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THE MYSTERY OF 31 NEW INN

BY R. AUSTIN FREEMAN

Author of "The Red Thumb Mark,"
"The Eye of Osiris," etc.




TO MY FRIEND

BERNARD E. BISHOP




Preface


Commenting upon one of my earlier novels, in respect of which I had
claimed to have been careful to adhere to common probabilities and to
have made use only of really practicable methods of investigation, a
critic remarked that this was of no consequence whatever, so long as the
story was amusing.

Few people, I imagine, will agree with him. To most readers, and
certainly to the kind of reader for whom an author is willing to take
trouble, complete realism in respect of incidents and methods is an
essential factor in maintaining the interest of a detective story. Hence
it may be worth while to mention that Thorndyke's method of producing
the track chart, described in Chapters II and III, has been actually
used in practice. It is a modification of one devised by me many years
ago when I was crossing Ashanti to the city of Bontuku, the whereabouts
of which in the far interior was then only vaguely known. My
instructions were to fix the positions of all towns, villages, rivers
and mountains as accurately as possible; but finding ordinary methods of
surveying impracticable in the dense forest which covers the whole
region, I adopted this simple and apparently rude method, checking the
distances whenever possible by astronomical observation.

The resulting route-map was surprisingly accurate, as shown by the
agreement of the outward and homeward tracks, It was published by the
Royal Geographical Society, and incorporated in the map of this region
compiled by the Intelligence Branch of the War Office, and it formed the
basis of the map which accompanied my volume of <i>Travels in Ashanti and
Jaman</i>. So that Thorndyke's plan must be taken as quite a practicable
one.

New Inn, the background of this story, and one of the last surviving
inns of Chancery, has recently passed away after upwards of four
centuries of newness. Even now, however, a few of the old, dismantled
houses (including perhaps, the mysterious 31) may be seen from the
Strand peeping over the iron roof of the skating rink which has
displaced the picturesque hall, the pension-room and the garden. The
postern gate, too, in Houghton Street still remains, though the arch is
bricked up inside. Passing it lately, I made the rough sketch which
appears on next page, and which shows all that is left of this pleasant
old London backwater.

R. A. F.

GRAVESEND




[Illustration: New Inn]




Contents


CHAPTER.

   I  THE MYSTERIOUS PATIENT
  II  THORNDYKE DEVISES A SCHEME
 III  "A CHIEL'S AMANG YE TAKIN' NOTES"
  IV  THE OFFICIAL VIEW
   V  JEFFREY BLACKMORE'S WILL
  VI  JEFFREY BLACKMORE, DECEASED
 VII  THE CUNEIFORM INSCRIPTION
VIII THE TRACK CHART
  IX  THE HOUSE OF MYSTERY
   X  THE HUNTER HUNTED
  XI  THE BLACKMORE CASE REVIEWED
 XII  THE PORTRAIT
XIII  THE STATEMENT OF SAMUEL WILKINS
 XIV  THORNDYKE LAYS THE MINE
  XV  THORNDYKE EXPLODES THE MINE
 XVI  AN EXPOSITION AND A TRAGEDY




Chapter I

The Mysterious Patient


As I look back through the years of my association with John Thorndyke,
I am able to recall a wealth of adventures and strange experiences such
as falls to the lot of very few men who pass their lives within hearing
of Big Ben. Many of these experiences I have already placed on record;
but it now occurs to me that I have hitherto left unrecorded one that
is, perhaps, the most astonishing and incredible of the whole series; an
adventure, too, that has for me the added interest that it inaugurated
my permanent association with my learned and talented friend, and marked
the close of a rather unhappy and unprosperous period of my life.

Memory, retracing the journey through the passing years to the
starting-point of those strange events, lands me in a shabby little
ground-floor room in a house near the Walworth end of Lower Kennington
Lane. A couple of framed diplomas on the wall, a card of Snellen's
test-types and a stethoscope lying on the writing-table, proclaim it a
doctor's consulting-room; and my own position in the round-backed chair
at the said table, proclaims me the practitioner in charge.

It was nearly nine o'clock. The noisy little clock on the mantelpiece
announced the fact, and, by its frantic ticking, seemed as anxious as I
to get the consultation hours over. I glanced wistfully at my
mud-splashed boots and wondered if I might yet venture to assume the
slippers that peeped coyly from under the shabby sofa. I even allowed my
thoughts to wander to the pipe that reposed in my coat pocket. Another
minute and I could turn down the surgery gas and shut the outer door.
The fussy little clock gave a sort of preliminary cough or hiccup, as if
it should say: "Ahem! ladies and gentlemen, I am about to strike." And
at that moment, the bottle-boy opened the door and, thrusting in his
head, uttered the one word: "Gentleman."

Extreme economy of words is apt to result in ambiguity. But I
understood. In Kennington Lane, the race of mere men and women appeared
to be extinct. They were all gentlemen--unless they were ladies or
children--even as the Liberian army was said to consist entirely of
generals. Sweeps, labourers, milkmen, costermongers--all were
impartially invested by the democratic bottle-boy with the rank and
title of <i>armigeri</i>. The present nobleman appeared to favour the
aristocratic recreation of driving a cab or job-master's carriage, and,
as he entered the room, he touched his hat, closed the door somewhat
carefully, and then, without remark, handed me a note which bore the
superscription "Dr. Stillbury."

"You understand," I said, as I prepared to open the envelope, "that I
am not Dr. Stillbury. He is away at present and I am looking after his
patients."

"It doesn't signify," the man replied. "You'll do as well."

On this, I opened the envelope and read the note, which was quite brief,
and, at first sight, in no way remarkable.

"DEAR SIR," it ran, "Would you kindly come and see a friend of mine who
is staying with me? The bearer of this will give you further particulars
and convey you to the house. Yours truly, H. WEISS."

There was no address on the paper and no date, and the writer was
unknown to me.

"This note," I said, "refers to some further particulars. What are
they?"

The messenger passed his hand over his hair with a gesture of
embarrassment. "It's a ridicklus affair," he said, with a contemptuous
laugh. "If I had been Mr. Weiss, I wouldn't have had nothing to do with
it. The sick gentleman, Mr. Graves, is one of them people what can't
abear doctors. He's been ailing now for a week or two, but nothing would
induce him to see a doctor. Mr. Weiss did everything he could to
persuade him, but it was no go. He wouldn't. However, it seems Mr. Weiss
threatened to send for a medical man on his own account, because, you
see, he was getting a bit nervous; and then Mr. Graves gave way. But
only on one condition. He said the doctor was to come from a distance
and was not to be told who he was or where he lived or anything about
him; and he made Mr. Weiss promise to keep to that condition before he'd
let him send. So Mr. Weiss promised, and, of course, he's got to keep
his word."

"But," I said, with a smile, "you've just told me his name--if his name
really is Graves."

"You can form your own opinion on that," said the coachman.

"And," I added, "as to not being told where he lives, I can see that for
myself. I'm not blind, you know."

"We'll take the risk of what you see," the man replied. "The question
is, will you take the job on?"

Yes; that was the question, and I considered it for some time before
replying. We medical men are pretty familiar with the kind of person who
"can't abear doctors," and we like to have as little to do with him as
possible. He is a thankless and unsatisfactory patient. Intercourse with
him is unpleasant, he gives a great deal of trouble and responds badly
to treatment. If this had been my own practice, I should have declined
the case off-hand. But it was not my practice. I was only a deputy. I
could not lightly refuse work which would yield a profit to my
principal, unpleasant though it might be.

As I turned the matter over in my mind, I half unconsciously scrutinized
my visitor--somewhat to his embarrassment--and I liked his appearance
as little as I liked his mission. He kept his station near the door,
where the light was dim--for the illumination was concentrated on the
table and the patient's chair--but I could see that he had a somewhat
sly, unprepossessing face and a greasy, red moustache that seemed out of
character with his rather perfunctory livery; though this was mere
prejudice. He wore a wig, too--not that there was anything discreditable
in that--and the thumb-nail of the hand that held his hat bore
disfiguring traces of some injury--which, again, though unsightly, in no
wise reflected on his moral character. Lastly, he watched me keenly with
a mixture of anxiety and sly complacency that I found distinctly
unpleasant. In a general way, he impressed me disagreeably. I did not
like the look of him at all; but nevertheless I decided to undertake the
case.

"I suppose," I answered, at length, "it is no affair of mine who the
patient is or where he lives. But how do you propose to manage the
business? Am I to be led to the house blindfolded, like the visitor to
the bandit's cave?"

The man grinned slightly and looked very decidedly relieved.

"No, sir," he answered; "we ain't going to blindfold you. I've got a
carriage outside. I don't think you'll see much out of that."

"Very well," I rejoined, opening the door to let him out, "I'll be with
you in a minute. I suppose you can't give me any idea as to what is the
matter with the patient?"

"No, sir, I can't," he replied; and he went out to see to the carriage.

I slipped into a bag an assortment of emergency drugs and a few
diagnostic instruments, turned down the gas and passed out through the
surgery. The carriage was standing at the kerb, guarded by the coachman
and watched with deep interest by the bottle-boy. I viewed it with
mingled curiosity and disfavour. It was a kind of large brougham, such
as is used by some commercial travellers, the usual glass windows being
replaced by wooden shutters intended to conceal the piles of
sample-boxes, and the doors capable of being locked from outside with a
railway key.

As I emerged from the house, the coachman unlocked the door and held it
open.

"How long will the journey take?" I asked, pausing with my foot on the
step.

The coachman considered a moment or two and replied:

"It took me, I should say, nigh upon half an hour to get here."

This was pleasant hearing. A half an hour each way and a half an hour at
the patient's house. At that rate it would be half-past ten before I was
home again, and then it was quite probable that I should find some other
untimely messenger waiting on the doorstep. With a muttered anathema on
the unknown Mr. Graves and the unrestful life of a locum tenens, I
stepped into the uninviting vehicle. Instantly the coachman slammed the
door and turned the key, leaving me in total darkness.

One comfort was left to me; my pipe was in my pocket. I made shift to
load it in the dark, and, having lit it with a wax match, took the
opportunity to inspect the interior of my prison. It was a shabby
affair. The moth-eaten state of the blue cloth cushions seemed to
suggest that it had been long out of regular use; the oil-cloth
floor-covering was worn into holes; ordinary internal fittings there
were none. But the appearances suggested that the crazy vehicle had been
prepared with considerable forethought for its present use. The inside
handles of the doors had apparently been removed; the wooden shutters
were permanently fixed in their places; and a paper label, stuck on the
transom below each window, had a suspicious appearance of having been
put there to cover the painted name and address of the job-master or
livery-stable keeper who had originally owned the carriage.

These observations gave me abundant food for reflection. This Mr. Weiss
must be an excessively conscientious man if he had considered that his
promise to Mr. Graves committed him to such extraordinary precautions.
Evidently no mere following of the letter of the law was enough to
satisfy his sensitive conscience. Unless he had reasons for sharing Mr.
Graves's unreasonable desire for secrecy--for one could not suppose that
these measures of concealment had been taken by the patient himself.

The further suggestions that evolved themselves from this consideration
were a little disquieting. Whither was I being carried and for what
purpose? The idea that I was bound for some den of thieves where I
might be robbed and possibly murdered, I dismissed with a smile. Thieves
do not make elaborately concerted plans to rob poor devils like me.
Poverty has its compensations in that respect. But there were other
possibilities. Imagination backed by experience had no difficulty in
conjuring up a number of situations in which a medical man might be
called upon, with or without coercion, either to witness or actively to
participate in the commission of some unlawful act.

Reflections of this kind occupied me pretty actively if not very
agreeably during this strange journey. And the monotony was relieved,
too, by other distractions. I was, for example, greatly interested to
notice how, when one sense is in abeyance, the other senses rouse into a
compensating intensity of perception. I sat smoking my pipe in darkness
which was absolute save for the dim glow from the smouldering tobacco in
the bowl, and seemed to be cut off from all knowledge of the world
without. But yet I was not. The vibrations of the carriage, with its
hard springs and iron-tired wheels, registered accurately and plainly
the character of the roadway. The harsh rattle of granite setts, the
soft bumpiness of macadam, the smooth rumble of wood-pavement, the
jarring and swerving of crossed tram-lines; all were easily recognizable
and together sketched the general features of the neighbourhood through
which I was passing. And the sense of hearing filled in the details. Now
the hoot of a tug's whistle told of proximity to the river. A sudden
and brief hollow reverberation announced the passage under a railway
arch (which, by the way, happened several times during the journey);
and, when I heard the familiar whistle of a railway-guard followed by
the quick snorts of a skidding locomotive, I had as clear a picture of a
heavy passenger-train moving out of a station as if I had seen it in
broad daylight.

I had just finished my pipe and knocked out the ashes on the heel of my
boot, when the carriage slowed down and entered a covered way--as I
could tell by the hollow echoes. Then I distinguished the clang of heavy
wooden gates closed behind me, and a moment or two later the carriage
door was unlocked and opened. I stepped out blinking into a covered
passage paved with cobbles and apparently leading down to a mews; but it
was all in darkness, and I had no time to make any detailed
observations, as the carriage had drawn up opposite a side door which
was open and in which stood a woman holding a lighted candle.

"Is that the doctor?" she asked, speaking with a rather pronounced
German accent and shading the candle with her hand as she peered at me.

I answered in the affirmative, and she then exclaimed:

"I am glad you have come. Mr. Weiss will be so relieved. Come in,
please."

I followed her across a dark passage into a dark room, where she set the
candle down on a chest of drawers and turned to depart. At the door,
however, she paused and looked back.

"It is not a very nice room to ask you into," she said. "We are very
untidy just now, but you must excuse us. We have had so much anxiety
about poor Mr. Graves."

"He has been ill some time, then?"

"Yes. Some little time. At intervals, you know. Sometimes better,
sometimes not so well."

As she spoke, she gradually backed out into the passage but did not go
away at once. I accordingly pursued my inquiries.

"He has not been seen by any doctor, has he?"

"No," she answered, "he has always refused to see a doctor. That has
been a great trouble to us. Mr. Weiss has been very anxious about him.
He will be so glad to hear that you have come. I had better go and tell
him. Perhaps you will kindly sit down until he is able to come to you,"
and with this she departed on her mission.

It struck me as a little odd that, considering his anxiety and the
apparent urgency of the case, Mr. Weiss should not have been waiting to
receive me. And when several minutes elapsed without his appearing, the
oddness of the circumstance impressed me still more. Having no desire,
after the journey in the carriage, to sit down, I whiled away the time
by an inspection of the room. And a very curious room it was; bare,
dirty, neglected and, apparently, unused. A faded carpet had been flung
untidily on the floor. A small, shabby table stood in the middle of the
room; and beyond this, three horsehair-covered chairs and a chest of
drawers formed the entire set of furniture. No pictures hung on the
mouldy walls, no curtains covered the shuttered windows, and the dark
drapery of cobwebs that hung from the ceiling to commemorate a long and
illustrious dynasty of spiders hinted at months of neglect and disuse.

The chest of drawers--an incongruous article of furniture for what
seemed to be a dining-room--as being the nearest and best lighted object
received most of my attention. It was a fine old chest of nearly black
mahogany, very battered and in the last stage of decay, but originally a
piece of some pretensions. Regretful of its fallen estate, I looked it
over with some interest and had just observed on its lower corner a
little label bearing the printed inscription "Lot 201" when I heard
footsteps descending the stairs. A moment later the door opened and a
shadowy figure appeared standing close by the threshold.

"Good evening, doctor," said the stranger, in a deep, quiet voice and
with a distinct, though not strong, German accent. "I must apologize for
keeping you waiting."

I acknowledged the apology somewhat stiffly and asked: "You are Mr.
Weiss, I presume?"

"Yes, I am Mr. Weiss. It is very good of you to come so far and so late
at night and to make no objection to the absurd conditions that my poor
friend has imposed."

"Not at all," I replied. "It is my business to go when and where I am
wanted, and it is not my business to inquire into the private affairs of
my patients."

"That is very true, sir," he agreed cordially, "and I am much obliged
to you for taking that very proper view of the case. I pointed that out
to my friend, but he is not a very reasonable man. He is very secretive
and rather suspicious by nature."

"So I inferred. And as to his condition; is he seriously ill?"

"Ah," said Mr. Weiss, "that is what I want you to tell me. I am very
much puzzled about him."

"But what is the nature of his illness? What does he complain of?"

"He makes very few complaints of any kind although he is obviously ill.
But the fact is that he is hardly ever more than half awake. He lies in
a kind of dreamy stupor from morning to night."

This struck me as excessively strange and by no means in agreement with
the patient's energetic refusal to see a doctor.

"But," I asked, "does he never rouse completely?"

"Oh, yes," Mr. Weiss answered quickly; "he rouses from time to time and
is then quite rational, and, as you may have gathered, rather obstinate.
That is the peculiar and puzzling feature in the case; this alternation
between a state of stupor and an almost normal and healthy condition.
But perhaps you had better see him and judge for yourself. He had a
rather severe attack just now. Follow me, please. The stairs are rather
dark."

The stairs were very dark, and I noticed that they were without any
covering of carpet, or even oil-cloth, so that our footsteps resounded
dismally as if we were in an empty house. I stumbled up after my guide,
feeling my way by the hand-rail, and on the first floor followed him
into a room similar in size to the one below and very barely furnished,
though less squalid than the other. A single candle at the farther end
threw its feeble light on a figure in the bed, leaving the rest of the
room in a dim twilight.

As Mr. Weiss tiptoed into the chamber, a woman--the one who had spoken
to me below--rose from a chair by the bedside and quietly left the room
by a second door. My conductor halted, and looking fixedly at the figure
in the bed, called out:

"Philip! Philip! Here is the doctor come to see you."

He paused for a moment or two, and, receiving no answer, said: "He seems
to be dozing as usual. Will you go and see what you can make of him?"

I stepped forward to the bedside, leaving Mr. Weiss at the end of the
room near the door by which we had entered, where he remained, slowly
and noiselessly pacing backwards and forwards in the semi-obscurity. By
the light of the candle I saw an elderly man with good features and a
refined, intelligent and even attractive face, but dreadfully emaciated,
bloodless and sallow. He lay quite motionless except for the scarcely
perceptible rise and fall of his chest; his eyes were nearly closed, his
features relaxed, and, though he was not actually asleep, he seemed to
be in a dreamy, somnolent, lethargic state, as if under the influence of
some narcotic.

I watched him for a minute or so, timing his slow breathing by my
watch, and then suddenly and sharply addressed him by name; but the only
response was a slight lifting of the eyelids, which, after a brief,
drowsy glance at me, slowly subsided to their former position.

I now proceeded to make a physical examination. First, I felt his pulse,
grasping his wrist with intentional brusqueness in the hope of rousing
him from his stupor. The beats were slow, feeble and slightly irregular,
giving clear evidence, if any were needed, of his generally lowered
vitality. I listened carefully to his heart, the sounds of which were
very distinct through the thin walls of his emaciated chest, but found
nothing abnormal beyond the feebleness and uncertainty of its action.
Then I turned my attention to his eyes, which I examined closely with
the aid of the candle and my ophthalmoscope lens, raising the lids
somewhat roughly so as to expose the whole of the irises. He submitted
without resistance to my rather ungentle handling of these sensitive
structures, and showed no signs of discomfort even when I brought the
candle-flame to within a couple of inches of his eyes.

But this extraordinary tolerance of light was easily explained by closer
examination; for the pupils were contracted to such an extreme degree
that only the very minutest point of black was visible at the centre of
the grey iris. Nor was this the only abnormal peculiarity of the sick
man's eyes. As he lay on his back, the right iris sagged down slightly
towards its centre, showing a distinctly concave surface; and, when I
contrived to produce a slight but quick movement of the eyeball, a
perceptible undulatory movement could be detected. The patient had, in
fact, what is known as a tremulous iris, a condition that is seen in
cases where the crystalline lens has been extracted for the cure of
cataract, or where it has become accidentally displaced, leaving the
iris unsupported. In the present case, the complete condition of the
iris made it clear that the ordinary extraction operation had not been
performed, nor was I able, on the closest inspection with the aid of my
lens, to find any trace of the less common "needle operation." The
inference was that the patient had suffered from the accident known as
"dislocation of the lens"; and this led to the further inference that he
was almost or completely blind in the right eye.

This conclusion was, indeed, to some extent negatived by a deep
indentation on the bridge of the nose, evidently produced by spectacles,
and by marks which I looked for and found behind the ears, corresponding
to the hooks or "curl sides" of the glasses. For those spectacles which
are fitted with curl sides to hook over the ears are usually intended to
be worn habitually, and this agreed with the indentation on the nose;
which was deeper than would have been accounted for by the merely
occasional use of spectacles for reading. But if only one eye was
useful, a single eye-glass would have answered the purpose; not that
there was any weight in this objection, for a single eye-glass worn
constantly would be much less convenient than a pair of hook-sided
spectacles.

As to the nature of the patient's illness, only one opinion seemed
possible. It was a clear and typical case of opium or morphine
poisoning. To this conclusion all his symptoms seemed to point with
absolute certainty. The coated tongue, which he protruded slowly and
tremulously in response to a command bawled in his ear; his yellow skin
and ghastly expression; his contracted pupils and the stupor from which
he could hardly be roused by the roughest handling and which yet did not
amount to actual insensibility; all these formed a distinct and coherent
group of symptoms, not only pointing plainly to the nature of the drug,
but also suggesting a very formidable dose.

But this conclusion in its turn raised a very awkward and difficult
question. If a large--a poisonous--dose of the drug had been taken, how,
and by whom had that dose been administered? The closest scrutiny of
the patient's arms and legs failed to reveal a single mark such as would
be made by a hypodermic needle. This man was clearly no common
morphinomaniac; and in the absence of the usual sprinkling of
needlemarks, there was nothing to show or suggest whether the drug had
been taken voluntarily by the patient himself or administered by someone
else.

And then there remained the possibility that I might, after all, be
mistaken in my diagnosis. I felt pretty confident. But the wise man
always holds a doubt in reserve. And, in the present case, having regard
to the obviously serious condition of the patient, such a doubt was
eminently disturbing. Indeed, as I pocketed my stethoscope and took a
last look at the motionless, silent figure, I realized that my position
was one of extraordinary difficulty and perplexity. On the one hand my
suspicions--aroused, naturally enough, by the very unusual circumstances
that surrounded my visit--inclined me to extreme reticence; while, on
the other, it was evidently my duty to give any information that might
prove serviceable to the patient.

As I turned away from the bed Mr. Weiss stopped his slow pacing to and
fro and faced me. The feeble light of the candle now fell on him, and I
saw him distinctly for the first time. He did not impress me favourably.
He was a thick-set, round-shouldered man, a typical fair German with
tow-coloured hair, greased and brushed down smoothly, a large, ragged,
sandy beard and coarse, sketchy features. His nose was large and thick
with a bulbous end, and inclined to a reddish purple, a tint which
extended to the adjacent parts of his face as if the colour had run. His
eyebrows were large and beetling, overhanging deep-set eyes, and he wore
a pair of spectacles which gave him a somewhat owlish expression. His
exterior was unprepossessing, and I was in a state of mind that rendered
me easily receptive of an unfavourable impression.

"Well," he said, "what do you make of him?" I hesitated, still perplexed
by the conflicting necessities of caution and frankness, but at length
replied:

"I think rather badly of him, Mr. Weiss. He is in a very low state."

"Yes, I can see that. But have you come to any decision as to the nature
of his illness?"

There was a tone of anxiety and suppressed eagerness in the question
which, while it was natural enough in the circumstances, by no means
allayed my suspicions, but rather influenced me on the side of caution.

"I cannot give a very definite opinion at present," I replied guardedly.
"The symptoms are rather obscure and might very well indicate several
different conditions. They might be due to congestion of the brain, and,
if no other explanation were possible, I should incline to that view.
The alternative is some narcotic poison, such as opium or morphia."

"But that is quite impossible. There is no such drug in the house, and
as he never leaves his room now, he could not get any from outside."

"What about the servants?" I asked.

"There are no servants excepting my housekeeper, and she is absolutely
trustworthy."

"He might have some store of the drug that you are not aware of. Is he
left alone much?"

"Very seldom indeed. I spend as much time with him as I can, and when I
am not able to be in the room, Mrs Schallibaum, my housekeeper, sits
with him."

"Is he often as drowsy as he is now?"

"Oh, very often; in fact, I should say that is his usual condition. He
rouses up now and again, and then he is quite lucid and natural for,
perhaps, an hour or so; but presently he becomes drowsy again and doses
off, and remains asleep, or half asleep, for hours on end. Do you know
of any disease that takes people in that way?"

"No," I answered. "The symptoms are not exactly like those of any
disease that is known to me. But they are much very like those of opium
poisoning."

"But, my dear sir," Mr. Weiss retorted impatiently, "since it is clearly
impossible that it can be opium poisoning, it must be something else.
Now, what else can it be? You were speaking of congestion of the brain."

"Yes. But the objection to that is the very complete recovery that seems
to take place in the intervals."

"I would not say very complete," said Mr. Weiss. "The recovery is rather
comparative. He is lucid and fairly natural in his manner, but he is
still dull and lethargic. He does not, for instance, show any desire to
go out, or even to leave his room."

