. This was probably the explanation of his attempt when
he cut the brake-wire of her bicycle. But the second, more desperate
attack, was made, I assume, when he had realized the existence of the
plaster mask, and supposed that she knew of it, too. If he had killed
her, he would probably have made another search with the studio fully
lighted up.

“To return to our inquiry. You see that I had a mass of hypothesis but
not a single real fact. But I still had a firm belief that a wax mask
had been made and that—if it had not been destroyed—there must be a
plaster mask somewhere in the studio. That was what I came to look for
that morning; and as it happens that I am some six inches taller than
Bendelow was, I was able to see what had been invisible to him. When I
discovered that mask, and when Marion had disclaimed all knowledge of
it, my hopes began to rise. But when you identified the face as that
of Morris, I felt that our problem was solved. In an instant, my
card-house of speculative hypothesis was changed into a solid edifice.
What had been but bare possibilities had now become so highly probable
that they were almost certainties.

“Let us consider what the finding of this mask proved—subject, of
course, to verification. It proved that a wax mask of Morris had been
made—for here was the matrix, varnished, as you will remember, in
readiness for the gelatine mould; and that mask was obviously obtained
for the purpose of a fraudulent cremation. And that mask was made by
Julius D’Arblay.

“What was the purpose of the fraud? It was perfectly obvious. Morris
was clearly the real Simon Bendelow, and the purpose of the fraud was
to create undeniable evidence that he was dead. But why did he want to
prove that he was dead? Well, we knew that he was the murderer of Van
Zellen, for whom the American police were searching, and he might be
in more danger than we knew. At any rate, a death certificate would
make him absolutely secure—on one condition—that the body was
cremated. Mere burial would not be enough; for an exhumation would
discover the fraud. But perfect security could be secured only by
destruction of all evidence of the fraud. Julius D’Arblay held such
evidence. Therefore Julius D’Arblay must be got rid of. Here, then,
was an amply sufficient motive for the murder. The only point which
remained obscure was the identity of your patient, and the means by
which his disappearance had been accounted for.

“My hypothesis, then, had been changed into highly probable theory.
The next stage was the necessary verification. I began with a rather
curious experiment. The man who tried to murder Marion could have been
no other than her father’s murderer. Then he must have been Morris.
But it seemed that he was totally unlike Morris, and the mask
evidently suggested to her no resemblance. But yet it was probable
that the man was Morris, for the striking features—the hook nose and
the heavy brows—would be easily ‘made up,’ especially at night. The
question was whether the face was Morris’s with these additions. I
determined to put that question to the test. And here Polton’s new
accomplishment came to our aid.

“First, with a pinch of clay, we built up on Morris’s mask a nose of
the shape described and slightly thickened the brows. Then Polton made
a gelatine mould, and from this produced a wax mask. He fitted it with
glass eyes and attached it to a rough plaster head, with ears which
were casts of my own painted. We then fixed on a moustache, beard, and
wig, and put on a shirt, collar, and jacket. It was an extraordinarily
crude affair, suggestive of the fifth of November. But it answered the
purpose, which was to produce a photograph; for we made the photograph
so bad—so confused and ill-focussed—that the crudities disappeared,
while the essential likeness remained. As you know, that photograph
was instantly recognized, without any sort of suggestion. So the first
test gave a positive result. Marion’s assailant was pretty certainly
Morris.”

“I should like to have seen Mr. Polton’s ’prentice effort,” said
Marion, who had been listening, enthralled by this description.

“You shall see it now,” Thorndyke replied with a smile. “It is in the
next room, concealed in a cupboard.”

He went out, and presently returned, carrying what looked like an
excessively crude hairdresser’s dummy, but a most extraordinarily
horrible and repulsive one. As he turned the face towards us, Marion
gave a little cry of horror and then tried to laugh—without very
striking success.

“It is a dreadful-looking thing!” she exclaimed; “and so hideously
like that fiend.” She gazed at it with the most extreme repugnance for
a while, and then said, apologetically: “I hope you won’t think me
very silly, but——”

“Of course I don’t,” Thorndyke interrupted. “It is going back to its
cupboard at once;” and with this he bore it away, returning in a few
moments with a smaller object, wrapped in a cloth, which he laid on
the table. “Another ‘exhibit,’ as they say in the courts,” he
explained, “which we shall want presently. Meanwhile we resume the
thread of our argument.