I pondered uncomfortably on these rather contradictory statements.
Clearly Mr. Weiss did not mean to entertain the theory of opium
poisoning; which was natural enough if he had no knowledge of the drug
having been used. But still--

"I suppose," said Mr. Weiss, "you have experience of sleeping sickness?"

The suggestion startled me. I had not. Very few people had. At that time
practically nothing was known about the disease. It was a mere
pathological curiosity, almost unheard of excepting by a few
practitioners in remote parts of Africa, and hardly referred to in the
text-books. Its connection with the trypanosome-bearing insects was as
yet unsuspected, and, to me, its symptoms were absolutely unknown.

"No, I have not," I replied. "The disease is nothing more than a name to
me. But why do you ask? Has Mr. Graves been abroad?"

"Yes. He has been travelling for the last three or four years, and I
know that he spent some time recently in West Africa, where this disease
occurs. In fact, it was from him that I first heard about it."

This was a new fact. It shook my confidence in my diagnosis very
considerably, and inclined me to reconsider my suspicions. If Mr. Weiss
was lying to me, he now had me at a decided disadvantage.

"What do you think?" he asked. "Is it possible that this can be sleeping
sickness?"

"I should not like to say that it is impossible," I replied. "The
disease is practically unknown to me. I have never practised out of
England and have had no occasion to study it. Until I have looked the
subject up, I should not be in a position to give an opinion. Of course,
if I could see Mr. Graves in one of what we may call his 'lucid
intervals' I should be able to form a better idea. Do you think that
could be managed?"

"It might. I see the importance of it and will certainly do my best; but
he is a difficult man; a very difficult man. I sincerely hope it is not
sleeping sickness."

"Why?"

"Because--as I understood from him--that disease is invariably fatal,
sooner or later. There seem to be no cure. Do you think you will be able
to decide when you see him again?"

"I hope so," I replied. "I shall look up the authorities and see exactly
what the symptoms are--that is, so far as they are known; but my
impression is that there is very little information available."

"And in the meantime?"

"We will give him some medicine and attend to his general condition, and
you had better let me see him again as soon as possible." I was about to
say that the effect of the medicine itself might throw some light on the
patient's condition, but, as I proposed to treat him for morphine
poisoning, I thought it wiser to keep this item of information to
myself. Accordingly, I confined myself to a few general directions as to
the care of the patient, to which Mr. Weiss listened attentively. "And,"
I concluded, "we must not lose sight of the opium question. You had
better search the room carefully and keep a close watch on the patient,
especially during his intervals of wakefulness."

"Very well, doctor," Mr. Weiss replied, "I will do all that you tell me
and I will send for you again as soon as possible, if you do not object
to poor Graves's ridiculous conditions. And now, if you will allow me to
pay your fee, I will go and order the carriage while you are writing the
prescription."

"There is no need for a prescription," I said. "I will make up some
medicine and give it to the coachman."

Mr. Weiss seemed inclined to demur to this arrangement, but I had my own
reasons for insisting on it. Modern prescriptions are not difficult to
read, and I did not wish Mr. Weiss to know what treatment the patient
was having.

As soon as I was left alone, I returned to the bedside and once more
looked down at the impassive figure. And as I looked, my suspicions
revived. It was very like morphine poisoning; and, if it was morphine,
it was no common, medicinal dose that had been given. I opened my bag
and took out my hypodermic case from which I extracted a little tube of
atropine tabloids. Shaking out into my hand a couple of the tiny discs,
I drew down the patient's under-lip and slipped the little tablets under
his tongue. Then I quickly replaced the tube and dropped the case into
my bag; and I had hardly done so when the door opened softly and the
housekeeper entered the room.

"How do you find Mr. Graves?" she asked in what I thought a very
unnecessarily low tone, considering the patient's lethargic state.

"He seems to be very ill," I answered.

"So!" she rejoined, and added: "I am sorry to hear that. We have been
anxious about him."

She seated herself on the chair by the bedside, and, shading the candle
from the patient's face--and her own, too--produced from a bag that hung
from her waist a half-finished stocking and began to knit silently and
with the skill characteristic of the German housewife. I looked at her
attentively (though she was so much in the shadow that I could see her
but indistinctly) and somehow her appearance prepossessed me as little
as did that of the other members of the household. Yet she was not an
ill-looking woman. She had an excellent figure, and the air of a person
of good social position; her features were good enough and her
colouring, although a little unusual, was not unpleasant. Like Mr.
Weiss, she had very fair hair, greased, parted in the middle and brushed
down as smoothly as the painted hair of a Dutch doll. She appeared to
have no eyebrows at all--owing, no doubt, to the light colour of the
hair--and the doll-like character was emphasized by her eyes, which were
either brown or dark grey, I could not see which. A further peculiarity
consisted in a "habit spasm," such as one often sees in nervous
children; a periodical quick jerk of the head, as if a cap-string or
dangling lock were being shaken off the cheek. Her age I judged to be
about thirty-five.

The carriage, which one might have expected to be waiting, seemed to
take some time in getting ready. I sat, with growing impatience,
listening to the sick man's soft breathing and the click of the
housekeeper's knitting-needles. I wanted to get home, not only for my
own sake; the patient's condition made it highly desirable that the
remedies should be given as quickly as possible. But the minutes dragged
on, and I was on the point of expostulating when a bell rang on the
landing.

"The carriage is ready," said Mrs. Schallibaum. "Let me light you down
the stairs."

She rose, and, taking the candle, preceded me to the head of the stairs,
where she stood holding the light over the baluster-rail as I descended
and crossed the passage to the open side door. The carriage was drawn up
in the covered way as I could see by the faint glimmer of the distant
candle; which also enabled me dimly to discern the coachman standing
close by in the shadow. I looked round, rather expecting to see Mr.
Weiss, but, as he made no appearance, I entered the carriage. The door
was immediately banged to and locked, and I then heard the heavy bolts
of the gates withdrawn and the loud creaking of hinges. The carriage
moved out slowly and stopped; the gates slammed to behind me; I felt the
lurch as the coachman climbed to his seat and we started forward.

My reflections during the return journey were the reverse of agreeable.
I could not rid myself of the conviction that I was being involved in
some very suspicious proceedings. It was possible, of course, that this
feeling was due to the strange secrecy that surrounded my connection
with this case; that, had I made my visit under ordinary conditions, I
might have found in the patient's symptoms nothing to excite suspicion
or alarm. It might be so, but that consideration did not comfort me.

Then, my diagnosis might be wrong. It might be that this was, in
reality, a case of some brain affection accompanied by compression, such
as slow haemorrhage, abscess, tumour or simple congestion. These cases
were very difficult at times. But the appearances in this one did not
consistently agree with the symptoms accompanying any of these
conditions. As to sleeping sickness, it was, perhaps a more hopeful
suggestion, but I could not decide for or against it until I had more
knowledge; and against this view was the weighty fact that the symptoms
did exactly agree with the theory of morphine poisoning.

But even so, there was no conclusive evidence of any criminal act. The
patient might be a confirmed opium-eater, and the symptoms heightened by
deliberate deception. The cunning of these unfortunates is proverbial
and is only equalled by their secretiveness and mendacity. It would be
quite possible for this man to feign profound stupor so long as he was
watched, and then, when left alone for a few minutes, to nip out of bed
and help himself from some secret store of the drug. This would be quite
in character with his objection to seeing a doctor and his desire for
secrecy. But still, I did not believe it to be the true explanation. In
spite of all the various alternative possibilities, my suspicions came
back to Mr. Weiss and the strange, taciturn woman, and refused to budge.

For all the circumstances of the case were suspicious. The elaborate
preparations implied by the state of the carriage in which I was
travelling; the make-shift appearance of the house; the absence of
ordinary domestic servants, although a coachman was kept; the evident
desire of Mr. Weiss and the woman to avoid thorough inspection of their
persons; and, above all, the fact that the former had told me a
deliberate lie. For he had lied, beyond all doubt. His statement as to
the almost continuous stupor was absolutely irreconcilable with his
other statement as to the patient's wilfulness and obstinacy and even
more irreconcilable with the deep and comparatively fresh marks of the
spectacles on the patient's nose. That man had certainly worn spectacles
within twenty-four hours, which he would hardly have done if he had been
in a state bordering on coma.

My reflections were interrupted by the stopping of the carriage. The
door was unlocked and thrown open, and I emerged from my dark and stuffy
prison opposite my own house.

"I will let you have the medicine in a minute or two," I said to the
coachman; and, as I let myself in with my latch-key, my mind came back
swiftly from the general circumstances of the case to the very critical
condition of the patient. Already I was regretting that I had not taken
more energetic measures to rouse him and restore his flagging vitality;
for it would be a terrible thing if he should take a turn for the worse
and die before the coachman returned with the remedies. Spurred on by
this alarming thought, I made up the medicines quickly and carried the
hastily wrapped bottles out to the man, whom I found standing by the
horse's head.

"Get back as quickly as you can," I said, "and tell Mr. Weiss to lose no
time in giving the patient the draught in the small bottle. The
directions are on the labels."

The coachman took the packages from me without reply, climbed to his
seat, touched the horse with his whip and drove off at a rapid pace
towards Newington Butts.

The little clock in the consulting-room showed that it was close on
eleven; time for a tired G.P. to be thinking of bed. But I was not
sleepy. Over my frugal supper I found myself taking up anew the thread
of my meditations, and afterwards, as I smoked my last pipe by the
expiring surgery fire, the strange and sinister features of the case
continued to obtrude themselves on my notice. I looked up Stillbury's
little reference library for information on the subject of sleeping
sickness, but learned no more than that it was "a rare and obscure
disease of which very little was known at present." I read up morphine
poisoning and was only further confirmed in the belief that my diagnosis
was correct; which would have been more satisfactory if the
circumstances had been different.

For the interest of the case was not merely academic. I was in a
position of great difficulty and responsibility and had to decide on a
course of action. What ought I to do? Should I maintain the professional
secrecy to which I was tacitly committed, or ought I to convey a hint to
the police?

Suddenly, and with a singular feeling of relief, I bethought myself of
my old friend and fellow-student, John Thorndyke, now an eminent
authority on Medical Jurisprudence. I had been associated with him
temporarily in one case as his assistant, and had then been deeply
impressed by his versatile learning, his acuteness and his marvellous
resourcefulness. Thorndyke was a barrister in extensive practice, and so
would be able to tell me at once what was my duty from a legal point of
view; and, as he was also a doctor of medicine, he would understand the
exigencies of medical practice. If I could find time to call at the
Temple and lay the case before him, all my doubts and difficulties would
be resolved.

Anxiously, I opened my visiting-list to see what kind of day's work was
in store for me on the morrow. It was not a heavy day, even allowing for
one or two extra calls in the morning, but yet I was doubtful whether it
would allow of my going so far from my district, until my eye caught,
near the foot of the page, the name of Burton. Now Mr. Burton lived in
one of the old houses on the east side of Bouverie Street, less than
five minutes' walk from Thorndyke's chambers in King's Bench Walk; and
he was, moreover, a "chronic" who could safely be left for the last.
When I had done with Mr. Burton I could look in on my friend with a very
good chance of catching him on his return from the hospital. I could
allow myself time for quite a long chat with him, and, by taking a
hansom, still get back in good time for the evening's work.

This was a great comfort. At the prospect of sharing my responsibilities
with a friend on whose judgment I could so entirely rely, my
embarrassments seemed to drop from me in a moment. Having entered the
engagement in my visiting-list, I rose, in greatly improved spirits, and
knocked out my pipe just as the little clock banged out impatiently the
hour of midnight.




Chapter II

Thorndyke Devises a Scheme


As I entered the Temple by the Tudor Street gate the aspect of the place
smote my senses with an air of agreeable familiarity. Here had I spent
many a delightful hour when working with Thorndyke at the remarkable
Hornby case, which the newspapers had called "The Case of the Red Thumb
Mark"; and here had I met the romance of my life, the story whereof is
told elsewhere. The place was thus endeared to me by pleasant
recollections of a happy past, and its associations suggested hopes of
happiness yet to come and in the not too far distant future.

My brisk tattoo on the little brass knocker brought to the door no less
a person than Thorndyke himself; and the warmth of his greeting made me
at once proud and ashamed. For I had not only been an absentee; I had
been a very poor correspondent.

"The prodigal has returned, Polton," he exclaimed, looking into the
room. "Here is Dr. Jervis."

I followed him into the room and found Polton--his confidential servant,
laboratory assistant, artificer and general "familiar"--setting out the
tea-tray on a small table. The little man shook hands cordially with me,
and his face crinkled up into the sort of smile that one might expect to
see on a benevolent walnut.

"We've often talked about you, sir," said he. "The doctor was wondering
only yesterday when you were coming back to us."

As I was not "coming back to them" quite in the sense intended I felt a
little guilty, but reserved my confidences for Thorndyke's ear and
replied in polite generalities. Then Polton fetched the tea-pot from the
laboratory, made up the fire and departed, and Thorndyke and I subsided,
as of old, into our respective arm-chairs.

"And whence do you spring from in this unexpected fashion?" my colleague
asked. "You look as if you had been making professional visits."

"I have. The base of operations is in Lower Kennington Lane."

"Ah! Then you are 'back once more on the old trail'?"

"Yes," I answered, with a laugh, "'the old trail, the long trail, the
trail that is always new.'"

"And leads nowhere," Thorndyke added grimly.

I laughed again; not very heartily, for there was an uncomfortable
element of truth in my friend's remark, to which my own experience bore
only too complete testimony. The medical practitioner whose lack of
means forces him to subsist by taking temporary charge of other men's
practices is apt to find that the passing years bring him little but
grey hairs and a wealth of disagreeable experience.

"You will have to drop it, Jervis; you will, indeed," Thorndyke resumed
after a pause. "This casual employment is preposterous for a man of your
class and professional attainments. Besides, are you not engaged to be
married and to a most charming girl?"

"Yes, I know. I have been a fool. But I will really amend my ways. If
necessary, I will pocket my pride and let Juliet advance the money to
buy a practice."

"That," said Thorndyke, "is a very proper resolution. Pride and reserve
between people who are going to be husband and wife, is an absurdity.
But why buy a practice? Have you forgotten my proposal?"

"I should be an ungrateful brute if I had."

"Very well. I repeat it now. Come to me as my junior, read for the Bar
and work with me, and, with your abilities, you will have a chance of
something like a career. I want you, Jervis," he added, earnestly. "I
must have a junior, with my increasing practice, and you are the junior
I want. We are old and tried friends; we have worked together; we like
and trust one another, and you are the best man for the job that I know.
Come; I am not going to take a refusal. This is an ultimatum."

"And what is the alternative?" I asked with a smile at his eagerness.

"There isn't any. You are going to say yes."

"I believe I am," I answered, not without emotion; "and I am more
rejoiced at your offer and more grateful than I can tell you. But we
must leave the final arrangements for our next meeting--in a week or so,
I hope--for I have to be back in an hour, and I want to consult you on
a matter of some importance."

"Very well," said Thorndyke; "we will leave the formal agreement for
consideration at our next meeting. What is it that you want my opinion
on?"

"The fact is," I said, "I am in a rather awkward dilemma, and I want you
to tell me what you think I ought to do."

Thorndyke paused in the act of refilling my cup and glanced at me with
unmistakable anxiety.

"Nothing of an unpleasant nature, I hope," said he.

"No, no; nothing of that kind," I answered with a smile as I interpreted
the euphemism; for "something unpleasant," in the case of a young and
reasonably presentable medical man is ordinarily the equivalent of
trouble with the female of his species. "It is nothing that concerns me
personally at all," I continued; "it is a question of professional
responsibility. But I had better give you an account of the affair in a
complete narrative, as I know that you like to have your data in a
regular and consecutive order."

Thereupon I proceeded to relate the history of my visit to the
mysterious Mr. Graves, not omitting any single circumstance or detail
that I could recollect.

Thorndyke listened from the very beginning of my story with the closest
attention. His face was the most impassive that I have ever seen;
ordinarily as inscrutable as a bronze mask; but to me, who knew him
intimately, there was a certain something--a change of colour, perhaps,
or an additional sparkle of the eye--that told me when his curious
passion for investigation was fully aroused. And now, as I told him of
that weird journey and the strange, secret house to which it had brought
me, I could see that it offered a problem after his very heart. During
the whole of my narration he sat as motionless as a statue, evidently
committing the whole story to memory, detail by detail; and even when I
had finished he remained for an appreciable time without moving or
speaking.

At length he looked up at me. "This is a very extraordinary affair,
Jervis," he said.

"Very," I agreed; "and the question that is agitating me is, what is to
be done?"

"Yes," he said, meditatively, "that is the question; and an uncommonly
difficult question it is. It really involves the settlement of the
antecedent question: What is it that is happening at that house?"

"What do you think is happening at that house?" I asked.

"We must go slow, Jervis," he replied. "We must carefully separate the
legal tissues from the medical, and avoid confusing what we know with
what we suspect. Now, with reference to the medical aspects of the case.
The first question that confronts us is that of sleeping sickness, or
negro-lethargy as it is sometimes called; and here we are in a
difficulty. We have not enough knowledge. Neither of us, I take it, has
ever seen a case, and the extant descriptions are inadequate. From what
I know of the disease, its symptoms agree with those in your case in
respect of the alleged moroseness and in the gradually increasing
periods of lethargy alternating with periods of apparent recovery. On
the other hand, the disease is said to be confined to negroes; but that
probably means only that negroes alone have hitherto been exposed to the
conditions that produce it. A more important fact is that, as far as I
know, extreme contraction of the pupils is not a symptom of sleeping
sickness. To sum up, the probabilities are against sleeping sickness,
but with our insufficient knowledge, we cannot definitely exclude it."

"You think that it may really be sleeping sickness?"

"No; personally I do not entertain that theory for a moment. But I am
considering the evidence apart from our opinions on the subject. We have
to accept it as a conceivable hypothesis that it may be sleeping
sickness because we cannot positively prove that it is not. That is all.
But when we come to the hypothesis of morphine poisoning, the case is
different. The symptoms agree with those of morphine poisoning in every
respect. There is no exception or disagreement whatever. The common
sense of the matter is therefore that we adopt morphine poisoning as our
working diagnosis; which is what you seem to have done."

"Yes. For purposes of treatment."

"Exactly. For medical purposes you adopted the more probable view and
dismissed the less probable. That was the reasonable thing to do. But
for legal purposes you must entertain both possibilities; for the
hypothesis of poisoning involves serious legal issues, whereas the
hypothesis of disease involves no legal issues at all."

"That doesn't sound very helpful," I remarked.

"It indicates the necessity for caution," he retorted.

"Yes, I see that. But what is your own opinion of the case?"

"Well," he said, "let us consider the facts in order. Here is a man who,
we assume, is under the influence of a poisonous dose of morphine. The
question is, did he take that dose himself or was it administered to him
by some other person? If he took it himself, with what object did he
take it? The history that was given to you seems completely to exclude
the idea of suicide. But the patient's condition seems equally to
exclude the idea of morphinomania. Your opium-eater does not reduce
himself to a state of coma. He usually keeps well within the limits of
the tolerance that has been established. The conclusion that emerges is,
I think, that the drug was administered by some other person; and the
most likely person seems to be Mr. Weiss."

"Isn't morphine a very unusual poison?"

"Very; and most inconvenient except in a single, fatal dose, by reason
of the rapidity with which tolerance of the drug is established. But we
must not forget that slow morphine poisoning might be eminently
suitable in certain cases. The manner in which it enfeebles the will,
confuses the judgment and debilitates the body might make it very useful
to a poisoner whose aim was to get some instrument or document executed,
such as a will, deed or assignment. And death could be produced
afterwards by other means. You see the important bearing of this?"

"You mean in respect of a death certificate?"

"Yes. Suppose Mr. Weiss to have given a large dose of morphine. He then
sends for you and throws out a suggestion of sleeping sickness. If you
accept the suggestion he is pretty safe. He can repeat the process until
he kills his victim and then get a certificate from you which will cover
the murder. It was quite an ingenious scheme--which, by the way, is
characteristic of intricate crimes; your subtle criminal often plans his
crime like a genius, but he generally executes it like a fool--as this
man seems to have done, if we are not doing him an injustice."

"How has he acted like a fool?"

"In several respects. In the first place, he should have chosen his
doctor. A good, brisk, confident man who 'knows his own mind' is the
sort of person who would have suited him; a man who would have jumped at
a diagnosis and stuck to it; or else an ignorant weakling of alcoholic
tendencies. It was shockingly bad luck to run against a cautious
scientific practitioner like my learned friend. Then, of course, all
this secrecy was sheer tomfoolery, exactly calculated to put a careful
man on his guard; as it has actually done. If Mr. Weiss is really a
criminal, he has mismanaged his affairs badly."

"And you apparently think that he is a criminal?"

"I suspect him deeply. But I should like to ask you one or two questions
about him. You say he spoke with a German accent. What command of
English had he? Was his vocabulary good? Did he use any German idioms?"

"No. I should say that his English was perfect, and I noticed that his
phrases were quite well chosen even for an Englishman."

"Did he seem to you 'made up' in any way; disguised, I mean?"

"I couldn't say. The light was so very feeble."

"You couldn't see the colour of his eyes, for instance?"

"No. I think they were grey, but I couldn't be sure."

"And as to the coachman. He wore a wig, you said. Could you see the
colour of his eyes? Or any peculiarity by which you could recognize
him?"

"He had a malformed thumb-nail on his right hand. That is all I can say
about him."

"He didn't strike you as resembling Weiss in any way; in voice or
features?"

"Not at all; and he spoke, as I told you, with a distinct Scotch
accent."

"The reason I ask is that if Weiss is attempting to poison this man, the
coachman is almost certain to be a confederate and might be a relative.
You had better examine him closely if you get another chance."

"I will. And that brings me back to the question, What am I to do? Ought
I to report the case to the police?"

"I am inclined to think not. You have hardly enough facts. Of course, if
Mr. Weiss has administered poison 'unlawfully and maliciously' he has
committed a felony, and is liable under the Consolidation Acts of 1861
to ten years' penal servitude. But I do not see how you could swear an
information. You don't know that he administered the poison--if poison
has really been administered--and you cannot give any reliable name or
any address whatever. Then there is the question of sleeping sickness.
You reject it for medical purposes, but you could not swear, in a court
of law, that this is not a case of sleeping sickness."

"No," I admitted, "I could not."

"Then I think the police would decline to move in the matter, and you
might find that you had raised a scandal in Dr. Stillbury's practice to
no purpose."

"So you think I had better do nothing in the matter?"

"For the present. It is, of course, a medical man's duty to assist
justice in any way that is possible. But a doctor is not a detective; he
should not go out of his way to assume police functions. He should keep
his eyes and ears open, and, though, in general, he should keep his own
counsel, it is his duty to note very carefully anything that seems to
him likely to bear on any important legal issues. It is not his
business officiously to initiate criminal inquiries, but it is
emphatically his business to be ready, if called upon, to assist justice
with information that his special knowledge and opportunities have
rendered accessible to him. You see the bearing of this?"

"You mean that I should note down what I have seen and heard and say
nothing about it until I am asked."

"Yes; if nothing further happens. But if you should be sent for again, I
think it is your duty to make further observations with a view, if
necessary, to informing the police. It may be, for instance, of vital
importance to identify the house, and it is your duty to secure the
means of doing so."

"But, my dear Thorndyke," I expostulated, "I have told you how I was
conveyed to the house. Now, will you kindly explain to me how a man,
boxed up in a pitch-dark carriage, is going to identify any place to
which he may be carried?"

"The problem doesn't appear to me to present any serious difficulties,"
he replied.

"Doesn't it?" said I. "To me it looks like a pretty solid impossibility.
But what do you suggest? Should I break out of the house and run away up
the street? Or should I bore a hole through the shutter of the carriage
and peep out?"

Thorndyke smiled indulgently. "The methods proposed by my learned friend
display a certain crudity inappropriate to the character of a man of
science; to say nothing of the disadvantage of letting the enemy into
our counsels. No, no, Jervis; we can do something better than that.
Just excuse me for a minute while I run up to the laboratory."

He hurried away to Polton's sanctum on the upper floor, leaving me to
speculate on the method by which he proposed that a man should be
enabled, as Sam Weller would express it, "to see through a flight of
stairs and a deal door"; or, what was equally opaque, the wooden
shutters of a closed carriage.

"Now," he said, when he returned a couple of minutes later with a small,
paper-covered notebook in his hand, "I have set Polton to work on a
little appliance that will, I think, solve our difficulty, and I will
show you how I propose that you should make your observations. First of
all, we have to rule the pages of this book into columns."

He sat down at the table and began methodically to rule the pages each
into three columns, two quite narrow and one broad. The process occupied
some time, during which I sat and watched with impatient curiosity the
unhurried, precise movements of Thorndyke's pencil, all agog to hear the
promised explanation. He was just finishing the last page when there
came a gentle tap at the door, and Polton entered with a satisfied smile
on his dry, shrewd-looking face and a small board in his hand.

"Will this do, sir?" he asked.

As he spoke he handed the little board to Thorndyke, who looked at it
and passed it to me.

"The very thing, Polton," my friend replied. "Where did you find it?
It's of no use for you to pretend that you've made it in about two
minutes and a half."

Polton smiled one of his queer crinkly smiles, and remarking that "it
didn't take much making," departed much gratified by the compliment.

"What a wonderful old fellow that is, Jervis," Thorndyke observed as his
factotum retired. "He took in the idea instantly and seems to have
produced the finished article by magic, as the conjurers bring forth
rabbits and bowls of goldfish at a moment's notice. I suppose you see
what your <i>modus operandi</i> is to be?"

I had gathered a clue from the little appliance--a plate of white
fret-wood about seven inches by five, to one corner of which a
pocket-compass had been fixed with shellac--but was not quite clear as
to the details of the method.

"You can read a compass pretty quickly, I think?" Thorndyke said.

"Of course I can. Used we not to sail a yacht together when we were
students?"

"To be sure we did; and we will again before we die. And now as to your
method of locating this house. Here is a pocket reading-lamp which you
can hook on the carriage lining. This notebook can be fixed to the board
with an india-rubber band--thus. You observe that the thoughtful Polton
has stuck a piece of thread on the glass of the compass to serve as a
lubber's line. This is how you will proceed. As soon as you are locked
in the carriage, light your lamp--better have a book with you in case
the light is noticed--take out your watch and put the board on your
knee, keeping its long side exactly in a line with the axis of the
carriage. Then enter in one narrow column of your notebook the time, in
the other the direction shown by the compass, and in the broad column
any particulars, including the number of steps the horse makes in a
minute. Like this."

He took a loose sheet of paper and made one or two sample entries on it
in pencil, thus--

  "9.40.  S.E.    Start from home.
   9.41   S.W.    Granite setts.
   9.43.  S.W.    Wood pavement. Hoofs 104.
   9.47.  W. by S Granite crossing. Macadam--

and so on. Note every change of direction, with the time; and whenever
you hear or feel anything from outside, note it, with the time and
direction; and don't forget to note any variations in the horse's pace.
You follow the process?"

"Perfectly. But do you think the method is accurate enough to fix the
position of a house? Remember, this is only a pocket-compass with no
dial, and it will jump frightfully. And the mode of estimating distance
is very rough."

"That is all perfectly true," Thorndyke answered. "But you are
overlooking certain important facts. The track-chart that you will
produce can be checked by other data. The house, for instance, has a
covered way by which you could identify it if you knew approximately
where to look for it. Then you must remember that your carriage is not
travelling over a featureless plain. It is passing through streets which
have a determined position and direction and which are accurately
represented on the ordnance map. I think, Jervis, that, in spite of the
apparent roughness of the method, if you make your observations
carefully, we shall have no trouble in narrowing down the inquiry to a
quite small area. If we get the chance, that is to say."

"Yes, if we do. I am doubtful whether Mr. Weiss will require my services
again, but I sincerely hope he will. It would be rare sport to locate
his secret burrow, all unsuspected. But now I must really be off."

"Good-bye, then," said Thorndyke, slipping a well-sharpened pencil
through the rubber band that fixed the notebook to the board. "Let me
know how the adventure progresses--if it progresses at all--and
remember, I hold your promise to come and see me again quite soon in any
case."

He handed me the board and the lamp, and, when I had slipped them into
my pocket, we shook hands and I hurried away, a little uneasy at having
left my charge so long.




Chapter III

"A Chiel's Amang Ye Takin' Notes"


The attitude of the suspicious man tends to generate in others the kind
of conduct that seems to justify his suspicions. In most of us there
lurks a certain strain of mischief which trustfulness disarms but
distrust encourages. The inexperienced kitten which approaches us
confidingly with arched back and upright tail, soliciting caresses,
generally receives the gentle treatment that it expects; whereas the
worldly-wise tom-cat, who, in response to friendly advances, scampers
away and grins at us suspiciously from the fancied security of an
adjacent wall, impels us to accelerate his retreat with a well-directed
clod.

Now the proceedings of Mr. H. Weiss resembled those of the tom-cat
aforesaid and invited an analogous reply. To a responsible professional
man his extraordinary precautions were at once an affront and a
challenge. Apart from graver considerations, I found myself dwelling
with unholy pleasure on the prospect of locating the secret hiding-place
from which he seemed to grin at me with such complacent defiance; and I
lost no time and spared no trouble in preparing myself for the
adventure. The very hansom which bore me from the Temple to Kennington
Lane was utilized for a preliminary test of Thorndyke's little
apparatus. During the whole of that brief journey I watched the compass
closely, noted the feel and sound of the road-material and timed the
trotting of the horse. And the result was quite encouraging. It is true
that the compass-needle oscillated wildly to the vibration of the cab,
but still its oscillations took place around a definite point which was
the average direction, and it was evident to me that the data it
furnished were very fairly reliable. I felt very little doubt, after the
preliminary trial, as to my being able to produce a moderately
intelligible track-chart if only I should get an opportunity to exercise
my skill.

But it looked as if I should not. Mr. Weiss's promise to send for me
again soon was not fulfilled. Three days passed and still he made no
sign. I began to fear that I had been too outspoken; that the shuttered
carriage had gone forth to seek some more confiding and easy-going
practitioner, and that our elaborate preparations had been made in vain.
When the fourth day drew towards a close and still no summons had come,
I was disposed reluctantly to write the case off as a lost opportunity.

And at that moment, in the midst of my regrets, the bottle-boy thrust an
uncomely head in at the door. His voice was coarse, his accent was
hideous, and his grammatical construction beneath contempt; but I
forgave him all when I gathered the import of his message.

"Mr. Weiss's carriage is waiting, and he says will you come as quickly
as you can because he's took very bad to-night."

I sprang from my chair and hastily collected the necessaries for the
journey. The little board and the lamp I put in my overcoat pocket; I
overhauled the emergency bag and added to its usual contents a bottle of
permanganate of potassium which I thought I might require. Then I tucked
the evening paper under my arm and went out.

The coachman, who was standing at the horse's head as I emerged, touched
his hat and came forward to open the door.

"I have fortified myself for the long drive, you see," I remarked,
exhibiting the newspaper as I stepped into the carriage.

"But you can't read in the dark," said he.

"No, but I have provided myself with a lamp," I replied, producing it
and striking a match.

He watched me as I lit the lamp and hooked it on the back cushion, and
observed:

"I suppose you found it rather a dull ride last time. It's a longish
way. They might have fitted the carriage with an inside lamp. But we
shall have to make it a quicker passage to-night. Governor says Mr.
Graves is uncommon bad."

With this he slammed the door and locked it. I drew the board from my
pocket, laid it on my knee, glanced at my watch, and, as the coachman
climbed to his seat, I made the first entry in the little book.

"8.58. W. by S. Start from home. Horse 13 hands."

The first move of the carriage on starting was to turn round as if
heading for Newington Butts, and the second entry accordingly read:

"8.58.30. E. by N."

But this direction was not maintained long. Very soon we turned south
and then west and then south again. I sat with my eyes riveted on the
compass, following with some difficulty its rapid changes. The needle
swung to and fro incessantly but always within a definite arc, the
centre of which was the true direction. But this direction varied from
minute to minute in the most astonishing manner. West, south, east,
north, the carriage turned, "boxing" the compass until I lost all count
of direction. It was an amazing performance. Considering that the man
was driving against time on a mission of life and death urgency, his
carelessness as to direction was astounding. The tortuousness of the
route must have made the journey twice as long as it need have been
with a little more careful selection. At least so it appeared to me,
though, naturally, I was not in a position to offer an authoritative
criticism.

As far as I could judge, we followed the same route as before. Once I
heard a tug's whistle and knew that we were near the river, and we
passed the railway station, apparently at the same time as on the
previous occasion, for I heard a passenger train start and assumed that
it was the same train. We crossed quite a number of thoroughfares with
tram-lines--I had no idea there were so many--and it was a revelation to
me to find how numerous the railway arches were in this part of London
and how continually the nature of the road-metal varied.

It was by no means a dull journey this time. The incessant changes of
direction and variations in the character of the road kept me most
uncommonly busy; for I had hardly time to scribble down one entry before
the compass-needle would swing round sharply, showing that we had once
more turned a corner; and I was quite taken by surprise when the
carriage slowed down and turned into the covered way. Very hastily I
scribbled down the final entry ("9.24. S.E. In covered way"), and having
closed the book and slipped it and the board into my pocket, had just
opened out the newspaper when the carriage door was unlocked and opened,
whereupon I unhooked and blew out the lamp and pocketed that too,
reflecting that it might be useful later.

As on the last occasion, Mrs. Schallibaum stood in the open doorway with
a lighted candle. But she was a good deal less self-possessed this time.
In fact she looked rather wild and terrified. Even by the candle-light
I could see that she was very pale and she seemed unable to keep still.
As she gave me the few necessary words of explanation, she fidgeted
incessantly and her hands and feet were in constant movement.

"You had better come up with me at once," she said. "Mr. Graves is much
worse to-night. We will wait not for Mr. Weiss."

Without waiting for a reply she quickly ascended the stairs and I
followed. The room was in much the same condition as before. But the
patient was not. As soon as I entered the room, a soft, rhythmical
gurgle from the bed gave me a very clear warning of danger. I stepped
forward quickly and looked down at the prostrate figure, and the warning
gathered emphasis. The sick man's ghastly face was yet more ghastly; his
eyes were more sunken, his skin more livid; "his nose was as sharp as a
pen," and if he did not "babble of green fields" it was because he
seemed to be beyond even that. If it had been a case of disease, I
should have said at once that he was dying. He had all the appearance of
a man <i>in articulo mortis</i>. Even as it was, feeling convinced that the
case was one of morphine poisoning, I was far from confident that I
should be able to draw him back from the extreme edge of vitality on
which he trembled so insecurely.

"He is very ill? He is dying?"

It was Mrs. Schallibaum's voice; very low, but eager and intense. I
turned, with my finger on the patient's wrist, and looked into the face
of the most thoroughly scared woman I have ever seen. She made no
attempt now to avoid the light, but looked me squarely in the face, and
I noticed, half-unconsciously, that her eyes were brown and had a
curious strained expression.

"Yes," I answered, "he is very ill. He is in great danger."

She still stared at me fixedly for some seconds. And then a very odd
thing occurred. Suddenly she squinted--squinted horribly; not with the
familiar convergent squint which burlesque artists imitate, but with
external or divergent squint of extreme near sight or unequal vision.
The effect was quite startling. One moment both her eyes were looking
straight into mine; the next, one of them rolled round until it looked
out of the uttermost corner, leaving the other gazing steadily forward.

She was evidently conscious of the change, for she turned her head away
quickly and reddened somewhat. But it was no time for thoughts of
personal appearance.

"You can save him, doctor! You will not let him die! He must not be
allowed to die!"

She spoke with as much passion as if he had been the dearest friend that
she had in the world, which I suspected was far from being the case. But
her manifest terror had its uses.

"If anything is to be done to save him," I said, "it must be done
quickly. I will give him some medicine at once, and meanwhile you must
make some strong coffee."

"Coffee!" she exclaimed. "But we have none in the house. Will not tea
do, if I make it very strong?"

"No, it will not. I must have coffee; and I must have it quickly."

"Then I suppose I must go and get some. But it is late. The shops will
be shut. And I don't like leaving Mr. Graves."

"Can't you send the coachman?" I asked.

She shook her head impatiently. "No, that is no use. I must wait until
Mr. Weiss comes."

"That won't do," I said, sharply. "He will slip through our fingers
while you are waiting. You must go and get that coffee at once and bring
it to me as soon as it is ready. And I want a tumbler and some water."

She brought me a water-bottle and glass from the wash-stand and then,
with a groan of despair, hurried from the room.

I lost no time in applying the remedies that I had to hand. Shaking out
into the tumbler a few crystals of potassium permanganate, I filled it
up with water and approached the patient. His stupor was profound. I
shook him as roughly as was safe in his depressed condition, but
elicited no resistance or responsive movement. As it seemed very
doubtful whether he was capable of swallowing, I dared not take the risk
of pouring the liquid into his mouth for fear of suffocating him. A
stomach-tube would have solved the difficulty, but, of course, I had not
one with me. I had, however, a mouth-speculum which also acted as a gag,
and, having propped the patient's mouth open with this, I hastily
slipped off one of the rubber tubes from my stethoscope and inserted
into one end of it a vulcanite ear-speculum to serve as a funnel. Then,
introducing the other end of the tube into the gullet as far as its
length would permit, I cautiously poured a small quantity of the
permanganate solution into the extemporized funnel. To my great relief a
movement of the throat showed that the swallowing reflex still existed,
and, thus encouraged, I poured down the tube as much of the fluid as I
thought it wise to administer at one time.

The dose of permanganate that I had given was enough to neutralize any
reasonable quantity of the poison that might yet remain in the stomach.
I had next to deal with that portion of the drug which had already been
absorbed and was exercising its poisonous effects. Taking my hypodermic
case from my bag, I prepared in the syringe a full dose of atropine
sulphate, which I injected forthwith into the unconscious man's arm. And
that was all that I could do, so far as remedies were concerned, until
the coffee arrived.

I cleaned and put away the syringe, washed the tube, and then, returning
to the bedside, endeavoured to rouse the patient from his profound
lethargy. But great care was necessary. A little injudicious roughness
of handling, and that thready, flickering pulse might stop for ever; and
yet it was almost certain that if he were not speedily aroused, his
stupor would gradually deepen until it shaded off imperceptibly into
death. I went to work very cautiously, moving his limbs about, flicking
his face and chest with the corner of a wet towel, tickling the soles
of his feet, and otherwise applying stimuli that were strong without
being violent.

So occupied was I with my efforts to resuscitate my mysterious patient
that I did not notice the opening of the door, and it was with something
of a start that, happening to glance round, I perceived at the farther
end of the room the shadowy figure of a man relieved by two spots of
light reflected from his spectacles. How long he had been watching me I
cannot say, but, when he saw that I had observed him, he came
forward--though not very far--and I saw that he was Mr. Weiss.

"I am afraid," he said, "that you do not find my friend so well
to-night?"

"So well!" I exclaimed. "I don't find him well at all. I am exceedingly
anxious about him."

"You don't--er--anticipate anything of a--er--anything serious, I hope?"

"There is no need to anticipate," said I. "It is already about as
serious as it can be. I think he might die at any moment."

"Good God!" he gasped. "You horrify me!"

He was not exaggerating. In his agitation, he stepped forward into the
lighter part of the room, and I could see that his face was pale to
ghastliness--except his nose and the adjacent red patches on his cheeks,
which stood out in grotesquely hideous contrast. Presently, however, he
recovered a little and said:

"I really think--at least I hope--that you take an unnecessarily serious
view of his condition. He has been like this before, you know."

I felt pretty certain that he had not, but there was no use in
discussing the question. I therefore replied, as I continued my efforts
to rouse the patient:

"That may or may not be. But in any case there comes a last time; and it
may have come now."

"I hope not," he said; "although I understand that these cases always
end fatally sooner or later."

"What cases?" I asked.

"I was referring to sleeping sickness; but perhaps you have formed some
other opinion as to the nature of this dreadful complaint."

I hesitated for a moment, and he continued: "As to your suggestion that
his symptoms might be due to drugs, I think we may consider that as
disposed of. He has been watched, practically without cessation since
you came last, and, moreover, I have myself turned out the room and
examined the bed and have not found a trace of any drug. Have you gone
into the question of sleeping sickness?"

I looked at the man narrowly before answering, and distrusted him more
than ever. But this was no time for reticence. My concern was with the
patient and his present needs. After all, I was, as Thorndyke had said,
a doctor, not a detective, and the circumstances called for
straightforward speech and action on my part.

"I have considered that question," I said, "and have come to a perfectly
definite conclusion. His symptoms are not those of sleeping sickness.
They are in my opinion undoubtedly due to morphine poisoning."

"But my dear sir!" he exclaimed, "the thing is impossible! Haven't I
just told you that he has been watched continuously?"

"I can only judge by the appearances that I find," I answered; and,
seeing that he was about to offer fresh objections, I continued: "Don't
let us waste precious time in discussion, or Mr. Graves may be dead
before we have reached a conclusion. If you will hurry them up about the
coffee that I asked for some time ago, I will take the other necessary
measures, and perhaps we may manage to pull him round."

The rather brutal decision of my manner evidently daunted him. It must
have been plain to him that I was not prepared to accept any explanation
of the unconscious man's condition other than that of morphine
poisoning; whence the inference was pretty plain that the alternatives
were recovery or an inquest. Replying stiffly that I "must do as I
thought best," he hurried from the room, leaving me to continue my
efforts without further interruption.

For some time these efforts seemed to make no impression. The man lay as
still and impassive as a corpse excepting for the slow, shallow and
rather irregular breathing with its ominous accompanying rattle. But
presently, by imperceptible degrees, signs of returning life began to
make their appearance. A sharp slap on the cheek with the wet towel
produced a sensible flicker of the eyelids; a similar slap on the chest
was followed by a slight gasp. A pencil, drawn over the sole of the
foot, occasioned a visible shrinking movement, and, on looking once
more at the eyes, I detected a slight change that told me that the
atropine was beginning to take effect.

This was very encouraging, and, so far, quite satisfactory, though it
would have been premature to rejoice. I kept the patient carefully
covered and maintained the process of gentle irritation, moving his
limbs and shoulders, brushing his hair and generally bombarding his
deadened senses with small but repeated stimuli. And under this
treatment, the improvement continued so far that on my bawling a
question into his ear he actually opened his eyes for an instant, though
in another moment, the lids had sunk back into their former position.

Soon after this, Mr. Weiss re-entered the room, followed by Mrs.
Schallibaum, who carried a small tray, on which were a jug of coffee, a
jug of milk, a cup and saucer and a sugar basin.

"How do you find him now?" Mr. Weiss asked anxiously.

"I am glad to say that there is a distinct improvement," I replied. "But
we must persevere. He is by no means out of the wood yet."

I examined the coffee, which looked black and strong and had a very
reassuring smell, and, pouring out half a cupful, approached the bed.

"Now, Mr. Graves," I shouted, "we want you to drink some of this."

The flaccid eyelids lifted for an instant but there was no other
response. I gently opened the unresisting mouth and ladled in a couple
of spoonfuls of coffee, which were immediately swallowed; whereupon I
repeated the proceeding and continued at short intervals until the cup
was empty. The effect of the new remedy soon became apparent. He began
to mumble and mutter obscurely in response to the questions that I
bellowed at him, and once or twice he opened his eyes and looked
dreamily into my face. Then I sat him up and made him drink some coffee
from the cup, and, all the time, kept up a running fire of questions,
which made up in volume of sound for what they lacked of relevancy.

Of these proceedings Mr. Weiss and his housekeeper were highly
interested spectators, and the former, contrary to his usual practice,
came quite close up to the bed, to get a better view.

"It is really a most remarkable thing," he said, "but it almost looks as
if you were right, after all. He is certainly much better. But tell me,
would this treatment produce a similar improvement if the symptoms were
due to disease?"

"No," I answered, "it certainly would not."

"Then that seems to settle it. But it is a most mysterious affair. Can
you suggest any way in which he can have concealed a store of the drug?"

I stood up and looked him straight in the face; it was the first chance
I had had of inspecting him by any but the feeblest light, and I looked
at him very attentively. Now, it is a curious fact--though one that most
persons must have observed--that there sometimes occurs a considerable
interval between the reception of a visual impression and its complete
transfer to the consciousness. A thing may be seen, as it were,
unconsciously, and the impression consigned, apparently, to instant
oblivion; and yet the picture may be subsequently revived by memory with
such completeness that its details can be studied as though the object
were still actually visible.

Something of this kind must have happened to me now. Preoccupied as I
was, by the condition of the patient, the professional habit of rapid
and close observation caused me to direct a searching glance at the man
before me. It was only a brief glance--for Mr. Weiss, perhaps
embarrassed by my keen regard of him, almost immediately withdrew into
the shadow--and my attention seemed principally to be occupied by the
odd contrast between the pallor of his face and the redness of his nose
and by the peculiar stiff, bristly character of his eyebrows. But there
was another fact, and a very curious one, that was observed by me
subconsciously and instantly forgotten, to be revived later when I
reflected on the events of the night. It was this:

As Mr. Weiss stood, with his head slightly turned, I was able to look
through one glass of his spectacles at the wall beyond. On the wall was
a framed print; and the edge of the frame, seen through the
spectacle-glass, appeared quite unaltered and free from distortion,
magnification or reduction, as if seen through plain window-glass; and
yet the reflections of the candle-flame in the spectacles showed the
flame upside down, proving conclusively that the glasses were concave on
one surface at least. The strange phenomenon was visible only for a
moment or two, and as it passed out of my sight it passed also out of my
mind.

"No," I said, replying to the last question; "I can think of no way in
which he could have effectually hidden a store of morphine. Judging by
the symptoms, he has taken a large dose, and, if he has been in the
habit of consuming large quantities, his stock would be pretty bulky. I
can offer no suggestion whatever."

"I suppose you consider him quite out of danger now?"

"Oh, not at all. I think we can pull him round if we persevere, but he
must not be allowed to sink back into a state of coma. We must keep him
on the move until the effects of the drug have really passed off. If you
will put him into his dressing-gown we will walk him up and down the
room for a while."

"But is that safe?" Mr. Weiss asked anxiously.

"Quite safe," I answered. "I will watch his pulse carefully. The danger
is in the possibility, or rather certainty, of a relapse if he is not
kept moving."

With obvious unwillingness and disapproval, Mr. Weiss produced a
dressing-gown and together we invested the patient in it. Then we
dragged him, very limp, but not entirely unresisting, out of bed and
stood him on his feet. He opened his eyes and blinked owlishly first at
one and then at the other of us, and mumbled a few unintelligible words
of protest; regardless of which, we thrust his feet into slippers and
endeavoured to make him walk. At first he seemed unable to stand, and we
had to support him by his arms as we urged him forward; but presently
his trailing legs began to make definite walking movements, and, after
one or two turns up and down the room, he was not only able partly to
support his weight, but showed evidence of reviving consciousness in
more energetic protests.

At this point Mr. Weiss astonished me by transferring the arm that he
held to the housekeeper.

"If you will excuse me, doctor," said he, "I will go now and attend to
some rather important business that I have had to leave unfinished. Mrs.
Schallibaum will be able to give you all the assistance that you
require, and will order the carriage when you think it safe to leave the
patient. In case I should not see you again I will say 'good night.' I
hope you won't think me very unceremonious."

He shook hands with me and went out of the room, leaving me, as I have
said, profoundly astonished that he should consider any business of more
moment than the condition of his friend, whose life, even now, was but
hanging by a thread. However, it was really no concern of mine. I could
do without him, and the resuscitation of this unfortunate half-dead man
gave me occupation enough to engross my whole attention.

The melancholy progress up and down the room re-commenced, and with it
the mumbled protests from the patient. As we walked, and especially as
we turned, I caught frequent glimpses of the housekeeper's face. But it
was nearly always in profile. She appeared to avoid looking me in the
face, though she did so once or twice; and on each of these occasions
her eyes were directed at me in a normal manner without any sign of a
squint. Nevertheless, I had the impression that when her face was turned
away from me she squinted. The "swivel eye"--the left--was towards me as
she held the patient's right arm, and it was almost continuously turned
in my direction, whereas I felt convinced that she was really looking
straight before her, though, of course, her right eye was invisible to
me. It struck me, even at the time, as an odd affair, but I was too much
concerned about my charge to give it much consideration.

Meanwhile the patient continued to revive apace. And the more he
revived, the more energetically did he protest against this wearisome
perambulation. But he was evidently a polite gentleman, for, muddled as
his faculties were, he managed to clothe his objections in courteous and
even gracious forms of speech singularly out of agreement with the
character that Mr. Weiss had given him.

"I thangyou," he mumbled thickly. "Ver' good take s'much trouble. Think
I will lie down now." He looked wistfully at the bed, but I wheeled him
about and marched him once more down the room. He submitted
unresistingly, but as we again approached the bed he reopened the
matter.

"S'quite s'fficient, thang you. Gebback to bed now. Much 'bliged frall
your kindness"--here I turned him round--"no, really; m'feeling rather
tired. Sh'like to lie down now, f'you'd be s'good."

"You must walk about a little longer, Mr. Graves," I said. "It would be
very bad for you to go to sleep again."

He looked at me with a curious, dull surprise, and reflected awhile as
if in some perplexity. Then he looked at me again and said:

"Thing, sir, you are mistake--mistaken me--mist--"

Here Mrs. Schallibaum interrupted sharply:

"The doctor thinks it's good for you to walk about. You've been sleeping
too much. He doesn't want you to sleep any more just now."

"Don't wanter sleep; wanter lie down," said the patient.

"But you mustn't lie down for a little while. You must walk about for a
few minutes more. And you'd better not talk. Just walk up and down."

"There's no harm in his talking," said I; "in fact it's good for him. It
will help to keep him awake."

"I should think it would tire him," said Mrs. Schallibaum; "and it
worries me to hear him asking to lie down when we can't let him."

She spoke sharply and in an unnecessarily high tone so that the patient
could not fail to hear. Apparently he took in the very broad hint
contained in the concluding sentence, for he trudged wearily and
unsteadily up and down the room for some time without speaking, though
he continued to look at me from time to time as if something in my
appearance puzzled him exceedingly. At length his intolerable longing
for repose overcame his politeness and he returned to the attack.