“The photograph of this wax-work, then, furnished corroboration of the
theory that Morris was the man whom we were seeking. My next move was
to inquire at Scotland Yard if there were any fresh developments of
the Van Zellen case. The answer was that there were; and
Superintendent Miller arranged to come and tell me all about them. You
were present at the interview and will remember what passed. His
information was highly important, not only by confirming my inference
that Bendelow was the murderer, but especially by disposing of the
difficulty connected with the disappearance of your patient. For now
there came into view a second man—Crile—who had died at Hoxton of an
abdominal cancer and had been duly buried; and when you were able to
give me this man’s address, a glance at the map and at the Post Office
Directory showed that the two men had died in the same house. This
fact, with the further facts that they had died of virtually the same
disease and within a day or two of the same date, left no reasonable
doubt that we were really dealing with one man, who had died and for
whom two death certificates, in different names, and two corresponding
burial orders, had been obtained. There was only one body, and that
was cremated in the name of Bendelow. It followed that the coffin
which was buried at Mr. Crile’s funeral must have been an empty
coffin. I was so confident that this must be so that I induced Miller
to apply for an exhumation, with the results that you know.

“There now remained only a single point requiring verification: the
question as to what face it was that those two ladies saw when they
looked into the coffin of Simon Bendelow. Here again Polton’s new
accomplishments came to our aid. From the plaster mask your apprentice
made a most realistic wax mask, which I offer for your critical
inspection.”

He unfolded the cloth and produced a mask of thin, yellowish wax and
of a most cadaverous aspect, which he handed to Marion.

“Yes,” she said approvingly, “it is an excellent piece of work; and
what beautiful eyelashes. They look exactly like real ones.”

“They are real ones,” Thorndyke explained with a chuckle.

She looked up at him inquiringly, and then, breaking into a ripple of
laughter, exclaimed: “Of course! They are his own! Oh! How like Mr.
Polton. But he was quite right, you know. He couldn’t have got the
effect any other way.”

“So he declared,” said Thorndyke. “Well, we hired a coffin and had an
inspection window put in the lid, and we got a black skull cap. We put
a dummy head in the coffin with a wig on it; we laid the mask where
the face should have been, and we adjusted the jaw-bandage and the
skull cap so as to cover up the edges of the mask, and we got the two
ladies here and showed them the coffin. When they had identified the
tenant as Mr. Bendelow, the verification was complete. The hypothesis
was now converted into ascertained fact, and all that remained to be
done was to lay hands on the murderer.”

“How did you find out where Morris was living?” I asked.

“Barber did that,” he replied. “When I learned that you were being
stalked, I employed Barber to shadow you. He, of course, observed
Morris on your track and followed him home.”

“That was what I supposed,” said I; and for a while we were all
silent. Presently Marion said: “It is all very involved and confusing.
Would you mind telling us exactly what happened?”

“In a direct narrative, you mean?” said he. “Yes, I will try to
reconstruct the events in the order of their occurrence. They began
with the murder of Van Zellen by Bendelow. There was no evidence
against him at the time, but he had to fly from America for other
reasons, and he left behind him incriminating traces which he knew
must presently be discovered, and which would fix the murder on him.
His friend, Crile, who fled with him, developed gastric cancer, and
had only a month or two to live. Then Bendelow decided that when Crile
should die, he would make believe to die at the same time. To this
end, he commissioned your father to make a wax mask—a portrait mask of
himself with the eyes closed. His wife must then have persuaded the
two spinsters to visit him—he, of course, taking to his bed when they
called, and being represented as a mortally sick man. Then he moved
from Hornsey to Hoxton, taking Crile with him. There he engaged two
doctors—Usher and Gray, both of whom lived at a distance—to attend
Crile, and to visit him on alternate days. Crile seems to have been
deaf, or, at least, hard of hearing, and was kept continuously under
the influence of morphia. Usher, who was employed by Mrs. Bendelow,
whom he knew as Mrs. Pepper, came to the front of the house, in
Field-street, to visit Mr. Crile, while Stephen—who was employed by
the Bendelows, whom he knew by the name of Morris—entered at the rear
of the house in Market-street, to visit the same man under the name of
Bendelow. About the time of the move Bendelow committed the murder in
order to destroy all evidence of the making of the wax mask.