"Surely v' walked enough now. Feeling very tired. Am really. Would you
be s'kind 's t'let me lie down few minutes?"

"Don't you think he might lie down for a little while?" Mrs. Schallibaum
asked.

I felt his pulse, and decided that he was really becoming fatigued, and
that it would be wiser not to overdo the exercise while he was so weak.
Accordingly, I consented to his returning to bed, and turned him round
in that direction; whereupon he tottered gleefully towards his
resting-place like a tired horse heading for its stable.

As soon as he was tucked in, I gave him a full cup of coffee, which he
drank with some avidity as if thirsty. Then I sat down by the bedside,
and, with a view to keeping him awake, began once more to ply him with
questions.

"Does your head ache, Mr. Graves?" I asked.

"The doctor says 'does your head ache?'" Mrs. Schallibaum squalled, so
loudly that the patient started perceptibly.

"I heard him, m'dear girl," he answered with a faint smile. "Not deaf
you know. Yes. Head aches a good deal. But I thing this gennleman
mistakes--"

"He says you are to keep awake. You mustn't go to sleep again, and you
are not to close your eyes."

"All ri' Pol'n. Keep'm open," and he proceeded forthwith to shut them
with an air of infinite peacefulness. I grasped his hand and shook it
gently, on which he opened his eyes and looked at me sleepily. The
housekeeper stroked his head, keeping her face half-turned from me--as
she had done almost constantly, to conceal the squinting eye, as I
assumed--and said:

"Need we keep you any longer, doctor? It is getting very late and you
have a long way to go."

I looked doubtfully at the patient. I was loath to leave him,
distrusting these people as I did. But I had my work to do on the
morrow, with, perhaps, a night call or two in the interval, and the
endurance even of a general practitioner has its limits.

"I think I heard the carriage some time ago," Mrs. Schallibaum added.

I rose hesitatingly and looked at my watch. It had turned half-past
eleven.

"You understand," I said in a low voice, "that the danger is not over?
If he is left now he will fall asleep, and in all human probability will
never wake. You clearly understand that?"

"Yes, quite clearly. I promise you he shall not be allowed to fall
asleep again."

As she spoke, she looked me full in the face for a few moments, and I
noted that her eyes had a perfectly normal appearance, without any trace
whatever of a squint.

"Very well," I said. "On that understanding I will go now; and I shall
hope to find our friend quite recovered at my next visit."

I turned to the patient, who was already dozing, and shook his hand
heartily.

"Good-bye, Mr. Graves!" I said. "I am sorry to have to disturb your
repose so much; but you must keep awake, you know. Won't do to go to
sleep."

"Ver' well," he replied drowsily. "Sorry t' give you all this trouble.
L' keep awake. But I think you're mistak'n--"

"He says it's very important that you shouldn't go to sleep, and that I
am to see that you don't. Do you understand?"

"Yes, I un'stan'. But why does this gennlem'n--?"

"Now it's of no use for you to ask a lot of questions," Mrs. Schallibaum
said playfully; "we'll talk to you to-morrow. Good night, doctor. I'll
light you down the stairs, but I won't come down with you, or the
patient will be falling asleep again."

Taking this definite dismissal, I retired, followed by a dreamily
surprised glance from the sick man. The housekeeper held the candle over
the balusters until I reached the bottom of the stairs, when I perceived
through the open door along the passage a glimmer of light from the
carriage lamps. The coachman was standing just outside, faintly
illuminated by the very dim lamplight, and as I stepped into the
carriage he remarked in his Scotch dialect that I "seemed to have been
makin' a nicht of it." He did not wait for any reply--none being in fact
needed--but shut the door and locked it.

I lit my little pocket-lamp and hung it on the back cushion. I even drew
the board and notebook from my pocket. But it seemed rather unnecessary
to take a fresh set of notes, and, to tell the truth, I rather shirked
the labour, tired as I was after my late exertions; besides, I wanted
to think over the events of the evening, while they were fresh in my
memory. Accordingly I put away the notebook, filled and lighted my pipe,
and settled myself to review the incidents attending my second visit to
this rather uncanny house.

Considered in leisurely retrospect, that visit offered quite a number of
problems that called for elucidation. There was the patient's condition,
for instance. Any doubt as to the cause of his symptoms was set at rest
by the effect of the antidotes. Mr. Graves was certainly under the
influence of morphine, and the only doubtful question was how he had
become so. That he had taken the poison himself was incredible. No
morphinomaniac would take such a knock-down dose. It was practically
certain that the poison had been administered by someone else, and, on
Mr. Weiss's own showing, there was no one but himself and the
housekeeper who could have administered it. And to this conclusion all
the other very queer circumstances pointed.

What were these circumstances? They were, as I have said, numerous,
though many of them seemed trivial. To begin with, Mr. Weiss's habit of
appearing some time after my arrival and disappearing some time before
my departure was decidedly odd. But still more odd was his sudden
departure this evening on what looked like a mere pretext. That
departure coincided in time with the sick man's recovery of the power of
speech. Could it be that Mr. Weiss was afraid that the half-conscious
man might say something compromising to him in my presence? It looked
rather like it. And yet he had gone away and left me with the patient
and the housekeeper.

But when I came to think about it I remembered that Mrs. Schallibaum had
shown some anxiety to prevent the patient from talking. She had
interrupted him more than once, and had on two occasions broken in when
he seemed to be about to ask me some question. I was "mistaken" about
something. What was that something that he wanted to tell me?

It had struck me as singular that there should be no coffee in the
house, but a sufficiency of tea. Germans are not usually tea-drinkers
and they do take coffee. But perhaps there was nothing in this. Rather
more remarkable was the invisibility of the coachman. Why could he not
be sent to fetch the coffee, and why did not he, rather than the
housekeeper, come to take the place of Mr. Weiss when the latter had to
go away.

There were other points, too. I recalled the word that sounded like
"Pol'n," which Mr. Graves had used in speaking to the housekeeper.
Apparently it was a Christian name of some kind; but why did Mr. Graves
call the woman by her Christian name when Mr. Weiss addressed her
formally as Mrs. Schallibaum? And, as to the woman herself: what was the
meaning of that curious disappearing squint? Physically it presented no
mystery. The woman had an ordinary divergent squint, and, like many
people, who suffer from this displacement, could, by a strong muscular
effort, bring the eyes temporarily into their normal parallel position.
I had detected the displacement when she had tried to maintain the
effort too long, and the muscular control had given way. But why had she
done it? Was it only feminine vanity--mere sensitiveness respecting a
slight personal disfigurement? It might be so; or there might be some
further motive. It was impossible to say.

Turning this question over, I suddenly remembered the peculiarity of Mr.
Weiss's spectacles. And here I met with a real poser. I had certainly
seen through those spectacles as clearly as if they had been plain
window-glass; and they had certainly given an inverted reflection of the
candle-flame like that thrown from the surface of a concave lens. Now
they obviously could not be both flat and concave; but yet they had the
properties peculiar to both flatness and concavity. And there was a
further difficulty. If I could see objects unaltered through them, so
could Mr. Weiss. But the function of spectacles is to alter the
appearances of objects, by magnification, reduction or compensating
distortion. If they leave the appearances unchanged they are useless. I
could make nothing of it. After puzzling over it for quite a long time,
I had to give it up; which I did the less unwillingly inasmuch as the
construction of Mr. Weiss's spectacles had no apparent bearing on the
case.

On arriving home, I looked anxiously at the message-book, and was
relieved to find that there were no further visits to be made. Having
made up a mixture for Mr. Graves and handed it to the coachman, I raked
the ashes of the surgery fire together and sat down to smoke a final
pipe while I reflected once more on the singular and suspicious case in
which I had become involved. But fatigue soon put an end to my
meditations; and having come to the conclusion that the circumstances
demanded a further consultation with Thorndyke, I turned down the gas to
a microscopic blue spark and betook myself to bed.




Chapter IV

The Official View


I rose on the following morning still possessed by the determination to
make some oportunity during the day to call on Thorndyke and take his
advice on the now urgent question as to what I was to do. I use the word
"urgent" advisedly; for the incidents of the preceding evening had left
me with the firm conviction that poison was being administered for some
purpose to my mysterious patient, and that no time must be lost if his
life was to be saved. Last night he had escaped only by the narrowest
margin--assuming him to be still alive--and it was only my unexpectedly
firm attitude that had compelled Mr. Weiss to agree to restorative
measures.

That I should be sent for again I had not the slightest expectation. If
what I so strongly suspected was true, Weiss would call in some other
doctor, in the hope of better luck, and it was imperative that he
should be stopped before it was too late. This was my view, but I meant
to have Thorndyke's opinion, and act under his direction, but


  "The best laid plans of mice and men
   Gang aft agley."

When I came downstairs and took a preliminary glance at the rough
memorandum-book, kept by the bottle-boy, or, in his absence, by the
housemaid, I stood aghast. The morning's entries looked already like a
sample page of the Post Office directory. The new calls alone were more
than equal to an ordinary day's work, and the routine visits remained to
be added. Gloomily wondering whether the Black Death had made a sudden
reappearance in England, I hurried to the dining-room and made a hasty
breakfast, interrupted at intervals by the apparition of the bottle-boy
to announce new messages.

The first two or three visits solved the mystery. An epidemic of
influenza had descended on the neighbourhood, and I was getting not only
our own normal work but a certain amount of overflow from other
practices. Further, it appeared that a strike in the building trade had
been followed immediately by a widespread failure of health among the
bricklayers who were members of a certain benefit club; which accounted
for the remarkable suddenness of the outbreak.

Of course, my contemplated visit to Thorndyke was out of the question. I
should have to act on my own responsibility. But in the hurry and rush
and anxiety of the work--for some of the cases were severe and even
critical--I had no opportunity to consider any course of action, nor
time to carry it out. Even with the aid of a hansom which I chartered,
as Stillbury kept no carriage, I had not finished my last visit until
near on midnight, and was then so spent with fatigue that I fell asleep
over my postponed supper.

As the next day opened with a further increase of work, I sent a
telegram to Dr. Stillbury at Hastings, whither he had gone, like a wise
man, to recruit after a slight illness. I asked for authority to engage
an assistant, but the reply informed me that Stillbury himself was on
his way to town; and to my relief, when I dropped in at the surgery for
a cup of tea, I found him rubbing his hands over the open day-book.

"It's an ill wind that blows nobody good," he remarked cheerfully as we
shook hands. "This will pay the expenses of my holiday, including you.
By the way, you are not anxious to be off, I suppose?"

As a matter of fact, I was; for I had decided to accept Thorndyke's
offer, and was now eager to take up my duties with him. But it would
have been shabby to leave Stillbury to battle alone with this rush of
work or to seek the services of a strange assistant.

"I should like to get off as soon as you can spare me," I replied, "but
I'm not going to leave you in the lurch."

"That's a good fellow," said Stillbury. "I knew you wouldn't. Let us
have some tea and divide up the work. Anything of interest going?"

There were one or two unusual cases on the list, and, as we marked off
our respective patients, I gave him the histories in brief synopsis. And
then I opened the subject of my mysterious experiences at the house of
Mr. Weiss.

"There's another affair that I want to tell you about; rather an
unpleasant business."

"Oh, dear!" exclaimed Stillbury. He put down his cup and regarded me
with quite painful anxiety.

"It looks to me like an undoubted case of criminal poisoning," I
continued.

Stillbury's face cleared instantly. "Oh, I'm glad it's nothing more than
that," he said with an air of relief. "I was afraid, it was some
confounded woman. There's always that danger, you know, when a locum is
young and happens--if I may say so, Jervis--to be a good-looking fellow.
Let us hear about this case."

I gave him a condensed narrative of my connection with the mysterious
patient, omitting any reference to Thorndyke, and passing lightly over
my efforts to fix the position of the house, and wound up with the
remark that the facts ought certainly to be communicated to the police.

"Yes," he admitted reluctantly, "I suppose you're right. Deuced
unpleasant though. Police cases don't do a practice any good. They waste
a lot of time, too; keep you hanging about to give evidence. Still, you
are quite right. We can't stand by and see the poor devil poisoned
without making some effort. But I don't believe the police will do
anything in the matter."

"Don't you really?"

"No, I don't. They like to have things pretty well cut and dried before
they act. A prosecution is an expensive affair, so they don't care to
prosecute unless they are fairly sure of a conviction. If they fail they
get hauled over the coals."

"But don't you think they would get a conviction in this case?"

"Not on your evidence, Jervis. They might pick up something fresh, but,
if they didn't they would fail. You haven't got enough hard-baked facts
to upset a capable defence. Still, that isn't our affair. You want to
put the responsibility on the police and I entirely agree with you."

"There ought not to be any delay," said I.

"There needn't be. I shall look in on Mrs. Wackford and you have to see
the Rummel children; we shall pass the station on our way. Why shouldn't
we drop in and see the inspector or superintendent?"

The suggestion met my views exactly. As soon as we had finished tea, we
set forth, and in about ten minutes found ourselves in the bare and
forbidding office attached to the station.

The presiding officer descended from a high stool, and, carefully laying
down his pen, shook hands cordially.

"And what can I do for you gentlemen?" he asked, with an affable smile.

Stillbury proceeded to open our business.

"My friend here, Dr. Jervis, who has very kindly been looking after my
work for a week or two, has had a most remarkable experience, and he
wants to tell you about it."

"Something in my line of business?" the officer inquired.

"That," said I, "is for you to judge. I think it is, but you may think
otherwise"; and hereupon, without further preamble, I plunged into the
history of the case, giving him a condensed statement similar to that
which I had already made to Stillbury.

He listened with close attention, jotting down from time to time a brief
note on a sheet of paper; and, when I had finished, he wrote out in a
black-covered notebook a short précis of my statement.

"I have written down here," he said, "the substance of what you have
told me. I will read the deposition over to you, and, if it is correct,
I will ask you to sign it."

He did so, and, when I had signed the document, I asked him what was
likely to be done in the matter.

"I am afraid," he replied, "that we can't take any active measures. You
have put us on our guard and we shall keep our eyes open. But I think
that is all we can do, unless we hear something further."

"But," I exclaimed, "don't you think that it is a very suspicious
affair?"

"I do," he replied. "A very fishy business indeed, and you were quite
right to come and tell us about it."

"It seems a pity not to take some measures," I said. "While you are
waiting to hear something further, they may give the poor wretch a fresh
dose and kill him."

"In which case we should hear something further, unless some fool of a
doctor were to give a death certificate."

"But that is very unsatisfactory. The man ought not to be allowed to
die."

"I quite agree with you, sir. But we've no evidence that he is going to
die. His friends sent for you, and you treated him skilfully and left
him in a fair way to recovery. That's all that we really know about it.
Yes, I know," the officer continued as I made signs of disagreement,
"you think that a crime is possibly going to be committed and that we
ought to prevent it. But you overrate our powers. We can only act on
evidence that a crime has actually been committed or is actually being
attempted. Now we have no such evidence. Look at your statement, and
tell me what you can swear to."

"I think I could swear that Mr. Graves had taken a poisonous dose of
morphine."

"And who gave him that poisonous dose?"

"I very strongly suspect--"

"That's no good, sir," interrupted the officer. "Suspicion isn't
evidence. We should want you to swear an information and give us enough
facts to make out a <i>primâ facie</i> case against some definite person. And
you couldn't do it. Your information amounts to this: that a certain
person has taken a poisonous dose of morphine and apparently recovered.
That's all. You can't swear that the names given to you are real names,
and you can't give us any address or even any locality."

"I took some compass bearings in the carriage," I said. "You could
locate the house, I think, without much difficulty."

The officer smiled faintly and fixed an abstracted gaze on the clock.

"<i>You</i> could, sir," he replied. "I have no doubt whatever that <i>you</i>
could. <i>I</i> couldn't. But, in any case, we haven't enough to go upon. If
you learn anything fresh, I hope you will let me know; and I am very
much obliged to you for taking so much trouble in the matter. Good
evening sir. Good evening, Dr. Stillbury."

He shook hands with us both genially, and, accepting perforce this very
polite but unmistakable dismissal, we took our departure.

Outside the station, Stillbury heaved a comfortable sigh. He was
evidently relieved to find that no upheavals were to take place in his
domain.

"I thought that would be their attitude," he said, "and they are quite
right, you know. The function of law is to prevent crime, it is true;
but prophylaxis in the sense in which we understand it is not possible
in legal practice."

I assented without enthusiasm. It was disappointing to find that no
precautionary measures were to be taken. However, I had done all that I
could in the matter. No further responsibility lay upon me, and, as it
was practically certain that I had seen and heard the last of Mr. Graves
and his mysterious household, I dismissed the case from my mind. At the
next corner Stillbury and I parted to go our respective ways; and my
attention was soon transferred from the romance of crime to the
realities of epidemic influenza.

The plethora of work in Dr. Stillbury's practice continued longer than I
had bargained for. Day after day went by and still found me tramping the
dingy streets of Kennington or scrambling up and down narrow stairways;
turning in at night dead tired, or turning out half awake to the hideous
jangle of the night bell.

It was very provoking. For months I had resisted Thorndyke's persuasion
to give up general practice and join him. Not from lack of inclination,
but from a deep suspicion that he was thinking of my wants rather than
his own; that his was a charitable rather than a business proposal. Now
that I knew this not to be the case, I was impatient to join him; and,
as I trudged through the dreary thoroughfares of this superannuated
suburb, with its once rustic villas and its faded gardens, my thoughts
would turn enviously to the quiet dignity of the Temple and my friend's
chambers in King's Bench Walk.

The closed carriage appeared no more; nor did any whisper either of good
or evil reach me in connection with the mysterious house from which it
had come. Mr. Graves had apparently gone out of my life for ever.

But if he had gone out of my life, he had not gone out of my memory.
Often, as I walked my rounds, would the picture of that dimly-lit room
rise unbidden. Often would I find myself looking once more into that
ghastly face, so worn, so wasted and haggard, and yet so far from
repellent. All the incidents of that last night would reconstitute
themselves with a vividness that showed the intensity of the impression
that they had made at the time. I would have gladly forgotten the whole
affair, for every incident of it was fraught with discomfort. But it
clung to my memory; it haunted me; and ever as it returned it bore with
it the disquieting questions: Was Mr. Graves still alive? And, if he was
not, was there really nothing which could have been done to save him?

Nearly a month passed before the practice began to show signs of
returning to its normal condition. Then the daily lists became more and
more contracted and the day's work proportionately shorter. And thus the
term of my servitude came to an end. One evening, as we were writing up
the day-book, Stillbury remarked:

"I almost think, Jervis, I could manage by myself now. I know you are
only staying on for my sake."

"I am staying on to finish my engagement, but I shan't be sorry to clear
out if you can do without me."

"I think I can. When would you like to be off?"

"As soon as possible. Say to-morrow morning, after I have made a few
visits and transferred the patients to you."

"Very well," said Stillbury. "Then I will give you your cheque and
settle up everything to-night, so that you shall be free to go off when
you like to-morrow morning."

Thus ended my connection with Kennington Lane. On the following day at
about noon, I found myself strolling across Waterloo Bridge with the
sensations of a newly liberated convict and a cheque for twenty-five
guineas in my pocket. My luggage was to follow when I sent for it. Now,
unhampered even by a hand-bag, I joyfully descended the steps at the
north end of the bridge and headed for King's Bench Walk by way of the
Embankment and Middle Temple Lane.




Chapter V

Jeffrey Blackmore's Will


My arrival at Thorndyke's chambers was not unexpected, having been
heralded by a premonitory post-card. The "oak" was open and an
application of the little brass knocker of the inner door immediately
produced my colleague himself and a very hearty welcome.

"At last," said Thorndyke, "you have come forth from the house of
bondage. I began to think that you had taken up your abode in Kennington
for good."

"I was beginning, myself, to wonder when I should escape. But here I am;
and I may say at once that I am ready to shake the dust of general
practice off my feet for ever--that is, if you are still willing to have
me as your assistant."

"Willing!" exclaimed Thorndyke, "Barkis himself was not more willing
than I. You will be invaluable to me. Let us settle the terms of our
comradeship forthwith, and to-morrow we will take measures to enter you
as a student of the Inner Temple. Shall we have our talk in the open air
and the spring sunshine?"

I agreed readily to this proposal, for it was a bright, sunny day and
warm for the time of year--the beginning of April. We descended to the
Walk and thence slowly made our way to the quiet court behind the
church, where poor old Oliver Goldsmith lies, as he would surely have
wished to lie, in the midst of all that had been dear to him in his
chequered life. I need not record the matter of our conversation. To
Thorndyke's proposals I had no objections to offer but my own
unworthiness and his excessive liberality. A few minutes saw our
covenants fully agreed upon, and when Thorndyke had noted the points on
a slip of paper, signed and dated it and handed it to me, the business
was at an end.

"There," my colleague said with a smile as he put away his pocket-book,
"if people would only settle their affairs in that way, a good part of
the occupation of lawyers would be gone. Brevity is the soul of wit; and
the fear of simplicity is the beginning of litigation."

"And now," I said, "I propose that we go and feed. I will invite you to
lunch to celebrate our contract."

"My learned junior is premature," he replied. "I had already arranged a
little festivity--or rather had modified one that was already arranged.
You remember Mr. Marchmont, the solicitor?"

"Yes."

"He called this morning to ask me to lunch with him and a new client at
the 'Cheshire Cheese.' I accepted and notified him that I should bring
you."

"Why the 'Cheshire Cheese'?" I asked.

"Why not? Marchmont's reasons for the selection were, first, that his
client has never seen an old-fashioned London tavern, and second, that
this is Wednesday and he, Marchmont, has a gluttonous affection for a
really fine beef-steak pudding. You don't object, I hope?"

"Oh, not at all. In fact, now that you mention it, my own sensations
incline me to sympathize with Marchmont. I breakfasted rather early."

"Then come," said Thorndyke. "The assignation is for one o'clock, and,
if we walk slowly, we shall just hit it off."

We sauntered up Inner Temple Lane, and, crossing Fleet Street, headed
sedately for the tavern. As we entered the quaint old-world dining-room,
Thorndyke looked round and a gentleman, who was seated with a companion
at a table in one of the little boxes or compartments, rose and saluted
us.

"Let me introduce you to my friend Mr. Stephen Blackmore," he said as we
approached. Then, turning to his companion, he introduced us by our
respective names.

"I engaged this box," he continued, "so that we might be private if we
wished to have a little preliminary chat; not that beef-steak pudding is
a great help to conversation. But when people have a certain business
in view, their talk is sure to drift towards it, sooner or later."

Thorndyke and I sat down opposite the lawyer and his client, and we
mutually inspected one another. Marchmont I already knew; an elderly,
professional-looking man, a typical solicitor of the old school;
fresh-faced, precise, rather irascible, and conveying a not unpleasant
impression of taking a reasonable interest in his diet. The other man
was quite young, not more than five-and-twenty, and was a fine
athletic-looking fellow with a healthy, out-of-door complexion and an
intelligent and highly prepossessing face. I took a liking to him at the
first glance, and so, I saw, did Thorndyke.

"You two gentlemen," said Blackmore, addressing us, "seem to be quite
old acquaintances. I have heard so much about you from my friend, Reuben
Hornby."

"Ah!" exclaimed Marchmont, "that was a queer case--'The Case of the Red
Thumb Mark,' as the papers called it. It was an eye-opener to
old-fashioned lawyers like myself. We've had scientific witnesses
before--and bullied 'em properly, by Jove! when they wouldn't give the
evidence that we wanted. But the scientific lawyer is something new. His
appearance in court made us all sit up, I can assure you."

"I hope we shall make you sit up again," said Thorndyke.

"You won't this time," said Marchmont. "The issues in this case of my
friend Blackmore's are purely legal; or rather, there are no issues at
all. There is nothing in dispute. I tried to prevent Blackmore from
consulting you, but he wouldn't listen to reason. Here! Waiter! How much
longer are we to be waiters? We shall die of old age before we get our
victuals!"

The waiter smiled apologetically. "Yessir!" said he. "Coming now, sir."
And at this very moment there was borne into the room a Gargantuan
pudding in a great bucket of a basin, which being placed on a
three-legged stool was forthwith attacked ferociously by the
white-clothed, white-capped carver. We watched the process--as did every
one present--with an interest not entirely gluttonous, for it added a
pleasant touch to the picturesque old room, with its sanded floor, its
homely, pew-like boxes, its high-backed settles and the friendly
portrait of the "great lexicographer" that beamed down on us from the
wall.

"This is a very different affair from your great, glittering modern
restaurant," Mr. Marchmont remarked.

"It is indeed," said Blackmore, "and if this is the way in which our
ancestors lived, it would seem that they had a better idea of comfort
than we have."

There was a short pause, during which Mr. Marchmont glared hungrily at
the pudding; then Thorndyke said:

"So you refused to listen to reason, Mr. Blackmore?"

"Yes. You see, Mr. Marchmont and his partner had gone into the matter
and decided that there was nothing to be done. Then I happened to
mention the affair to Reuben Hornby, and he urged me to ask your advice
on the case."

"Like his impudence," growled Marchmont, "to meddle with my client."

"On which," continued Blackmore, "I spoke to Mr. Marchmont and he agreed
that it was worth while to take your opinion on the case, though he
warned me to cherish no hopes, as the affair was not really within your
specialty."