“Eventually Crile died—or was finished off with an extra dose of
morphia—on a Thursday. Usher gave the certificate, and the funeral
took place on the Saturday. But previously—probably on the Friday
night—the coffin-lid was unscrewed by Bendelow, the body taken out and
replaced by a sack of sawdust with some lead pipe in it.

“On the Monday the body was again produced: this time as that of Simon
Bendelow, who was represented as having died on the Sunday afternoon.
It was put in a cremation coffin with a celluloid window in the lid.
The wax mask was placed over the face; the jaw-bandage and the skull
cap adjusted to hide the place where the wax face joined the real
face; and the two spinsters were brought up to see Mr. Bendelow in his
coffin. They looked in through the window, and, of course, saw the wax
mask of Bendelow. They then retired. The coffin-lid was taken off, the
wax mask removed, the coffin-lid screwed on again, and then the two
doctors were brought up. They removed the body from the coffin,
examined it, and put it back; and Bendelow—or Morris—put on the
coffin-lid.

“As soon as the doctors were gone, the coffin-lid was taken off again,
the wax mask was put back and adjusted, and the coffin-lid replaced
and screwed down finally. Then the two ladies were brought up again to
take a last look at poor Mr. Bendelow; not actually the last look,
for, at the funeral they peeped in at the window and saw the wax face
just before the coffin was passed through into the crematorium.”

“It was a diabolically clever scheme,” said I.

“It was,” he agreed. “It was perfectly convincing and consistent. If
you and those two ladies had been put in the witness-box, your
testimony and theirs would have been in complete agreement. They had
seen Simon Bendelow (whom they knew quite well) in his coffin. A few
minutes later, you had seen Simon Bendelow in his coffin, had taken
the body out, examined it thoroughly, and put it back, and had seen
the coffin-lid screwed down, and again a few minutes later, they had
looked in through the coffin-window and had again seen Simon Bendelow.
The evidence would appear to be beyond the possibility of a doubt.
Simon Bendelow was proved conclusively to be dead and cremated and was
doubly certified to have died from natural causes. Nothing could be
more complete.

“And yet,” he continued, after a pause, “while we are impressed by the
astonishing subtlety and ingenuity displayed, we are almost more
impressed by the fundamental stupidity exhibited along with it; a
stupidity that seems to be characteristic of this type of criminal.
For all the security that was gained by one part of the scheme was
destroyed by the idiotic efforts to guard against dangers that had no
existence. The murder was not only a foul crime; it was a technical
blunder of the most elementary kind. But for that murder, Bendelow
would now be alive and in unchallenged security. The cremation scheme
was completely successful. It deceived everybody. Even the two
detectives, though they felt vague suspicions, saw no loophole. They
had to accept the appearances at their face value.

“But it was the old story. The wrongdoer could not keep quiet. He must
be for ever making himself safer and yet more safe. And at each move,
he laid down fresh tracks. And so, in the end, he delivered himself
into our hands.”

He paused and for a while seemed to be absorbed in reflection on what
he had been telling us. Presently he looked up, and addressing Marion,
said in grave, quiet tones:

“We have ended our quest and we have secured retribution. Justice was
beyond our reach, for complete justice implies restitution; and to
attain that, the dead must have been recalled from the grave. But, at
least sometimes, out of evil cometh good. Surely it will seem to you,
when, in the happy years which I trust and confidently believe lie
before you, your thoughts turn back to the days of your mourning and
grief, that the beloved father, who, when living, made your happiness
his chief concern, even in dying, bequeathed to you a blessing.”


			       THE END



TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES

This transcription follows the text of the 1926 edition published by
A. L. Burt Company in 1927. However, the following alterations have
been made to correct what are believed to be unambiguous errors in the
text:

  * Four missing quotation marks have been restored.
  * The word “addess” has been corrected to “address” (Ch. I).
  * The word “precints” has been corrected to “precincts” (Ch. II).
  * The word “herb-side” has been corrected to “kerb-side” (Ch. IV).
  * The word “elphant” has been corrected to “elephant” (Ch. XIII).



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