"So you understand," said Marchmont, "that we expect nothing. This is
quite a forlorn hope. We are taking your opinion as a mere formality, to
be able to say that we have left nothing untried."

"That is an encouraging start," Thorndyke remarked. "It leaves me
unembarrassed by the possibility of failure. But meanwhile you are
arousing in me a devouring curiosity as to the nature of the case. Is it
highly confidential? Because if not, I would mention that Jervis has now
joined me as my permanent colleague."

"It isn't confidential at all," said Marchmont. "The public are in full
possession of the facts, and we should be only too happy to put them in
still fuller possession, through the medium of the Probate Court, if we
could find a reasonable pretext. But we can't."

Here the waiter charged our table with the fussy rapidity of the
overdue.

"Sorry to keep you waiting, sir. Rather early, sir. Wouldn't like it
underdone, sir."

Marchmont inspected his plate critically and remarked:

"I sometimes suspect these oysters of being mussels; and I'll swear the
larks are sparrows."

"Let us hope so," said Thorndyke. "The lark is better employed 'at
Heaven's gate singing' than garnishing a beef-steak pudding. But you
were telling us about your case."

"So I was. Well it's just a matter of--ale or claret? Oh, claret, I
know. You despise the good old British John Barleycorn."

"He that drinks beer thinks beer," retorted Thorndyke. "But you were
saying that it is just a matter of--?"

"A matter of a perverse testator and an ill-drawn will. A peculiarly
irritating case, too, because the defective will replaces a perfectly
sound one, and the intentions of the testator were--er--were--excellent
ale, this. A little heady, perhaps, but sound. Better than your sour
French wine, Thorndyke--were--er--were quite obvious. What he evidently
desired was--mustard? Better have some mustard. No? Well, well! Even a
Frenchman would take mustard. You can have no appreciation of flavour,
Thorndyke, if you take your victuals in that crude, unseasoned state.
And, talking of flavour, do you suppose that there is really any
difference between that of a lark and that of a sparrow?"

Thorndyke smiled grimly. "I should suppose," said he, "that they were
indistinguishable; but the question could easily be put to the test of
experiment."

"That is true," agreed Marchmont, "and it would really be worth trying,
for, as you say, sparrows are more easily obtainable than larks. But,
about this will. I was saying--er--now, what was I saying?"

"I understood you to say," replied Thorndyke, "that the intentions of
the testator were in some way connected with mustard. Isn't that so,
Jervis?"

"That was what I gathered," said I.

Marchmont gazed at us for a moment with a surprised expression and then,
laughing good-humouredly, fortified himself with a draught of ale.

"The moral of which is," Thorndyke added, "that testamentary
dispositions should not be mixed up with beef-steak pudding."

"I believe you're right, Thorndyke," said the unabashed solicitor.
"Business is business and eating is eating. We had better talk over our
case in my office or your chambers after lunch."

"Yes," said Thorndyke, "come over to the Temple with me and I will give
you a cup of coffee to clear your brain. Are there any documents?"

"I have all the papers here in my bag," replied Marchmont; and the
conversation--such conversation as is possible "when beards wag all"
over the festive board--drifted into other channels.

As soon as the meal was finished and the reckoning paid, we trooped out
of Wine Office Court, and, insinuating ourselves through the line of
empty hansoms that, in those days, crawled in a continuous procession
on either side of Fleet Street, betook ourselves by way of Mitre Court
to King's Bench Walk. There, when the coffee had been requisitioned and
our chairs drawn up around the fire, Mr. Marchmont unloaded from his bag
a portentous bundle of papers, and we addressed ourselves to the
business in hand.

"Now," said Marchmont, "let me repeat what I said before. Legally
speaking, we have no case--not the ghost of one. But my client wished to
take your opinion, and I agreed on the bare chance that you might detect
some point that we had overlooked. I don't think you will, for we have
gone into the case very thoroughly, but still, there is the
infinitesimal chance and we may as well take it. Would you like to read
the two wills, or shall I first explain the circumstances?"

"I think," replied Thorndyke, "a narrative of the events in the order of
their occurrence would be most helpful. I should like to know as much as
possible about the testator before I examine the documents."

"Very well," said Marchmont. "Then I will begin with a recital of the
circumstances, which, briefly stated, are these: My client, Stephen
Blackmore, is the son of Mr. Edward Blackmore, deceased. Edward
Blackmore had two brothers who survived him, John, the elder, and
Jeffrey, the younger. Jeffrey is the testator in this case.

"Some two years ago, Jeffrey Blackmore executed a will by which he made
his nephew Stephen his executor and sole legatee; and a few months later
he added a codicil giving two hundred and fifty pounds to his brother
John."

"What was the value of the estate?" Thorndyke asked.

"About three thousand five hundred pounds, all invested in Consols. The
testator had a pension from the Foreign Office, on which he lived,
leaving his capital untouched. Soon after having made his will, he left
the rooms in Jermyn Street, where he had lived for some years, stored
his furniture and went to Florence. From thence he moved on to Rome and
then to Venice and other places in Italy, and so continued to travel
about until the end of last September, when it appears that he returned
to England, for at the beginning of October he took a set of chambers in
New Inn, which he furnished with some of the things from his old rooms.
As far as we can make out, he never communicated with any of his
friends, excepting his brother, and the fact of his being in residence
at New Inn or of his being in England at all became known to them only
when he died."

"Was this quite in accordance with his ordinary habits?" Thorndyke
asked.

"I should say not quite," Blackmore answered. "My uncle was a studious,
solitary man, but he was not formerly a recluse. He was not much of a
correspondent but he kept up some sort of communication with his
friends. He used, for instance, to write to me sometimes, and, when I
came down from Cambridge for the vacations, he had me to stay with him
at his rooms."

"Is there anything known that accounts for the change in his habits?"

"Yes, there is," replied Marchmont. "We shall come to that presently. To
proceed with the narrative: On the fifteenth of last March he was found
dead in his chambers, and a more recent will was then discovered, dated
the twelfth of November of last year. Now no change had taken place in
the circumstances of the testator to account for the new will, nor was
there any appreciable alteration in the disposition of the property. As
far as we can make out, the new will was drawn with the idea of stating
the intentions of the testator with greater exactness and for the sake
of doing away with the codicil. The entire property, with the exception
of two hundred and fifty pounds, was, as before, bequeathed to Stephen,
but the separate items were specified, and the testator's brother, John
Blackmore, was named as the executor and residuary legatee."

"I see," said Thorndyke. "So that your client's interest in the will
would appear to be practically unaffected by the change."

"Yes. There it is," exclaimed the lawyer, slapping the table to add
emphasis to his words. "That is the pity of it! If people who have no
knowledge of law would only refrain from tinkering at their wills, what
a world of trouble would be saved!"

"Oh, come!" said Thorndyke. "It is not for a lawyer to say that."

"No, I suppose not," Marchmont agreed. "Only, you see, we like the
muddle to be made by the other side. But, in this case, the muddle is on
our side. The change, as you say, seems to leave our friend Stephen's
interests unaffected. That is, of course, what poor Jeffrey Blackmore
thought. But he was mistaken. The effect of the change is absolutely
disastrous."

"Indeed!"

"Yes. As I have said, no alteration in the testator's circumstances had
taken place at the time the new will was executed. <i>But</i> only two days
before his death, his sister, Mrs. Edmund Wilson, died; and on her will
being proved it appeared that she had bequeathed to him her entire
personalty, estimated at about thirty thousand pounds."

"Heigho!" exclaimed Thorndyke. "What an unfortunate affair!"

"You are right," said Mr. Marchmont; "it was a disaster. By the original
will this great sum would have accrued to our friend Mr. Stephen,
whereas now, of course, it goes to the residuary legatee, Mr. John
Blackmore. And what makes it even more exasperating is the fact that
this is obviously not in accordance with the wishes and intentions of
Mr. Jeffrey, who clearly desired his nephew to inherit his property."

"Yes," said Thorndyke; "I think you are justified in assuming that. But
do you know whether Mr. Jeffrey was aware of his sister's intentions?"

"We think not. Her will was executed as recently as the third of
September last, and it seems that there had been no communication
between her and Mr. Jeffrey since that date. Besides, if you consider
Mr. Jeffrey's actions, you will see that they suggest no knowledge or
expectation of this very important bequest. A man does not make
elaborate dispositions in regard to three thousand pounds and then leave
a sum of thirty thousand to be disposed of casually as the residue of
the estate."

"No," Thorndyke agreed. "And, as you have said, the manifest intention
of the testator was to leave the bulk of his property to Mr. Stephen. So
we may take it as virtually certain that Mr. Jeffrey had no knowledge of
the fact that he was a beneficiary under his sister's will."

"Yes," said Mr. Marchmont, "I think we may take that as nearly certain."

"With reference to the second will," said Thorndyke, "I suppose there is
no need to ask whether the document itself has been examined; I mean as
to its being a genuine document and perfectly regular?"

Mr. Marchmont shook his head sadly.

"No," he said, "I am sorry to say that there can be no possible doubt as
to the authenticity and regularity of the document. The circumstances
under which it was executed establish its genuineness beyond any
question."

"What were those circumstances?" Thorndyke asked.

"They were these: On the morning of the twelfth of November last, Mr.
Jeffrey came to the porter's lodge with a document in his hand. 'This,'
he said, 'is my will. I want you to witness my signature. Would you mind
doing so, and can you find another respectable person to act as the
second witness?' Now it happened that a nephew of the porter's, a
painter by trade, was at work in the Inn. The porter went out and
fetched him into the lodge and the two men agreed to witness the
signature. 'You had better read the will,' said Mr. Jeffrey. 'It is not
actually necessary, but it is an additional safeguard and there is
nothing of a private nature in the document.' The two men accordingly
read the document, and, when Mr. Jeffrey had signed it in their
presence, they affixed their signatures; and I may add that the painter
left the recognizable impressions of three greasy fingers."

"And these witnesses have been examined?"

"Yes. They have both sworn to the document and to their own signatures,
and the painter recognized his finger-marks."

"That," said Thorndyke, "seems to dispose pretty effectually of any
question as to the genuineness of the will; and if, as I gather, Mr.
Jeffrey came to the lodge alone, the question of undue influence is
disposed of too."

"Yes," said Mr. Marchmont. "I think we must pass the will as absolutely
flawless."

"It strikes me as rather odd," said Thorndyke, "that Jeffrey should have
known so little about his sister's intentions. Can you explain it, Mr.
Blackmore?"

"I don't think that it is very remarkable," Stephen replied. "I knew
very little of my aunt's affairs and I don't think my uncle Jeffrey knew
much more, for he was under the impression that she had only a life
interest in her husband's property. And he may have been right. It is
not clear what money this was that she left to my uncle. She was a very
taciturn woman and made few confidences to anyone."

"So that it is possible," said Thorndyke, "that she, herself, may have
acquired this money recently by some bequest?"

"It is quite possible," Stephen answered.

"She died, I understand," said Thorndyke, glancing at the notes that he
had jotted down, "two days before Mr. Jeffrey. What date would that be?"

"Jeffrey died on the fourteenth of March," said Marchmont.

"So that Mrs. Wilson died on the twelfth of March?"

"That is so," Marchmont replied; and Thorndyke then asked:

"Did she die suddenly?"

"No," replied Stephen; "she died of cancer. I understand that it was
cancer of the stomach."

"Do you happen to know," Thorndyke asked, "what sort of relations
existed between Jeffrey and his brother John?"

"At one time," said Stephen, "I know they were not very cordial; but the
breach may have been made up later, though I don't know that it actually
was."

"I ask the question," said Thorndyke, "because, as I dare say you have
noticed, there is, in the first will, some hint of improved relations.
As it was originally drawn that will makes Mr. Stephen the sole legatee.
Then, a little later, a codicil is added in favour of John, showing that
Jeffrey had felt the necessity of making some recognition of his
brother. This seems to point to some change in the relations, and the
question arises: if such a change did actually occur, was it the
beginning of a new and further improving state of feeling between the
two brothers? Have you any facts bearing on that question?"

Marchmont pursed up his lips with the air of a man considering an
unwelcome suggestion, and, after a few moments of reflection, answered:

"I think we must say 'yes' to that. There is the undeniable fact that,
of all Jeffrey's friends, John Blackmore was the only one who knew that
he was living in New Inn."

"Oh, John knew that, did he?"

"Yes, he certainly did; for it came out in the evidence that he had
called on Jeffrey at his chambers more than once. There is no denying
that. But, mark you!" Mr. Marchmont added emphatically, "that does not
cover the inconsistency of the will. There is nothing in the second will
to suggest that Jeffrey intended materially to increase the bequest to
his brother."

"I quite agree with you, Marchmont. I think that is a perfectly sound
position. You have, I suppose, fully considered the question as to
whether it would be possible to set aside the second will on the ground
that it fails to carry out the evident wishes and intentions of the
testator?"

"Yes. My partner, Winwood, and I went into that question very carefully,
and we also took counsel's opinion--Sir Horace Barnaby--and he was of
the same opinion as ourselves; that the court would certainly uphold the
will."

"I think that would be my own view," said Thorndyke, "especially after
what you have told me. Do I understand that John Blackmore was the only
person who knew that Jeffrey was in residence at New Inn?"

"The only one of his private friends. His bankers knew and so did the
officials from whom he drew his pension."

"Of course he would have to notify his bankers of his change of
address."

"Yes, of course. And à propos of the bank, I may mention that the
manager tells me that, of late, they had noticed a slight change in the
character of Jeffrey's signature--I think you will see the reason of the
change when you hear the rest of his story. It was very trifling; not
more than commonly occurs when a man begins to grow old, especially if
there is some failure of eyesight."

"Was Mr. Jeffrey's eyesight failing?" asked Thorndyke.

"Yes, it was, undoubtedly," said Stephen. "He was practically blind in
one eye and, in the very last letter that I ever had from him, he
mentioned that there were signs of commencing cataract in the other."

"You spoke of his pension. He continued to draw that regularly?"

"Yes; he drew his allowance every month, or rather, his bankers drew it
for him. They had been accustomed to do so when he was abroad, and the
authorities seem to have allowed the practice to continue."

Thorndyke reflected a while, running his eye over the notes on the slips
of paper in his hand, and Marchmont surveyed him with a malicious smile.
Presently the latter remarked:

"Methinks the learned counsel is floored."

Thorndyke laughed. "It seems to me," he retorted, "that your proceedings
are rather like those of the amiable individual who offered the bear a
flint pebble, that he might crack it and extract the kernel. Your
confounded will seems to offer no soft spot on which one could commence
an attack. But we won't give up. We seem to have sucked the will dry.
Let us now have a few facts respecting the parties concerned in it; and,
as Jeffrey is the central figure, let us begin with him and the tragedy
at New Inn that formed the starting-point of all this trouble."




Chapter VI

Jeffrey Blackmore, Deceased


Having made the above proposition, Thorndyke placed a fresh slip of
paper on the blotting pad on his knee and looked inquiringly at Mr.
Marchmont; who, in his turn, sighed and looked at the bundle of
documents on the table.

"What do you want to know?" he asked a little wearily.

"Everything," replied Thorndyke. "You have hinted at circumstances that
would account for a change in Jeffrey's habits and that would explain an
alteration in the character of his signature. Let us have those
circumstances. And, if I might venture on a suggestion, it would be that
we take the events in the order in which they occurred or in which they
became known."

"That's the worst of you, Thorndyke," Marchmont grumbled. "When a case
has been squeezed out to the last drop, in a legal sense, you want to
begin all over again with the family history of every one concerned and
a list of his effects and household furniture. But I suppose you will
have to be humoured; and I imagine that the best way in which to give
you the information you want will be to recite the circumstances
surrounding the death of Jeffrey Blackmore. Will that suit you?"

"Perfectly," replied Thorndyke; and thereupon Marchmont began:

"The death of Jeffrey Blackmore was discovered at about eleven o'clock
in the morning of the fifteenth of March. It seems that a builder's man
was ascending a ladder to examine a gutter on number 31, New Inn, when,
on passing a second-floor window that was open at the top, he looked in
and perceived a gentleman lying on a bed. The gentleman was fully
clothed and had apparently lain down on the bed to rest; at least so the
builder thought at the time, for he was merely passing the window on
his way up, and, very properly, did not make a minute examination. But
when, some ten minutes later, he came down and saw that the gentleman
was still in the same position, he looked at him more attentively; and
this is what he noticed--but perhaps we had better have it in his own
words as he told the story at the inquest.

"'When I came to look at the gentleman a bit more closely, it struck me
that he looked rather queer. His face looked very white, or rather pale
yellow, like parchment, and his mouth was open. He did not seem to be
breathing. On the bed by his side was a brass object of some kind--I
could not make out what it was--and he seemed to be holding some small
metal object in his hand. I thought it rather a queer affair, so, when I
came down I went across to the lodge and told the porter about it. The
porter came out across the square with me and I showed him the window.
Then he told me to go up the stairs to Mr. Blackmore's chambers on the
second pair and knock and keep on knocking until I got an answer. I went
up and knocked and kept on knocking as loud as I could, but, though I
fetched everybody out of all the other chambers in the house, I couldn't
get any answer from Mr. Blackmore. So I went downstairs again and then
Mr. Walker, the porter, sent me for a policeman.

"'I went out and met a policeman just by Dane's Inn and told him about
the affair, and he came back with me. He and the porter consulted
together, and then they told me to go up the ladder and get in at the
window and open the door of the chambers from the inside. So I went up;
and as soon as I got in at the window I saw that the gentleman was dead.
I went through the other room and opened the outer door and let in the
porter and the policeman.'

"That," said Mr. Marchmont, laying down the paper containing the
depositions, "is the way in which poor Jeffrey Blackmore's death came to
be discovered.

"The constable reported to his inspector and the inspector sent for the
divisional surgeon, whom he accompanied to New Inn. I need not go into
the evidence given by the police officers, as the surgeon saw all that
they saw and his statement covers everything that is known about
Jeffrey's death. This is what he says, after describing how he was sent
for and arrived at the Inn:

"'In the bedroom I found the body of a man between fifty and sixty years
of age, which has since been identified in my presence as that of Mr.
Jeffrey Blackmore. It was fully dressed and wore boots on which was a
moderate amount of dry mud. It was lying on its back on the bed, which
did not appear to have been slept in, and showed no sign of any struggle
or disturbance. The right hand loosely grasped a hypodermic syringe
containing a few drops of clear liquid which I have since analysed and
found to be a concentrated solution of strophanthin.

"'On the bed, close to the left side of the body, was a brass opium-pipe
of a pattern which I believe is made in China. The bowl of the pipe
contained a small quantity of charcoal, and a fragment of opium
together with some ash, and there was on the bed a little ash which
appeared to have dropped from the bowl when the pipe fell or was laid
down. On the mantelshelf in the bedroom I found a small glass-stoppered
jar containing about an ounce of solid opium, and another, larger jar
containing wood charcoal broken up into small fragments. Also a bowl
containing a quantity of ash with fragments of half-burned charcoal and
a few minute particles of charred opium. By the side of the bowl were a
knife, a kind of awl or pricker and a very small pair of tongs, which I
believe to have been used for carrying a piece of lighted charcoal to
the pipe.

"'On the dressing-table were two glass tubes labelled "Hypodermic
Tabloids: Strophanthin 1/500 grain," and a minute glass mortar and
pestle, of which the former contained a few crystals which have since
been analysed by me and found to be strophanthin.

"'On examining the body, I found that it had been dead about twelve
hours. There were no marks of violence or any abnormal condition
excepting a single puncture in the right thigh, apparently made by the
needle of the hypodermic syringe. The puncture was deep and vertical in
direction as if the needle had been driven in through the clothing.

"'I made a post-mortem examination of the body and found that death was
due to poisoning by strophanthin, which appeared to have been injected
into the thigh. The two tubes which I found on the dressing-table would
each have contained, if full, twenty tabloids, each tabloid
representing one five-hundredth of a grain of strophanthin. Assuming
that the whole of this quantity was injected the amount taken would be
forty five-hundredths, or about one twelfth of a grain. The ordinary
medicinal dose of strophanthin is one five-hundredth of a grain.

"'I also found in the body appreciable traces of morphine--the principal
alkaloid of opium--from which I infer that the deceased was a confirmed
opium-smoker. This inference was supported by the general condition of
the body, which was ill-nourished and emaciated and presented all the
appearances usually met with in the bodies of persons addicted to the
habitual use of opium.'

"That is the evidence of the surgeon. He was recalled later, as we shall
see, but, meanwhile, I think you will agree with me that the facts
testified to by him fully account, not only for the change in Jeffrey's
habits--his solitary and secretive mode of life--but also for the
alteration in his handwriting."

"Yes," agreed Thorndyke, "that seems to be so. By the way, what did the
change in the handwriting amount to?"

"Very little," replied Marchmont. "It was hardly perceptible. Just a
slight loss of firmness and distinctness; such a trifling change as you
would expect to find in the handwriting of a man who had taken to drink
or drugs, or anything that might impair the steadiness of his hand. I
should not have noticed it, myself, but, of course, the people at the
bank are experts, constantly scrutinizing signatures and scrutinizing
them with a very critical eye."

"Is there any other evidence that bears on the case?" Thorndyke asked.

Marchmont turned over the bundle of papers and smiled grimly.

"My dear Thorndyke," he said, "none of this evidence has the slightest
bearing on the case. It is all perfectly irrelevant as far as the will
is concerned. But I know your little peculiarities and I am indulging
you, as you see, to the top of your bent. The next evidence is that of
the chief porter, a very worthy and intelligent man named Walker. This
is what he says, after the usual preliminaries.

"'I have viewed the body which forms the subject of this inquiry. It is
that of Mr. Jeffrey Blackmore, the tenant of a set of chambers on the
second floor of number thirty-one, New Inn. I have known the deceased
nearly six months, and during that time have seen and conversed with him
frequently. He took the chambers on the second of last October and came
into residence at once. Tenants at New Inn have to furnish two
references. The references that the deceased gave were his bankers and
his brother, Mr. John Blackmore. I may say that the deceased was very
well known to me. He was a quiet, pleasant-mannered gentleman, and it
was his habit to drop in occasionally at the lodge and have a chat with
me. I went into his chambers with him once or twice on some small
matters of business and I noticed that there were always a number of
books and papers on the table. I understood from him that he spent most
of his time indoors engaged in study and writing. I know very little
about his way of living. He had no laundress to look after his rooms, so
I suppose he did his own house-work and cooking; but he told me that he
took most of his meals outside, at restaurants or his club.

"'Deceased impressed me as a rather melancholy, low-spirited gentleman.
He was very much troubled about his eyesight and mentioned the matter to
me on several occasions. He told me that he was practically blind in one
eye and that the sight of the other was failing rapidly. He said that
this afflicted him greatly, because his only pleasure in life was in the
reading of books, and that if he could not read he should not wish to
live. On another occasion he said that "to a blind man life was not
worth living."

"'On the twelfth of last November he came to the lodge with a paper in
his hand which he said was his will'--But I needn't read that," said
Marchmont, turning over the leaf, "I've told you how the will was signed
and witnessed. We will pass on to the day of poor Jeffrey's death.

"'On the fourteenth of March,' the porter says, 'at about half-past six
in the evening, the deceased came to the Inn in a four-wheeled cab. That
was the day of the great fog. I do not know if there was anyone in the
cab with the deceased, but I think not, because he came to the lodge
just before eight o'clock and had a little talk with me. He said that
he had been overtaken by the fog and could not see at all. He was quite
blind and had been obliged to ask a stranger to call a cab for him as he
could not find his way through the streets. He then gave me a cheque for
the rent. I reminded him that the rent was not due until the
twenty-fifth, but he said he wished to pay it now. He also gave me some
money to pay one or two small bills that were owing to some of the
tradespeople--a milk-man, a baker and a stationer.

"'This struck me as very strange, because he had always managed his
business and paid the tradespeople himself. He told me that the fog had
irritated his eye so that he could hardly read, and he was afraid he
should soon be quite blind. He was very depressed; so much so that I
felt quite uneasy about him. When he left the lodge, he went back across
the square as if returning to his chambers. There was then no gate open
excepting the main gate where the lodge is situated. That was the last
time that I saw the deceased alive.'"

Mr. Marchmont laid the paper on the table. "That is the porter's
evidence. The remaining depositions are those of Noble, the night
porter, John Blackmore and our friend here, Mr. Stephen. The night
porter had not much to tell. This is the substance of his evidence:

"'I have viewed the body of the deceased and identify it as that of Mr.
Jeffrey Blackmore. I knew the deceased well by sight and occasionally
had a few words with him. I know nothing of his habits excepting that he
used to sit up rather late. It is one of my duties to go round the Inn
at night and call out the hours until one o'clock in the morning. When
calling out "one o'clock" I often saw a light in the sitting-room of the
deceased's chambers. On the night of the fourteenth instant, the light
was burning until past one o'clock, but it was in the bedroom. The light
in the sitting-room was out by ten o'clock.'

"We now come to John Blackmore's evidence. He says:

"'I have viewed the body of the deceased and recognize it as that of my
brother Jeffrey. I last saw him alive on the twenty-third of February,
when I called at his chambers. He then seemed in a very despondent state
of mind and told me that his eyesight was fast failing. I was aware that
he occasionally smoked opium, but I did not know that it was a confirmed
habit. I urged him, on several occasions, to abandon the practice. I
have no reason to believe that his affairs were in any way embarrassed
or that he had any reason for making away with himself other than his
failing eyesight; but, having regard to his state of mind when I last
saw him, I am not surprised at what has happened.'

"That is the substance of John Blackmore's evidence, and, as to Mr.
Stephen, his statement merely sets forth the fact that he had identified
the body as that of his uncle Jeffrey. And now I think you have all the
facts. Is there anything more that you want to ask me before I go, for I
must really run away now?"

"I should like," said Thorndyke, "to know a little more about the
parties concerned in this affair. But perhaps Mr. Stephen can give me
the information."

"I expect he can," said Marchmont; "at any rate, he knows more about
them than I do; so I will be off. If you should happen to think of any
way," he continued, with a sly smile, "of upsetting that will, just let
me know, and I will lose no time in entering a caveat. Good-bye! Don't
trouble to let me out."

As soon as he was gone, Thorndyke turned to Stephen Blackmore.

"I am going," he said, "to ask you a few questions which may appear
rather trifling, but you must remember that my methods of inquiry
concern themselves with persons and things rather than with documents.
For instance, I have not gathered very completely what sort of person
your uncle Jeffrey was. Could you tell me a little more about him?"

"What shall I tell you?" Stephen asked with a slightly embarrassed air.

"Well, begin with his personal appearance."

"That is rather difficult to describe," said Stephen. "He was a
medium-sized man and about five feet seven--fair, slightly grey,
clean-shaved, rather spare and slight, had grey eyes, wore spectacles
and stooped a little as he walked. He was quiet and gentle in manner,
rather yielding and irresolute in character, and his health was not at
all robust though he had no infirmity or disease excepting his bad
eyesight. His age was about fifty-five."

"How came he to be a civil-service pensioner at fifty-five?" asked
Thorndyke.

"Oh, that was through an accident. He had a nasty fall from a horse,
and, being a rather nervous man, the shock was very severe. For some
time after he was a complete wreck. But the failure of his eyesight was
the actual cause of his retirement. It seems that the fall damaged his
eyes in some way; in fact he practically lost the sight of one--the
right--from that moment; and, as that had been his good eye, the
accident left his vision very much impaired. So that he was at first
given sick leave and then allowed to retire on a pension."

Thorndyke noted these particulars and then said:

"Your uncle has been more than once referred to as a man of studious
habits. Does that mean that he pursued any particular branch of
learning?"

"Yes. He was an enthusiastic Oriental scholar. His official duties had
taken him at one time to Yokohama and Tokio and at another to Bagdad,
and while at those places he gave a good deal of attention to the
languages, literature and arts of the countries. He was also greatly
interested in Babylonian and Assyrian archaeology, and I believe he
assisted for some time in the excavations at Birs Nimroud."

"Indeed!" said Thorndyke. "This is very interesting. I had no idea that
he was a man of such considerable attainments. The facts mentioned by
Mr. Marchmont would hardly have led one to think of him as what he seems
to have been: a scholar of some distinction."

"I don't know that Mr. Marchmont realized the fact himself," said
Stephen; "or that he would have considered it of any moment if he had.
Nor, as far as that goes, do I. But, of course, I have no experience of
legal matters."

"You can never tell beforehand," said Thorndyke, "what facts may turn
out to be of moment, so that it is best to collect all you can get. By
the way, were you aware that your uncle was an opium-smoker?"

"No, I was not. I knew that he had an opium-pipe which he brought with
him when he came home from Japan; but I thought it was only a curio. I
remember him telling me that he once tried a few puffs at an opium-pipe
and found it rather pleasant, though it gave him a headache. But I had
no idea he had contracted the habit; in fact, I may say that I was
utterly astonished when the fact came out at the inquest."

Thorndyke made a note of this answer, too, and said:

"I think that is all I have to ask you about your uncle Jeffrey. And now
as to Mr. John Blackmore. What sort of man is he?"

"I am afraid I can't tell you very much about him. Until I saw him at
the inquest, I had not met him since I was a boy. But he is a very
different kind of man from Uncle Jeffrey; different in appearance and
different in character."

"You would say that the two brothers were physically quite unlike,
then?"

"Well," said Stephen, "I don't know that I ought to say that. Perhaps I
am exaggerating the difference. I am thinking of Uncle Jeffrey as he was
when I saw him last and of uncle John as he appeared at the inquest.
They were very different then. Jeffrey was thin, pale, clean shaven,
wore spectacles and walked with a stoop. John is a shade taller, a shade
greyer, has good eyesight, a healthy, florid complexion, a brisk,
upright carriage, is distinctly stout and wears a beard and moustache
which are black and only very slightly streaked with grey. To me they
looked as unlike as two men could, though their features were really of
the same type; indeed, I have heard it said that, as young men, they
were rather alike, and they both resembled their mother. But there is no
doubt as to their difference in character. Jeffrey was quiet, serious
and studious, whereas John rather inclined to what is called a fast
life; he used to frequent race meetings, and, I think, gambled a good
deal at times."

"What is his profession?"

"That would be difficult to tell; he has so many; he is so very
versatile. I believe he began life as an articled pupil in the
laboratory of a large brewery, but he soon left that and went on the
stage. He seems to have remained in 'the profession' for some years,
touring about this country and making occasional visits to America. The
life seemed to suit him and I believe he was decidedly successful as an
actor. But suddenly he left the stage and blossomed out in connection
with a bucket-shop in London."

"And what is he doing now?"

"At the inquest he described himself as a stockbroker, so I presume he
is still connected with the bucket-shop."

Thorndyke rose, and taking down from the reference shelves a list of
members of the Stock Exchange, turned over the leaves.

"Yes," he said, replacing the volume, "he must be an outside broker. His
name is not in the list of members of 'the House.' From what you tell
me, it is easy to understand that there should have been no great
intimacy between the two brothers, without assuming any kind of
ill-feeling. They simply had very little in common. Do you know of
anything more?"

"No. I have never heard of any actual quarrel or disagreement. My
impression that they did not get on very well may have been, I think,
due to the terms of the will, especially the first will. And they
certainly did not seek one another's society."

"That is not very conclusive," said Thorndyke. "As to the will, a
thrifty man is not usually much inclined to bequeath his savings to a
gentleman who may probably employ them in a merry little flutter on the
turf or the Stock Exchange. And then there was yourself; clearly a more
suitable subject for a legacy, as your life is all before you. But this
is mere speculation and the matter is not of much importance, as far as
we can see. And now, tell me what John Blackmore's relations were with
Mrs. Wilson. I gather that she left the bulk of her property to Jeffrey,
her younger brother. Is that so?"

"Yes. She left nothing to John. The fact is that they were hardly on
speaking terms. I believe John had treated her rather badly, or, at any
rate, she thought he had. Mr. Wilson, her late husband, dropped some
money over an investment in connection with the bucket-shop that I spoke
of, and I think she suspected John of having let him in. She may have
been mistaken, but you know what ladies are when they get an idea into
their heads."

"Did you know your aunt well?"

"No; very slightly. She lived down in Devonshire and saw very little of
any of us. She was a taciturn, strong-minded woman; quite unlike her
brothers. She seems to have resembled her father's family."

"You might give me her full name."

"Julia Elizabeth Wilson. Her husband's name was Edmund Wilson."

"Thank you. There is just one more point. What has happened to your
uncle's chambers in New Inn since his death?"

"They have remained shut up. As all his effects were left to me, I have
taken over the tenancy for the present to avoid having them disturbed. I
thought of keeping them for my own use, but I don't think I could live
in them after what I have seen."

"You have inspected them, then?"

"Yes; I have just looked through them. I went there on the day of the
inquest."

"Now tell me: as you looked through those rooms, what kind of impression
did they convey to you as to your uncle's habits and mode of life?"

Stephen smiled apologetically. "I am afraid," said he, "that they did
not convey any particular impression in that respect. I looked into the
sitting-room and saw all his old familiar household gods, and then I
went into the bedroom and saw the impression on the bed where his corpse
had lain; and that gave me such a sensation of horror that I came away
at once."

"But the appearance of the rooms must have conveyed something to your
mind," Thorndyke urged.

"I am afraid it did not. You see, I have not your analytical eye. But
perhaps you would like to look through them yourself? If you would, pray
do so. They are my chambers now."

"I think I should like to glance round them," Thorndyke replied.

"Very well," said Stephen. "I will give you my card now, and I will look
in at the lodge presently and tell the porter to hand you the key
whenever you like to look over the rooms."

He took a card from his case, and, having written a few lines on it,
handed it to Thorndyke.

"It is very good of you," he said, "to take so much trouble. Like Mr.
Marchmont, I have no expectation of any result from your efforts, but I
am very grateful to you, all the same, for going into the case so
thoroughly. I suppose you don't see any possibility of upsetting that
will--if I may ask the question?"

"At present," replied Thorndyke, "I do not. But until I have carefully
weighed every fact connected with the case--whether it seems to have any
bearing or not--I shall refrain from expressing, or even entertaining,
an opinion either way."

Stephen Blackmore now took his leave; and Thorndyke, having collected
the papers containing his notes, neatly punched a couple of holes in
their margins and inserted them into a small file, which he slipped into
his pocket.

"That," said he, "is the nucleus of the body of data on which our
investigations must be based; and I very much fear that it will not
receive any great additions. What do you think, Jervis?"

"The case looks about as hopeless as a case could look," I replied.

"That is what I think," said he; "and for that reason I am more than
ordinarily keen on making something of it. I have not much more hope
than Marchmont has; but I shall squeeze the case as dry as a bone before
I let go. What are you going to do? I have to attend a meeting of the
board of directors of the Griffin Life Office."

"Shall I walk down with you?"

"It is very good of you to offer, Jervis, but I think I will go alone. I
want to run over these notes and get the facts of the case arranged in
my mind. When I have done that, I shall be ready to pick up new matter.
Knowledge is of no use unless it is actually in your mind, so that it
can be produced at a moment's notice. So you had better get a book and
your pipe and spend a quiet hour by the fire while I assimilate the
miscellaneous mental feast that we have just enjoyed. And you might do a
little rumination yourself."

With this, Thorndyke took his departure; and I, adopting his advice,
drew my chair closer to the fire and filled my pipe. But I did not
discover any inclination to read. The curious history that I had just
heard, and Thorndyke's evident determination to elucidate it further,
disposed me to meditation. Moreover, as his subordinate, it was my
business to occupy myself with his affairs. Wherefore, having stirred
the fire and got my pipe well alight, I abandoned myself to the renewed
consideration of the facts relating to Jeffrey Blackmore's will.




Chapter VII

The Cuneiform Inscription


The surprise which Thorndyke's proceedings usually occasioned,
especially to lawyers, was principally due, I think, to my friend's
habit of viewing occurrences from an unusual standpoint. He did not look
at things quite as other men looked at them. He had no prejudices and he
knew no conventions. When other men were cocksure, Thorndyke was
doubtful. When other men despaired, he entertained hopes; and thus it
happened that he would often undertake cases that had been rejected
contemptuously by experienced lawyers, and, what is more, would bring
them to a successful issue.

Thus it had been in the only other case in which I had been personally
associated with him--the so-called "Red Thumb Mark" case. There he was
presented with an apparent impossibility; but he had given it careful
consideration. Then, from the category of the impossible he had brought
it to that of the possible; from the merely possible to the actually
probable; from the probable to the certain; and in the end had won the
case triumphantly.

Was it conceivable that he could make anything of the present case? He
had not declined it. He had certainly entertained it and was probably
thinking it over at this moment. Yet could anything be more impossible?
Here was the case of a man making his own will, probably writing it out
himself, bringing it voluntarily to a certain place and executing it in
the presence of competent witnesses. There was no suggestion of any
compulsion or even influence or persuasion. The testator was admittedly
sane and responsible; and if the will did not give effect to his
wishes--which, however, could not be proved--that was due to his own
carelessness in drafting the will and not to any unusual circumstances.
And the problem--which Thorndyke seemed to be considering--was how to
set aside that will.

I reviewed the statements that I had heard, but turn them about as I
would, I could get nothing out of them but confirmation of Mr.
Marchmont's estimate of the case. One fact that I had noted with some
curiosity I again considered; that was Thorndyke's evident desire to
inspect Jeffrey Blackmore's chambers. He had, it is true, shown no
eagerness, but I had seen at the time that the questions which he put to
Stephen were put, not with any expectation of eliciting information but
for the purpose of getting an opportunity to look over the rooms
himself.

I was still cogitating on the subject when my colleague returned,
followed by the watchful Polton with the tea-tray, and I attacked him
forthwith.

"Well, Thorndyke," I said, "I have been thinking about this Blackmore
case while you have been gadding about."

"And may I take it that the problem is solved?"

"No, I'm hanged if you may. I can make nothing of it."

"Then you are in much the same position as I am."

"But, if you can make nothing of it, why did you undertake it?"

"I only undertook to think about it," said Thorndyke. "I never reject a
case off-hand unless it is obviously fishy. It is surprising how
difficulties, and even impossibilities, dwindle if you look at them
attentively. My experience has taught me that the most unlikely case is,
at least, worth thinking over."

"By the way, why do you want to look over Jeffrey's chambers? What do
you expect to find there?"

"I have no expectations at all. I am simply looking for stray facts."

"And all those questions that you asked Stephen Blackmore; had you
nothing in your mind--no definite purpose?"

"No purpose beyond getting to know as much about the case as I can."

"But," I exclaimed, "do you mean that you are going to examine those
rooms without any definite object at all?"

"I wouldn't say that," replied Thorndyke. "This is a legal case. Let me
put an analogous medical case as being more within your present sphere.
Supposing that a man should consult you, say, about a progressive loss
of weight. He can give no explanation. He has no pain, no discomfort, no
symptoms of any kind; in short, he feels perfectly well in every
respect; <i>but</i> he is losing weight continuously. What would you do?"

"I should overhaul him thoroughly," I answered.

"Why? What would you expect to find?"

"I don't know that I should start by expecting to find anything in
particular. But I should overhaul him organ by organ and function by
function, and if I could find nothing abnormal I should have to give it
up."

"Exactly," said Thorndyke. "And that is just my position and my line of
action. Here is a case which is perfectly regular and straightforward
excepting in one respect. It has a single abnormal feature. And for that
abnormality there is nothing to account.

"Jeffrey Blackmore made a will. It was a well-drawn will and it
apparently gave full effect to his intentions. Then he revoked that will
and made another. No change had occurred in his circumstances or in his
intentions. The provisions of the new will were believed by him to be
identical with those of the old one. The new will differed from the old
one only in having a defect in the drafting from which the first will
was free, and of which he must have been unaware. Now why did he revoke
the first will and replace it with another which he believed to be
identical in its provisions? There is no answer to that question. It is
an abnormal feature in the case. There must be some explanation of that
abnormality and it is my business to discover it. But the facts in my
possession yield no such explanation. Therefore it is my purpose to
search for new facts which may give me a starting-point for an
investigation."

This exposition of Thorndyke's proposed conduct of the case, reasonable
as it was, did not impress me as very convincing. I found myself coming
back to Marchmont's position, that there was really nothing in dispute.
But other matters claimed our attention at the moment, and it was not
until after dinner that my colleague reverted to the subject.

"How should you like to take a turn round to New Inn this evening?" he
asked.

"I should have thought," said I, "that it would be better to go by
daylight. Those old chambers are not usually very well illuminated."

"That is well thought of," said Thorndyke. "We had better take a lamp
with us. Let us go up to the laboratory and get one from Polton."

"There is no need to do that," said I. "The pocket-lamp that you lent me
is in my overcoat pocket. I put it there to return it to you."

"Did you have occasion to use it?" he asked.

"Yes. I paid another visit to the mysterious house and carried out your
plan. I must tell you about it later."

"Do. I shall be keenly interested to hear all about your adventures. Is
there plenty of candle left in the lamp?"

"Oh yes. I only used it for about an hour."

"Then let us be off," said Thorndyke; and we accordingly set forth on
our quest; and, as we went, I reflected once more on the apparent
vagueness of our proceedings. Presently I reopened the subject with
Thorndyke.

"I can't imagine," said I, "that you have absolutely nothing in view.
That you are going to this place with no defined purpose whatever."

"I did not say exactly that," replied Thorndyke. "I said that I was not
going to look for any particular thing or fact. I am going in the hope
that I may observe something that may start a new train of speculation.
But that is not all. You know that an investigation follows a certain
logical course. It begins with the observation of the conspicuous facts.
We have done that. The facts were supplied by Marchmont. The next stage
is to propose to oneself one or more provisional explanations or
hypotheses. We have done that, too--or, at least I have, and I suppose
you have."

"I haven't," said I. "There is Jeffrey's will, but why he should have
made the change I cannot form the foggiest idea. But I should like to
hear your provisional theories on the subject."

"You won't hear them at present. They are mere wild conjectures. But to
resume: what do we do next?"

"Go to New Inn and rake over the deceased gentleman's apartments."

Thorndyke smilingly ignored my answer and continued--

"We examine each explanation in turn and see what follows from it;
whether it agrees with all the facts and leads to the discovery of new
ones, or, on the other hand, disagrees with some facts or leads us to an
absurdity. Let us take a simple example.

"Suppose we find scattered over a field a number of largish masses of
stone, which are entirely different in character from the rocks found in
the neighbourhood. The question arises, how did those stones get into
that field? Three explanations are proposed. One: that they are the
products of former volcanic action; two: that they were brought from a
distance by human agency; three: that they were carried thither from
some distant country by icebergs. Now each of those explanations
involves certain consequences. If the stones are volcanic, then they
were once in a state of fusion. But we find that they are unaltered
limestone and contain fossils. Then they are not volcanic. If they were
borne by icebergs, then they were once part of a glacier and some of
them will probably show the flat surfaces with parallel scratches which
are found on glacier-borne stones. We examine them and find the
characteristic scratched surfaces. Then they have probably been brought
to this place by icebergs. But this does not exclude human agency, for
they might have been brought by men to this place from some other where
the icebergs had deposited them. A further comparison with other facts
would be needed.

"So we proceed in cases like this present one. Of the facts that are
known to us we invent certain explanations. From each of those
explanations we deduce consequences; and if those consequences agree
with new facts, they confirm the explanation, whereas if they disagree
they tend to disprove it. But here we are at our destination."

We turned out of Wych Street into the arched passage leading into New
Inn, and, halting at the half-door of the lodge, perceived a stout,
purple-faced man crouching over the fire, coughing violently. He held up
his hand to intimate that he was fully occupied for the moment, and we
accordingly waited for his paroxysm to subside. At length he turned
towards us, wiping his eyes, and inquired our business.

"Mr. Stephen Blackmore," said Thorndyke, "has given me permission to
look over his chambers. He said that he would mention the matter to
you."

"So he has, sir," said the porter; "but he has just taken the key
himself to go to the chambers. If you walk across the Inn you'll find
him there; it's on the farther side; number thirty-one, second floor."

We made our way across to the house indicated, the ground floor of which
was occupied by a solicitor's offices and was distinguished by a
good-sized brass plate. Although it had now been dark some time there
was no light on the lower stairs, but we encountered on the first-floor
landing a man who had just lit the lamp there. Thorndyke halted to
address him.

"Can you tell me who occupies the chambers on the third floor?"

"The third floor has been empty about three months," was the reply.

"We are going up to look at the chambers on the second floor," said
Thorndyke. "Are they pretty quiet?"

"Quiet!" exclaimed the man. "Lord bless you the place is like a cemetery
for the deaf and dumb. There's the solicitors on the ground floor and
the architects on the first floor. They both clear out about six, and
when they're gone the house is as empty as a blown hegg. I don't wonder
poor Mr. Blackmore made away with his-self. Livin' up there all alone,
it must have been like Robinson Crusoe without no man Friday and not
even a blooming goat to talk to. Quiet! It's quiet enough, if that's
what you want. Wouldn't be no good to <i>me</i>."

With a contemptuous shake of the head, he turned and retired down the
next flight, and, as the echoes of his footsteps died away we resumed
our ascent.

"So it would appear," Thorndyke commented, "that when Jeffrey Blackmore
came home that last evening, the house was empty."

Arrived on the second-floor landing, we were confronted by a
solid-looking door on the lintel of which the deceased man's name was
painted in white lettering which still looked new and fresh. Thorndyke
knocked at the door, which was at once opened by Stephen Blackmore.

"I haven't wasted any time before taking advantage of your permission,
you see," my colleague said as we entered.

"No, indeed," said Stephen; "you are very prompt. I have been rather
wondering what kind of information you expect to gather from an
inspection of these rooms."

Thorndyke smiled genially, amused, no doubt, by the similarity of
Stephen's remarks to those of mine which he had so recently criticized.

"A man of science, Mr. Blackmore," he said, "expects nothing. He
collects facts and keeps an open mind. As to me, I am a mere legal
Autolycus, a snapper-up of unconsidered trifles of evidence. When I have
accumulated a few facts, I arrange them, compare them and think about
them. Sometimes the comparison yields new matter and sometimes it
doesn't; but in any case, believe me, it is a capital error to decide
beforehand what data are to be sought for."

"Yes, I suppose that is so," said Stephen; "though, to me, it almost
looks as if Mr. Marchmont was right; that there is nothing to
investigate."

"You should have thought of that before you consulted me," laughed
Thorndyke. "As it is, I am engaged to look into the case and I shall do
so; and, as I have said, I shall keep an open mind until I have all the
facts in my possession."

He glanced round the sitting-room, which we had now entered, and
continued:

"These are fine, dignified old rooms. It seems a sin to have covered up
all this oak panelling and that carved cornice and mantel with paint.
Think what it must have been like when the beautiful figured wood was
exposed."

"It would be very dark," Stephen observed.

"Yes," Thorndyke agreed, "and I suppose we care more for light and less
for beauty than our ancestors did. But now, tell me; looking round these
rooms, do they convey to you a similar impression to that which the old
rooms did? Have they the same general character?"

"Not quite, I think. Of course the rooms in Jermyn Street were in a
different kind of house, but beyond that, I seem to feel a certain
difference; which is rather odd, seeing that the furniture is the same.
But the old rooms were more cosy, more homelike. I find something rather
bare and cheerless, I was almost going to say squalid, in the look of
these chambers."

"That is rather what I should have expected," said Thorndyke. "The opium
habit alters a man's character profoundly; and, somehow, apart from the
mere furnishing, a room reflects in some subtle way, but very
distinctly, the personality of its occupant, especially when that
occupant lives a solitary life. Do you see any evidences of the
activities that used to occupy your uncle?"

"Not very much," replied Stephen. "But the place may not be quite as he
left it. I found one or two of his books on the table and put them back
in the shelves, but I found no manuscript or notes such as he used to
make. I noticed, too, that his ink-slab which he used to keep so
scrupulously clean is covered with dry smears and that the stick of ink
is all cracked at the end, as if he had not used it for months. It seems
to point to a great change in his habits."

"What used he to do with Chinese ink?" Thorndyke asked.

"He corresponded with some of his native friends in Japan, and he used
to write in the Japanese character even if they understood English. That
was what he chiefly used the Chinese ink for. But he also used to copy
the inscriptions from these things." Here Stephen lifted from the
mantelpiece what looked like a fossil Bath bun, but was actually a clay
tablet covered with minute indented writing.

"Your uncle could read the cuneiform character, then?"

"Yes; he was something of an expert. These tablets are, I believe,
leases and other legal documents from Eridu and other Babylonian cities.
He used to copy the inscriptions in the cuneiform writing and then
translate them into English. But I mustn't stay here any longer as I
have an engagement for this evening. I just dropped in to get these two
volumes--<i>Thornton's History of Babylonia</i>, which he once advised me to
read. Shall I give you the key? You'd better have it and leave it with
the porter as you go out."

He shook hands with us and we walked out with him to the landing and
stood watching him as he ran down the stairs. Glancing at Thorndyke by
the light of the gas lamp on the landing, I thought I detected in his
impassive face that almost imperceptible change of expression to which I
have already alluded as indicating pleasure or satisfaction.

"You are looking quite pleased with yourself," I remarked.

"I am not displeased," he replied calmly. "Autolycus has picked up a few
crumbs; very small ones, but still crumbs. No doubt his learned junior
has picked up a few likewise?"

I shook my head--and inwardly suspected it of being rather a thick head.

"I did not perceive anything in the least degree significant in what
Stephen was telling you," said I. "It was all very interesting, but it
did not seem to have any bearing on his uncle's will."

"I was not referring only to what Stephen has told us, although that
was, as you say, very interesting. While he was talking I was looking
about the room, and I have seen a very strange thing. Let me show it to
you."

He linked his arm in mine and, walking me back into the room, halted
opposite the fire-place.

"There," said he, "look at that. It is a most remarkable object."

[Illustration: THE INVERTED INSCRIPTION.]

I followed the direction of his gaze and saw an oblong frame enclosing a
large photograph of an inscription in the weird and cabalistic
arrow-head character. I looked at it in silence for some seconds and
then, somewhat disappointed, remarked:

"I don't see anything very remarkable in it, under the circumstances. In
any ordinary room it would be, I admit; but Stephen has just told us
that his uncle was something of an expert in cuneiform writing."

"Exactly," said Thorndyke. "That is my point. That is what makes it so
remarkable."

"I don't follow you at all," said I. "That a man should hang upon his
wall an inscription that is legible to him does not seem to me at all
out of the way. It would be much more singular if he should hang up an
inscription that he could <i>not</i> read."

"No doubt," replied Thorndyke. "But you will agree with me that it would
be still more singular if a man should hang upon his wall an inscription
that he <i>could</i> read--and hang it upside down."

I stared at Thorndyke in amazement.

"Do you mean to tell me," I exclaimed, "that that photograph is really
upside down?"

"I do indeed," he replied.

"But how do you know? Have we here yet another Oriental scholar?"

Thorndyke chuckled. "Some fool," he replied, "has said that 'a little
knowledge is a dangerous thing.' Compared with much knowledge, it may
be; but it is a vast deal better than no knowledge. Here is a case in
point. I have read with very keen interest the wonderful history of the
decipherment of the cuneiform writing, and I happen to recollect one or
two of the main facts that seemed to me to be worth remembering. This
particular inscription is in the Persian cuneiform, a much more simple
and open form of the script than the Babylonian or Assyrian; in fact, I
suspect that this is the famous inscription from the gateway at
Persepolis--the first to be deciphered; which would account for its
presence here in a frame. Now this script consists, as you see, of two
kinds of characters; the small, solid, acutely pointed characters which
are known as wedges, and the larger, more obtuse characters, somewhat
like our government broad arrows, and called arrow-heads. The names are
rather unfortunate, as both forms are wedge-like and both resemble
arrow-heads. The script reads from left to right, like our own writing,
and unlike that of the Semitic peoples and the primitive Greeks; and the
rule for the placing of the characters is that all the 'wedges' point to
the right or downwards and the arrow-head forms are open towards the
right. But if you look at this photograph you will see that all the
wedges point upwards to the left and that the arrow-head characters are
open towards the left. Obviously the photograph is upside down."

"But," I exclaimed, "this is really most mysterious. What do you suppose
can be the explanation?"

"I think," replied Thorndyke, "that we may perhaps get a suggestion from
the back of the frame. Let us see."

He disengaged the frame from the two nails on which it hung, and,
turning it round, glanced at the back; which he then presented for my
inspection. A label on the backing paper bore the words, "J. Budge,
Frame-maker and Gilder, 16, Gt. Anne Street, W.C."

"Well?" I said, when I had read the label without gathering from it
anything fresh.

"The label, you observe, is the right way up as it hangs on the wall."

"So it is," I rejoined hastily, a little annoyed that I had not been
quicker to observe so obvious a fact. "I see your point. You mean that
the frame-maker hung the thing upside down and Jeffrey never noticed the
mistake?"

"That is a perfectly sound explanation," said Thorndyke. "But I think
there is something more. You will notice that the label is an old one;
it must have been on some years, to judge by its dingy appearance,
whereas the two mirror-plates look to me comparatively new. But we can
soon put that matter to the test, for the label was evidently stuck on
when the frame was new, and if the plates were screwed on at the same
time, the wood that they cover will be clean and new-looking."

He drew from his pocket a "combination" knife containing, among other
implements, a screw-driver, with which he carefully extracted the screws
from one of the little brass plates by which the frame had been
suspended from the nails.

"You see," he said, when he had removed the plate and carried the
photograph over to the gasjet, "the wood covered by the plate is as
dirty and time-stained as the rest of the frame. The plates have been
put on recently."

"And what are we to infer from that?"

"Well, since there are no other marks of plates or rings upon the
frame, we may safely infer that the photograph was never hung up until
it came to these rooms."

"Yes, I suppose we may. But what then? What inference does that lead
to?"

Thorndyke reflected for a few moments and I continued:

"It is evident that this photograph suggests more to you than it does to
me. I should like to hear your exposition of its bearing on the case, if
it has any."

"Whether or no it has any real bearing on the case," Thorndyke answered,
"it is impossible for me to say at this stage. I told you that I had
proposed to myself one or two hypotheses to account for and explain
Jeffrey Blackmore's will, and I may say that the curious misplacement of
this photograph fits more than one of them. I won't say more than that,
because I think it would be profitable to you to work at this case
independently. You have all the facts that I have and you shall have a
copy of my notes of Marchmont's statement of the case. With this
material you ought to be able to reach some conclusion. Of course
neither of us may be able to make anything of the case--it doesn't look
very hopeful at present--but whatever happens, we can compare notes
after the event and you will be the richer by so much experience of
actual investigation. But I will start you off with one hint, which is
this: that neither you nor Marchmont seem to appreciate in the least the
very extraordinary nature of the facts that he communicated to us."

"I thought Marchmont seemed pretty much alive to the fact that it was a
very queer will."

"So he did," agreed Thorndyke. "But that is not quite what I mean. The
whole set of circumstances, taken together and in relation to one
another, impressed me as most remarkable; and that is why I am giving so
much attention to what looks at first sight like such a very unpromising
case. Copy out my notes, Jervis, and examine the facts critically. I
think you will see what I mean. And now let us proceed."

He replaced the brass plate and having reinserted the screws, hung up
the frame, and proceeded to browse slowly round the room, stopping now
and again to inspect the Japanese colour-prints and framed photographs
of buildings and other objects of archaeological interest that formed
the only attempts at wall-decoration. To one of the former he drew my
attention.

"These things are of some value," he remarked. "Here is one by
Utamaro--that little circle with the mark over it is his signature--and
you notice that the paper is becoming spotted in places with mildew. The
fact is worth noting in more than one connection."

I accordingly made a mental note and the perambulation continued.

"You observe that Jeffrey used a gas-stove, instead of a coal fire, no
doubt to economize work, but perhaps for other reasons. Presumably he
cooked by gas, too; let us see."

We wandered into the little cupboard-like kitchen and glanced round. A
ring-burner on a shelf, a kettle, a frying-pan and a few pieces of
crockery were its sole appointments. Apparently the porter was correct
in his statement as to Jeffrey's habits.

Returning to the sitting-room, Thorndyke resumed his inspection, pulling
out the table drawers, peering inquisitively into cupboards and
bestowing a passing glance on each of the comparatively few objects that
the comfortless room contained.

"I have never seen a more characterless apartment," was his final
comment. "There is nothing that seems to suggest any kind of habitual
activity on the part of the occupant. Let us look at the bedroom."

We passed through into the chamber of tragic memories, and, when
Thorndyke had lit the gas, we stood awhile looking about us in silence.
It was a bare, comfortless room, dirty, neglected and squalid. The bed
appeared not to have been remade since the catastrophe, for an
indentation still marked the place where the corpse had lain, and even a
slight powdering of ash could still be seen on the shabby counterpane.
It looked to me a typical opium-smoker's bedroom.

"Well," Thorndyke remarked at length, "there is character enough
here--of a kind. Jeffrey Blackmore would seem to have been a man of few
needs. One could hardly imagine a bedroom in which less attention seemed
to have been given to the comfort of the occupant."

He looked about him keenly and continued: "The syringe and the rest of
the lethal appliances and material have been taken away, I see.
Probably the analyst did not return them. But there are the opium-pipe
and the jar and the ash-bowl, and I presume those are the clothes that
the undertakers removed from the body. Shall we look them over?"

He took up the clothes which lay, roughly folded, on a chair and held
them up, garment by garment.

"These are evidently the trousers," he remarked, spreading them out on
the bed. "Here is a little white spot on the middle of the thigh which
looks like a patch of small crystals from a drop of the solution. Just
light the lamp, Jervis, and let us examine it with a lens."

I lit the lamp, and when we had examined the spot minutely and
identified it as a mass of minute crystals, Thorndyke asked:

"What do you make of those creases? You see there is one on each leg."

"It looks as if the trousers had been turned up. But if they have been
they must have been turned up about seven inches. Poor Jeffrey couldn't
have had much regard for appearances, for they would have been right
above his socks. But perhaps the creases were made in undressing the
body."

"That is possible," said Thorndyke: "though I don't quite see how it
would have happened. I notice that his pockets seem to have been
emptied--no, wait; here is something in the waistcoat pocket."

He drew out a shabby, pigskin card-case and a stump of lead pencil, at
which latter he looked with what seemed to me much more interest than
was deserved by so commonplace an object.

"The cards, you observe," said he, "are printed from type, not from a
plate. I would note that fact. And tell me what you make of that."

He handed me the pencil, which I examined with concentrated attention,
helping myself even with the lamp and my pocket lens. But even with
these aids I failed to discover anything unusual in its appearance.
Thorndyke watched me with a mischievous smile, and, when I had finished,
inquired:

"Well; what is it?"

"Confound you!" I exclaimed. "It's a pencil. Any fool can see that, and
this particular fool can't see any more. It's a wretched stump of a
pencil, villainously cut to an abominably bad point. It is coloured dark
red on the outside and was stamped with some name that began with
C--O--Co-operative Stores, perhaps."

"Now, my dear Jervis," Thorndyke protested, "don't begin by confusing
speculation with fact. The letters which remain are C--O. Note that fact
and find out what pencils there are which have inscriptions beginning
with those letters. I am not going to help you, because you can easily
do this for yourself. And it will be good discipline even if the fact
turns out to mean nothing."

At this moment he stepped back suddenly, and, looking down at the floor,
said:

"Give me the lamp, Jervis, I've trodden on something that felt like
glass."

I brought the lamp to the place where he had been standing, close by
the bed, and we both knelt on the floor, throwing the light of the lamp
on the bare and dusty boards. Under the bed, just within reach of the
foot of a person standing close by, was a little patch of fragments of
glass. Thorndyke produced a piece of paper from his pocket and
delicately swept the little fragments on to it, remarking:

"By the look of things, I am not the first person who has trodden on
that object, whatever it is. Do you mind holding the lamp while I
inspect the remains?"

I took the lamp and held it over the paper while he examined the little
heap of glass through his lens.

"Well," I asked. "What have you found?"

"That is what I am asking myself," he replied. "As far as I can judge by
the appearance of these fragments, they appear to be portions of a small
watch-glass. I wish there were some larger pieces."

"Perhaps there are," said I. "Let us look about the floor under the
bed."

We resumed our groping about the dirty floor, throwing the light of the
lamp on one spot after another. Presently, as we moved the lamp about,
its light fell on a small glass bead, which I instantly picked up and
exhibited to Thorndyke.

"Is this of any interest to you?" I asked.

Thorndyke took the bead and examined it curiously.

"It is certainly," he said, "a very odd thing to find in the bedroom of
an old bachelor like Jeffrey, especially as we know that he employed no
woman to look after his rooms. Of course, it may be a relic of the last
tenant. Let us see if there are any more."

We renewed our search, crawling under the bed and throwing the light of
the lamp in all directions over the floor. The result was the discovery
of three more beads, one entire bugle and the crushed remains of
another, which had apparently been trodden on. All of these, including
the fragments of the bugle that had been crushed, Thorndyke placed
carefully on the paper, which he laid on the dressing-table the more
conveniently to examine our find.

"I am sorry," said he, "that there are no more fragments of the
watch-glass, or whatever it was. The broken pieces were evidently picked
up, with the exception of the one that I trod on, which was an isolated
fragment that had been overlooked. As to the beads, judging by their
number and the position in which we found some of them--that crushed
bugle, for instance--they must have been dropped during Jeffrey's
tenancy and probably quite recently."

"What sort of garment do you suppose they came from?" I asked.

"They may have been part of a beaded veil or the trimming of a dress,
but the grouping rather suggests to me a tag of bead fringe. The colour
is rather unusual."

"I thought they looked like black beads."

"So they do by this light, but I think that by daylight we shall find
them to be a dark, reddish-brown. You can see the colour now if you look
at the smaller fragments of the one that is crushed."

He handed me his lens, and, when I had verified his statement, he
produced from his pocket a small tin box with a closely-fitting lid in
which he deposited the paper, having first folded it up into a small
parcel.

"We will put the pencil in too," said he; and, as he returned the box to
his pocket he added: "you had better get one of these little boxes from
Polton. It is often useful to have a safe receptacle for small and
fragile articles."

He folded up and replaced the dead man's clothes as we had found them.
Then, observing a pair of shoes standing by the wall, he picked them up
and looked them over thoughtfully, paying special attention to the backs
of the soles and the fronts of the heels.

"I suppose we may take it," said he, "that these are the shoes that poor
Jeffrey wore on the night of his death. At any rate there seem to be no
others. He seems to have been a fairly clean walker. The streets were
shockingly dirty that day, as I remember most distinctly. Do you see any
slippers? I haven't noticed any."

He opened and peeped into a cupboard in which an overcoat surmounted by
a felt hat hung from a peg like an attenuated suicide; he looked in all
the corners and into the sitting-room, but no slippers were to be seen.

"Our friend seems to have had surprisingly little regard for comfort,"
Thorndyke remarked. "Think of spending the winter evenings in damp boots
by a gas fire!"

"Perhaps the opium-pipe compensated," said I; "or he may have gone to
bed early."

"But he did not. The night porter used to see the light in his rooms at
one o'clock in the morning. In the sitting-room, too, you remember. But
he seems to have been in the habit of reading in bed--or perhaps
smoking--for here is a candlestick with the remains of a whole dynasty
of candles in it. As there is gas in the room, he couldn't have wanted
the candle to undress by. He used stearine candles, too; not the common
paraffin variety. I wonder why he went to that expense."

"Perhaps the smell of the paraffin candle spoiled the aroma of the
opium," I suggested; to which Thorndyke made no reply but continued his
inspection of the room, pulling out the drawer of the washstand--which
contained a single, worn-out nail-brush--and even picking up and
examining the dry and cracked cake of soap in the dish.

"He seems to have had a fair amount of clothing," said Thorndyke, who
was now going through the chest of drawers, "though, by the look of it,
he didn't change very often, and the shirts have a rather yellow and
faded appearance. I wonder how he managed about his washing. Why, here
are a couple of pairs of boots in the drawer with his clothes! And here
is his stock of candles. Quite a large box--though nearly empty now--of
stearine candles, six to the pound."

He closed the drawer and cast another inquiring look round the room.

"I think we have seen all now, Jervis," he said, "unless there is
anything more that you would like to look into?"

"No," I replied. "I have seen all that I wanted to see and more than I
am able to attach any meaning to. So we may as well go."

I blew out the lamp and put it in my overcoat pocket, and, when we had
turned out the gas in both rooms, we took our departure.

As we approached the lodge, we found our stout friend in the act of
retiring in favour of the night porter. Thorndyke handed him the key of
the chambers, and, after a few sympathetic inquiries, about his
health--which was obviously very indifferent--said:

"Let me see; you were one of the witnesses to Mr. Blackmore's will, I
think?"

"I was, sir," replied the porter.

"And I believe you read the document through before you witnessed the
signature?"

"I did, sir."

"Did you read it aloud?"

"Aloud, sir! Lor' bless you, no, sir! Why should I? The other witness
read it, and, of course, Mr. Blackmore knew what was in it, seeing that
it was in his own handwriting. What should I want to read it aloud for?"

"No, of course you wouldn't want to. By the way, I have been wondering
how Mr. Blackmore managed about his washing."

The porter evidently regarded this question with some disfavour, for he
replied only with an interrogative grunt. It was, in fact, rather an odd
question.

"Did you get it done for him," Thorndyke pursued.

"No, certainly not, sir. He got it done for himself. The laundry people
used to deliver the basket here at the lodge, and Mr. Blackmore used to
take it in with him when he happened to be passing."

"It was not delivered at his chambers, then?"

"No, sir. Mr. Blackmore was a very studious gentleman and he didn't like
to be disturbed. A studious gentleman would naturally not like to be
disturbed."

Thorndyke cordially agreed with these very proper sentiments and finally
wished the porter "good night." We passed out through the gateway into
Wych Street, and, turning our faces eastward towards the Temple, set
forth in silence, each thinking his own thoughts. What Thorndyke's were
I cannot tell, though I have no doubt that he was busily engaged in
piecing together all that he had seen and heard and considering its
possible application to the case in hand.

As to me, my mind was in a whirl of confusion. All this searching and
examining seemed to be the mere flogging of a dead horse. The will was
obviously a perfectly valid and regular will and there was an end of the
matter. At least, so it seemed to me. But clearly that was not
Thorndyke's view. His investigations were certainly not purposeless;
and, as I walked by his side trying to conceive some purpose in his
actions, I only became more and more mystified as I recalled them one
by one, and perhaps most of all by the cryptic questions that I had just
heard him address to the equally mystified porter.




Chapter VIII

The Track Chart


As Thorndyke and I arrived at the main gateway of the Temple and he
swung round into the narrow lane, it was suddenly borne in on me that I
had made no arrangements for the night. Events had followed one another
so continuously and each had been so engrossing that I had lost sight of
what I may call my domestic affairs.

"We seem to be heading for your chambers, Thorndyke," I ventured to
remark. "It is a little late to think of it, but I have not yet settled
where I am to put up to-night."

"My dear fellow," he replied, "you are going to put up in your own
bedroom which has been waiting in readiness for you ever since you left
it. Polton went up and inspected it as soon as you arrived. I take it
that you will consider my chambers yours until such time as you may join
the benedictine majority and set up a home for yourself."

"That is very handsome of you," said I. "You didn't mention that the
billet you offered was a resident appointment."

"Rooms and commons included," said Thorndyke; and when I protested that
I should at least contribute to the costs of living he impatiently
waved the suggestion away. We were still arguing the question when we
reached our chambers--as I will now call them--and a diversion was
occasioned by my taking the lamp from my pocket and placing it on the
table.

"Ah," my colleague remarked, "that is a little reminder. We will put it
on the mantelpiece for Polton to collect and you shall give me a full
account of your further adventures in the wilds of Kennington. That was
a very odd affair. I have often wondered how it ended."

He drew our two arm-chairs up to the fire, put on some more coal, placed
the tobacco jar on the table exactly equidistant from the two chairs,
and settled himself with the air of a man who is anticipating an
agreeable entertainment.

I filled my pipe, and, taking up the thread of the story where I had
broken off on the last occasion, began to outline my later experiences.
But he brought me up short.

"Don't be sketchy, Jervis. To be sketchy is to be vague. Detail, my
child, detail is the soul of induction. Let us have all the facts. We
can sort them out afterwards."

I began afresh in a vein of the extremest circumstantiality. With
deliberate malice I loaded a prolix narrative with every triviality that
a fairly retentive memory could rake out of the half-forgotten past. I
cudgelled my brains for irrelevant incidents. I described with the
minutest accuracy things that had not the faintest significance. I drew
a vivid picture of the carriage inside and out; I painted a lifelike
portrait of the horse, even going into particulars of the harness--which
I was surprised to find that I had noticed. I described the furniture of
the dining-room and the cobwebs that had hung from the ceiling; the
auction-ticket on the chest of drawers, the rickety table and the
melancholy chairs. I gave the number per minute of the patient's
respirations and the exact quantity of coffee consumed on each occasion,
with an exhaustive description of the cup from which it was taken; and I
left no personal details unconsidered, from the patient's finger-nails
to the roseate pimples on Mr. Weiss's nose.

But my tactics of studied prolixity were a complete failure. The attempt
to fatigue Thorndyke's brain with superabundant detail was like trying
to surfeit a pelican with whitebait. He consumed it all with calm
enjoyment and asked for more; and when, at last, I did really begin to
think that I had bored him a little, he staggered me by reading over his
notes and starting a brisk cross-examination to elicit fresh facts! And
the most surprising thing of all was that when I had finished I seemed
to know a great deal more about the case than I had ever known before.

"It was a very remarkable affair," he observed, when the
cross-examination was over--leaving me somewhat in the condition of a
cider-apple that has just been removed from a hydraulic press--"a very
suspicious affair with a highly unsatisfactory end. I am not sure that I
entirely agree with your police officer. Nor do I fancy that some of my
acquaintances at Scotland Yard would have agreed with him."

"Do you think I ought to have taken any further measures?" I asked
uneasily.

"No; I don't see how you could. You did all that was possible under the
circumstances. You gave information, which is all that a private
individual can do, especially if he is an overworked general
practitioner. But still, an actual crime is the affair of every good
citizen. I think we ought to take some action."

"You think there really was a crime, then?"

"What else can one think? What do you think about it yourself?"

"I don't like to think about it at all. The recollection of that
corpse-like figure in that gloomy bedroom has haunted me ever since I
left the house. What do you suppose has happened?"

Thorndyke did not answer for a few seconds. At length he said gravely:

"I am afraid, Jervis, that the answer to that question can be given in
one word."

"Murder?" I asked with a slight shudder.

He nodded, and we were both silent for a while.

"The probability," he resumed after a pause, "that Mr. Graves is alive
at this moment seems to me infinitesimal. There was evidently a
conspiracy to murder him, and the deliberate, persistent manner in which
that object was being pursued points to a very strong and definite
motive. Then the tactics adopted point to considerable forethought and
judgment. They are not the tactics of a fool or an ignoramus. We may
criticize the closed carriage as a tactical mistake, calculated to
arouse suspicion, but we have to weigh it against its alternative."

"What is that?"

"Well, consider the circumstances. Suppose Weiss had called you in in
the ordinary way. You would still have detected the use of poison. But
now you could have located your man and made inquiries about him in the
neighbourhood. You would probably have given the police a hint and they
would almost certainly have taken action, as they would have had the
means of identifying the parties. The result would have been fatal to
Weiss. The closed carriage invited suspicion, but it was a great
safeguard. Weiss's method's were not so unsound after all. He is a
cautious man, but cunning and very persistent. And he could be bold on
occasion. The use of the blinded carriage was a decidedly audacious
proceeding. I should put him down as a gambler of a very discreet,
courageous and resourceful type."

"Which all leads to the probability that he has pursued his scheme and
brought it to a successful issue."

"I am afraid it does. But--have you got your notes of the
compass-bearings?"

"The book is in my overcoat pocket with the board. I will fetch them."

I went into the office, where our coats hung, and brought back the
notebook with the little board to which it was still attached by the
rubber band. Thorndyke took them from me, and, opening the book, ran
his eye quickly down one page after another. Suddenly he glanced at the
clock.

"It is a little late to begin," said he, "but these notes look rather
alluring. I am inclined to plot them out at once. I fancy, from their
appearance, that they will enable us to locate the house without much
difficulty. But don't let me keep you up if you are tired. I can work
them out by myself."

"You won't do anything of the kind," I exclaimed. "I am as keen on
plotting them as you are, and, besides, I want to see how it is done. It
seems to be a rather useful accomplishment."

"It is," said Thorndyke. "In our work, the ability to make a rough but
reliable sketch survey is often of great value. Have you ever looked
over these notes?"

"No. I put the book away when I came in and have never looked at it
since."

"It is a quaint document. You seem to be rich in railway bridges in
those parts, and the route was certainly none of the most direct, as you
noticed at the time. However, we will plot it out and then we shall see
exactly what it looks like and whither it leads us."

He retired to the laboratory and presently returned with a T-square, a
military protractor, a pair of dividers and a large drawing-board on
which was pinned a sheet of cartridge paper.

"Now," said he, seating himself at the table with the board before him,
"as to the method. You started from a known position and you arrived at
a place the position of which is at present unknown. We shall fix the
position of that spot by applying two factors, the distance that you
travelled and the direction in which you were moving. The direction is
given by the compass; and, as the horse seems to have kept up a
remarkably even pace, we can take time as representing distance. You
seem to have been travelling at about eight miles an hour, that is,
roughly, a seventh of a mile in one minute. So if, on our chart, we take
one inch as representing one minute, we shall be working with a scale of
about seven inches to the mile."

"That doesn't sound very exact as to distance," I objected.

"It isn't. But that doesn't matter much. We have certain landmarks, such
as these railway arches that you have noted, by which the actual
distance can be settled after the route is plotted. You had better read
out the entries, and, opposite each, write a number for reference, so
that we need not confuse the chart by writing details on it. I shall
start near the middle of the board, as neither you nor I seem to have
the slightest notion what your general direction was."

I laid the open notebook before me and read out the first entry:

"'Eight fifty-eight. West by South. Start from home. Horse thirteen
hands.'"

"You turned round at once, I understand," said Thorndyke, "so we draw no
line in that direction. The next is--?"

"'Eight fifty-eight minutes, thirty seconds, East by North'; and the
next is 'Eight fifty-nine, North-east.'"

"Then you travelled east by north about a fifteenth of a mile and we
shall put down half an inch on the chart. Then you turned north-east.
How long did you go on?"

"Exactly a minute. The next entry is 'Nine. West north-west.'"

"Then you travelled about the seventh of a mile in a north-easterly
direction and we draw a line an inch long at an angle of forty-five
degrees to the right of the north and south line. From the end of that
we carry a line at an angle of fifty-six and a quarter degrees to the
left of the north and south line, and so on. The method is perfectly
simple, you see."

"Perfectly; I quite understand it now."

I went back to my chair and continued to read out the entries from the
notebook while Thorndyke laid off the lines of direction with the
protractor, taking out the distances with the dividers from a scale of
equal parts on the back of the instrument. As the work proceeded, I
noticed, from time to time, a smile of quiet amusement spread over my
colleague's keen, attentive face, and at each new reference to a railway
bridge he chuckled softly.

"What, again!" he laughed, as I recorded the passage of the fifth or
sixth bridge. "It's like a game of croquet. Go on. What is the next?"

I went on reading out the notes until I came to the final one:

"'Nine twenty-four. South-east. In covered way. Stop. Wooden gates
closed.'"

Thorndyke ruled off the last line, remarking: "Then your covered way is
on the south side of a street which bears north-east. So we complete our
chart. Just look at your route, Jervis."

He held up the board with a quizzical smile and I stared in astonishment
at the chart. The single line, which represented the route of the
carriage, zigzagged in the most amazing manner, turning, re-turning and
crossing itself repeatedly, evidently passing more than once down the
same thoroughfares and terminating at a comparatively short distance
from its commencement.

"Why!" I exclaimed, the "rascal must have lived quite near to
Stillbury's house!"

Thorndyke measured with the dividers the distance between the starting
and arriving points of the route and took it off from the scale.

"Five-eighths of a mile, roughly," he said. "You could have walked it in
less than ten minutes. And now let us get out the ordnance map and see
if we can give to each of those marvellously erratic lines 'a local
habitation and a name.'"

He spread the map out on the table and placed our chart by its side.

"I think," said he, "you started from Lower Kennington Lane?"

"Yes, from this point," I replied, indicating the spot with a pencil.

"Then," said Thorndyke, "if we swing the chart round twenty degrees to
correct the deviation of the compass, we can compare it with the
ordnance map."

He set off with the protractor an angle of twenty degrees from the
north and south line and turned the chart round to that extent. After
closely scrutinizing the map and the chart and comparing the one with
the other, he said:

"By mere inspection it seems fairly easy to identify the thoroughfares
that correspond to the lines of the chart. Take the part that is near
your destination. At nine twenty-one you passed under a bridge, going
westward. That would seem to be Glasshouse Street. Then you turned
south, apparently along the Albert Embankment, where you heard the tug's
whistle. Then you heard a passenger train start on your left; that would
be Vauxhall Station. Next you turned round due east and passed under a
large railway bridge, which suggests the bridge that carries the Station
over Upper Kennington Lane. If that is so, your house should be on the
south side of Upper Kennington Lane, some three hundred yards from the
bridge. But we may as well test our inferences by one or two
measurements."

"How can you do that if you don't know the exact scale of the chart?"

"I will show you," said Thorndyke. "We shall establish the true scale
and that will form part of the proof."

He rapidly constructed on the upper blank part of the paper, a
proportional diagram consisting of two intersecting lines with a single
cross-line.

"This long line," he explained, "is the distance from Stillbury's house
to the Vauxhall railway bridge as it appears on the chart; the shorter
cross-line is the same distance taken from the ordnance map. If our
inference is correct and the chart is reasonably accurate, all the other
distances will show a similar proportion. Let us try some of them. Take
the distance from Vauxhall bridge to the Glasshouse Street bridge."

[Illustration: The Track Chart, showing the route followed by Weiss's
carriage.

A.--Starting-point in Lower Kennington Lane.

B.--Position of Mr. Weiss's house. The dotted lines connecting the
bridges indicate probable railway lines.]

He made the two measurements carefully, and, as the point of the
dividers came down almost precisely in the correct place on the diagram,
he looked up at me.

"Considering the roughness of the method by which the chart was made, I
think that is pretty conclusive, though, if you look at the various
arches that you passed under and see how nearly they appear to follow
the position of the South-Western Railway line, you hardly need further
proof. But I will take a few more proportional measurements for the
satisfaction of proving the case by scientific methods before we proceed
to verify our conclusions by a visit to the spot."

He took off one or two more distances, and on comparing them with the
proportional distances on the ordnance map, found them in every case as
nearly correct as could be expected.

"Yes," said Thorndyke, laying down the dividers, "I think we have
narrowed down the locality of Mr. Weiss's house to a few yards in a
known street. We shall get further help from your note of nine
twenty-three thirty, which records a patch of newly laid macadam
extending up to the house."

"That new macadam will be pretty well smoothed down by now," I objected.

"Not so very completely," answered Thorndyke. "It is only a little over
a month ago, and there has been very little wet weather since. It may be
smooth, but it will be easily distinguishable from the old."

"And do I understand that you propose to go and explore the
neighbourhood?"

"Undoubtedly I do. That is to say, I intend to convert the locality of
this house into a definite address; which, I think, will now be
perfectly easy, unless we should have the bad luck to find more than one
covered way. Even then, the difficulty would be trifling."

"And when you have ascertained where Mr. Weiss lives? What then?"

"That will depend on circumstances. I think we shall probably call at
Scotland Yard and have a little talk with our friend Mr. Superintendent
Miller; unless, for any reason, it seems better to look into the case
ourselves."

"When is this voyage of exploration to take place?"

Thorndyke considered this question, and, taking out his pocket-book,
glanced through his engagements.

"It seems to me," he said, "that to-morrow is a fairly free day. We
could take the morning without neglecting other business. I suggest that
we start immediately after breakfast. How will that suit my learned
friend?"

"My time is yours," I replied; "and if you choose to waste it on matters
that don't concern you, that's your affair."

"Then we will consider the arrangement to stand for to-morrow morning,
or rather, for this morning, as I see that it is past twelve."

With this Thorndyke gathered up the chart and instruments and we
separated for the night.




Chapter IX

The House of Mystery


Half-past nine on the following morning found us spinning along the
Albert Embankment in a hansom to the pleasant tinkle of the horse's
bell. Thorndyke appeared to be in high spirits, though the full
enjoyment of the matutinal pipe precluded fluent conversation. As a
precaution, he had put my notebook in his pocket before starting, and
once or twice he took it out and looked over its pages; but he made no
reference to the object of our quest, and the few remarks that he
uttered would have indicated that his thoughts were occupied with other
matters.

Arrived at Vauxhall Station, we alighted and forthwith made our way to
the bridge that spans Upper Kennington Lane near its junction with
Harleyford Road.

"Here is our starting point," said Thorndyke. "From this place to the
house is about three hundred yards--say four hundred and twenty
paces--and at about two hundred paces we ought to reach our patch of new
road-metal. Now, are you ready? If we keep step we shall average our
stride."

We started together at a good pace, stepping out with military
regularity and counting aloud as we went. As we told out the hundred and
ninety-fourth pace I observed Thorndyke nod towards the roadway a little
ahead, and, looking at it attentively as we approached, it was easy to
see by the regularity of surface and lighter colour, that it had
recently been re-metalled.

Having counted out the four hundred and twenty paces, we halted, and
Thorndyke turned to me with a smile of triumph.

"Not a bad estimate, Jervis," said he. "That will be your house if I am
not much mistaken. There is no other mews or private roadway in sight."

He pointed to a narrow turning some dozen yards ahead, apparently the
entrance to a mews or yard and closed by a pair of massive wooden gates.

"Yes," I answered, "there can be no doubt that this is the place; but,
by Jove!" I added, as we drew nearer, "the nest is empty! Do you see?"

I pointed to a bill that was stuck on the gate, bearing, as I could see
at this distance, the inscription "To Let."

"Here is a new and startling, if not altogether unexpected,
development," said Thorndyke, as we stood gazing at the bill; which set
forth that "these premises, including stabling and workshops," were "to
be let on lease or otherwise," and referred inquiries to Messrs. Ryebody
Brothers, house-agents and valuers, Upper Kennington Lane. "The question
is, should we make a few inquiries of the agent, or should we get the
keys and have a look at the inside of the house? I am inclined to do
both, and the latter first, if Messrs. Ryebody Brothers will trust us
with the keys."

We proceeded up the lane to the address given, and, entering the
office, Thorndyke made his request--somewhat to the surprise of the
clerk; for Thorndyke was not quite the kind of person whom one naturally
associates with stabling and workshops. However, there was no
difficulty, but as the clerk sorted out the keys from a bunch hanging
from a hook, he remarked:

"I expect you will find the place in a rather dirty and neglected
condition. The house has not been cleaned yet; it is just as it was left
when the brokers took away the furniture."

"Was the last tenant sold up, then?" Thorndyke asked.

"Oh, no. He had to leave rather unexpectedly to take up some business in
Germany."

"I hope he paid his rent," said Thorndyke.

"Oh, yes. Trust us for that. But I should say that Mr. Weiss--that was
his name--was a man of some means. He seemed to have plenty of money,
though he always paid in notes. I don't fancy he had a banking account
in this country. He hadn't been here more than about six or seven months
and I imagine he didn't know many people in England, as he paid us a
cash deposit in lieu of references when he first came."

"I think you said his name was Weiss. It wouldn't be H. Weiss by any
chance?"

"I believe it was. But I can soon tell you." He opened a drawer and
consulted what looked like a book of receipt forms. "Yes; H Weiss. Do
you know him, sir?"

"I knew a Mr. H. Weiss some years ago. He came from Bremen, I
remember."

"This Mr. Weiss has gone back to Hamburg," the clerk observed.

"Ah," said Thorndyke, "then it would seem not to be the same. My
acquaintance was a fair man with a beard and a decidedly red nose and he
wore spectacles."

"That's the man. You've described him exactly," said the clerk, who was
apparently rather easily satisfied in the matter of description.

"Dear me," said Thorndyke; "what a small world it is. Do you happen to
have a note of his address in Hamburg?"

"I haven't," the clerk replied. "You see we've done with him, having got
the rent, though the house is not actually surrendered yet. Mr Weiss's
housekeeper still has the front-door key. She doesn't start for Hamburg
for a week or so, and meanwhile she keeps the key so that she can call
every day and see if there are any letters."

"Indeed," said Thorndyke. "I wonder if he still has the same
housekeeper."

"This lady is a German," replied the clerk, "with a regular jaw-twisting
name. Sounded like Shallybang."

"Schallibaum. That is the lady. A fair woman with hardly any eyebrows
and a pronounced cast in the left eye."

"Now that's very curious, sir," said the clerk. "It's the same name, and
this is a fair woman with remarkably thin eyebrows, I remember, now that
you mention it. But it can't be the same person. I have only seen her a
few times and then only just for a minute or so; but I'm quite certain
she had no cast in her eye. So, you see, sir, she can't be the same
person. You can dye your hair or you can wear a wig or you can paint
your face; but a squint is a squint. There's no faking a swivel eye."

Thorndyke laughed softly. "I suppose not; unless, perhaps, some one
might invent an adjustable glass eye. Are these the keys?"

"Yes, sir. The large one belongs to the wicket in the front gate. The
other is the latch-key belonging to the side door. Mrs. Shallybang has
the key of the front door."

"Thank you," said Thorndyke. He took the keys, to which a wooden label
was attached, and we made our way back towards the house of mystery,
discussing the clerk's statements as we went.

"A very communicable young gentleman, that," Thorndyke remarked. "He
seemed quite pleased to relieve the monotony of office work with a
little conversation. And I am sure I was very delighted to indulge him."

"He hadn't much to tell, all the same," said I.

Thorndyke looked at me in surprise. "I don't know what you would have,
Jervis, unless you expect casual strangers to present you with a
ready-made body of evidence, fully classified, with all the inferences
and implications stated. It seemed to me that he was a highly
instructive young man."

"What did you learn from him?" I asked.

"Oh, come, Jervis," he protested; "is that a fair question, under our
present arrangement? However, I will mention a few points. We learn that
about six or seven months ago, Mr. H. Weiss dropped from the clouds into
Kennington Lane and that he has now ascended from Kennington Lane into
the clouds. That is a useful piece of information. Then we learn that
Mrs. Schallibaum has remained in England; which might be of little
importance if it were not for a very interesting corollary that it
suggests."

"What is that?"

"I must leave you to consider the facts at your leisure; but you will
have noticed the ostensible reason for her remaining behind. She is
engaged in puttying up the one gaping joint in their armour. One of them
has been indiscreet enough to give this address to some
correspondent--probably a foreign correspondent. Now, as they obviously
wish to leave no tracks, they cannot give their new address to the Post
Office to have their letters forwarded, and, on the other hand, a letter
left in the box might establish such a connection as would enable them
to be traced. Moreover, the letter might be of a kind that they would
not wish to fall into the wrong hands. They would not have given this
address excepting under some peculiar circumstances."

"No, I should think not, if they took this house for the express purpose
of committing a crime in it."

"Exactly. And then there is one other fact that you may have gathered
from our young friend's remarks."

"What is that?"

"That a controllable squint is a very valuable asset to a person who
wishes to avoid identification."

"Yes, I did note that. The fellow seemed to think that it was absolutely
conclusive."

"And so would most people; especially in the case of a squint of that
kind. We can all squint towards our noses, but no normal person can turn
his eyes away from one another. My impression is that the presence or
absence, as the case might be, of a divergent squint would be accepted
as absolute disproof of identity. But here we are."

He inserted the key into the wicket of the large gate, and, when we had
stepped through into the covered way, he locked it from the inside.

"Why have you locked us in?" I asked, seeing that the wicket had a
latch.

"Because," he replied, "if we now hear any one on the premises we shall
know who it is. Only one person besides ourselves has a key."

His reply startled me somewhat. I stopped and looked at him.

"That is a quaint situation, Thorndyke. I hadn't thought of it. Why she
may actually come to the house while we are here; in fact, she may be in
the house at this moment."

"I hope not," said he. "We don't particularly want Mr. Weiss to be put
on his guard, for I take it, he is a pretty wide-awake gentleman under
any circumstances. If she does come, we had better keep out of sight. I
think we will look over the house first. That is of the most interest to
us. If the lady does happen to come while we are here, she may stay to
show us over the place and keep an eye on us. So we will leave the
stables to the last."

We walked down the entry to the side door at which I had been admitted
by Mrs. Schallibaum on the occasion of my previous visits. Thorndyke
inserted the latch-key, and, as soon as we were inside, shut the door
and walked quickly through into the hall, whither I followed him. He
made straight for the front door, where, having slipped up the catch of
the lock, he began very attentively to examine the letter-box. It was a
somewhat massive wooden box, fitted with a lock of good quality and
furnished with a wire grille through which one could inspect the
interior.

"We are in luck, Jervis," Thorndyke remarked. "Our visit has been most
happily timed. There is a letter in the box."

"Well," I said, "we can't get it out; and if we could, it would be
hardly justifiable."

"I don't know," he replied, "that I am prepared to assent off-hand to
either of those propositions; but I would rather not tamper with another
person's letter, even if that person should happen to be a murderer.
Perhaps we can get the information we want from the outside of the
envelope."

He produced from his pocket a little electric lamp fitted with a
bull's-eye, and, pressing the button, threw a beam of light in through
the grille. The letter was lying on the bottom of the box face upwards,
so that the address could easily be read.

"Herrn Dr. H. Weiss," Thorndyke read aloud. "German stamp, postmark
apparently Darmstadt. You notice that the 'Herrn Dr.' is printed and the
rest written. What do you make of that?"

"I don't quite know. Do you think he is really a medical man?"

"Perhaps we had better finish our investigation, in case we are
disturbed, and discuss the bearings of the facts afterwards. The name of
the sender may be on the flap of the envelope. If it is not, I shall
pick the lock and take out the letter. Have you got a probe about you?"

"Yes; by force of habit I am still carrying my pocket case."

I took the little case from my pocket and extracting from it a jointed
probe of thickish silver wire, screwed the two halves together and
handed the completed instrument to Thorndyke; who passed the slender rod
through the grille and adroitly turned the letter over.

"Ha!" he exclaimed with deep satisfaction, as the light fell on the
reverse of the envelope, "we are saved from the necessity of theft--or
rather, unauthorized borrowing--'Johann Schnitzler, Darmstadt.' That is
all that we actually want. The German police can do the rest if
necessary."

He handed me back my probe, pocketed his lamp, released the catch of the
lock on the door, and turned away along the dark, musty-smelling hall.

"Do you happen to know the name of Johann Schnitzler?" he asked.

I replied that I had no recollection of ever having heard the name
before.

"Neither have I," said he; "but I think we may form a pretty shrewd
guess as to his avocation. As you saw, the words 'Herrn Dr.' were
printed on the envelope, leaving the rest of the address to be written
by hand. The plain inference is that he is a person who habitually
addresses letters to medical men, and as the style of the envelope and
the lettering--which is printed, not embossed--is commercial, we may
assume that he is engaged in some sort of trade. Now, what is a likely
trade?"

"He might be an instrument maker or a drug manufacturer; more probably
the latter, as there is an extensive drug and chemical industry in
Germany, and as Mr. Weiss seemed to have more use for drugs than
instruments."

"Yes, I think you are right; but we will look him up when we get home.
And now we had better take a glance at the bedroom; that is, if you can
remember which room it was."

"It was on the first floor," said I, "and the door by which I entered
was just at the head of the stairs."

We ascended the two flights, and, as we reached the landing, I halted.

"This was the door," I said, and was about to turn the handle when
Thorndyke caught me by the arm.

"One moment, Jervis," said he. "What do you make of this?"

He pointed to a spot near the bottom of the door where, on close
inspection, four good-sized screw-holes were distinguishable. They had
been neatly stopped with putty and covered with knotting, and were so
nearly the colour of the grained and varnished woodwork as to be hardly
visible.

"Evidently," I answered, "there has been a bolt there, though it seems a
queer place to fix one."

"Not at all," replied Thorndyke. "If you look up you will see that there
was another at the top of the door, and, as the lock is in the middle,
they must have been highly effective. But there are one or two other
points that strike one. First, you will notice that the bolts have been
fixed on quite recently, for the paint that they covered is of the same
grimy tint as that on the rest of the door. Next, they have been taken
off, which, seeing that they could hardly have been worth the trouble of
removal, seems to suggest that the person who fixed them considered that
their presence might appear remarkable, while the screw-holes, which
have been so skilfully and carefully stopped, would be less conspicuous.

"Then, they are on the outside of the door--an unusual situation for
bedroom bolts--and were of considerable size. They were long and thick."

"I can see, by the position of the screw-holes, that they were long; but
how do you arrive at their thickness?"

"By the size of the counter-holes in the jamb of the door. These holes
have been very carefully filled with wooden plugs covered with knotting;
but you can make out their diameter, which is that of the bolts, and
which is decidedly out of proportion for an ordinary bedroom door. Let
me show you a light."

He flashed his lamp into the dark corner, and I was able to see
distinctly the portentously large holes into which the bolts had fitted,
and also to note the remarkable neatness with which they had been
plugged.

"There was a second door, I remember," said I. "Let us see if that was
guarded in a similar manner."

We strode through the empty room, awakening dismal echoes as we trod the
bare boards, and flung open the other door. At top and bottom, similar
groups of screw-holes showed that this also had been made secure, and
that these bolts had been of the same very substantial character as the
others.

Thorndyke turned away from the door with a slight frown.

"If we had any doubts," said he, "as to what has been going on in this
house, these traces of massive fastenings would be almost enough to
settle them."

"They might have been there before Weiss came," I suggested. "He only
came about seven months ago and there is no date on the screw-holes."

"That is quite true. But when, with their recent fixture, you couple the
facts that they have been removed, that very careful measures have been
taken to obliterate the traces of their presence, and that they would
have been indispensable for the commission of the crime that we are
almost certain was being committed here, it looks like an excess of
caution to seek other explanations."

"But," I objected, "if the man, Graves, was really imprisoned, could not
he have smashed the window and called for help?"

"The window looks out on the yard, as you see; but I expect it was
secured too."

He drew the massive, old-fashioned shutters out of their recess and
closed them.

"Yes, here we are." He pointed to four groups of screw-holes at the
corners of the shutters, and, once more producing his lamp, narrowly
examined the insides of the recesses into which the shutters folded.

"The nature of the fastening is quite evident," said he. "An iron bar
passed right across at the top and bottom and was secured by a staple
and padlock. You can see the mark the bar made in the recess when the
shutters were folded. When these bars were fixed and padlocked and the
bolts were shot, this room was as secure, for a prisoner unprovided with
tools, as a cell in Newgate."

We looked at one another for awhile without speaking; and I fancy that
if Mr. H. Weiss could have seen our faces he might have thought it
desirable to seek some retreat even more remote than Hamburg.

"It was a diabolical affair, Jervis," Thorndyke said at length, in an
ominously quiet and even gentle tone. "A sordid, callous, cold-blooded
crime of a type that is to me utterly unforgivable and incapable of
extenuation. Of course, it may have failed. Mr. Graves may even now be
alive. I shall make it my very especial business to ascertain whether he
is or not. And if he is not, I shall take it to myself as a sacred duty
to lay my hand on the man who has compassed his death."

I looked at Thorndyke with something akin to awe. In the quiet
unemotional tone of his voice, in his unruffled manner and the stony
calm of his face, there was something much more impressive, more
fateful, than there could have been in the fiercest threats or the most
passionate denunciations. I felt that in those softly spoken words he
had pronounced the doom of the fugitive villain.

He turned away from the window and glanced round the empty room. It
seemed that our discovery of the fastenings had exhausted the
information that it had to offer.

"It is a thousand pities," I remarked, "that we were unable to look
round before they moved out the furniture. We might have found some clue
to the scoundrel's identity."

"Yes," replied Thorndyke; "there isn't much information to be gathered
here, I am afraid. I see they have swept up the small litter from the
floor and poked it under the grate. We will turn that over, as there
seems to be nothing else, and then look at the other rooms."

He raked out the little heap of rubbish with his stick and spread it out
on the hearth. It certainly looked unpromising enough, being just such a
rubbish heap as may be swept up in any untidy room during a move. But
Thorndyke went through it systematically, examining each item
attentively, even to the local tradesmen's bills and empty paper bags,
before laying them aside. Another rake of his stick scattered the bulky
masses of crumpled paper and brought into view an object which he picked
up with some eagerness. It was a portion of a pair of spectacles, which
had apparently been trodden on, for the side-bar was twisted and bent
and the glass was shattered into fragments.

"This ought to give us a hint," said he. "It will probably have belonged
either to Weiss or Graves, as Mrs. Schallibaum apparently did not wear
glasses. Let us see if we can find the remainder."

We both groped carefully with our sticks amongst the rubbish, spreading
it out on the hearth and removing the numerous pieces of crumpled paper.
Our search was rewarded by the discovery of the second eye-piece of the
spectacles, of which the glass was badly cracked but less shattered than
the other. I also picked up two tiny sticks at which Thorndyke looked
with deep interest before laying them on the mantelshelf.

"We will consider them presently," said he. "Let us finish with the
spectacles first. You see that the left eye-glass is a concave
cylindrical lens of some sort. We can make out that much from the
fragments that remain, and we can measure the curvature when we get them
home, although that will be easier if we can collect some more fragments
and stick them together. The right eye is plain glass; that is quite
evident. Then these will have belonged to your patient, Jervis. You said
that the tremulous iris was in the right eye, I think?"

"Yes," I replied. "These will be his spectacles, without doubt."

"They are peculiar frames," he continued. "If they were made in this
country, we might be able to discover the maker. But we must collect as
many fragments of glass as we can."

Once more we searched amongst the rubbish and succeeded, eventually, in
recovering some seven or eight small fragments of the broken
spectacle-glasses, which Thorndyke laid on the mantelshelf beside the
little sticks.

"By the way, Thorndyke," I said, taking up the latter to examine them
afresh, "what are these things? Can you make anything of them?"

He looked at them thoughtfully for a few moments and then replied:

"I don't think I will tell you what they are. You should find that out
for yourself, and it will be well worth your while to do so. They are
rather suggestive objects under the circumstances. But notice their
peculiarities carefully. Both are portions of some smooth, stout reed.
There is a long, thin stick--about six inches long--and a thicker piece
only three inches in length. The longer piece has a little scrap of red
paper stuck on at the end; apparently a portion of a label of some kind
with an ornamental border. The other end of the stick has been broken
off. The shorter, stouter stick has had its central cavity artificially
enlarged so that it fits over the other to form a cap or sheath. Make a
careful note of those facts and try to think what they probably mean;
what would be the most likely use for an object of this kind. When you
have ascertained that, you will have learned something new about this
case. And now, to resume our investigations. Here is a very suggestive
thing." He picked up a small, wide-mouthed bottle and, holding it up for
my inspection, continued: "Observe the fly sticking to the inside, and
the name on the label, 'Fox, Russell Street, Covent Garden.'"

"I don't know Mr. Fox."

"Then I will inform you that he is a dealer in the materials for
'make-up,' theatrical or otherwise, and will leave you to consider the
bearing of this bottle on our present investigation. There doesn't seem
to be anything else of interest in this El Dorado excepting that screw,
which you notice is about the size of those with which the bolts were
fastened on the doors. I don't think it is worth while to unstop any of
the holes to try it; we should learn nothing fresh."

He rose, and, having kicked the discarded rubbish back under the grate,
gathered up his gleanings from the mantelpiece, carefully bestowing the
spectacles and the fragments of glass in the tin box that he appeared
always to carry in his pocket, and wrapping the larger objects in his
handkerchief.

"A poor collection," was his comment, as he returned the box and
handkerchief to his pocket, "and yet not so poor as I had feared.
Perhaps, if we question them closely enough, these unconsidered trifles
may be made to tell us something worth learning after all. Shall we go
into the other room?"

We passed out on to the landing and into the front room, where, guided
by experience, we made straight for the fire-place. But the little heap
of rubbish there contained nothing that even Thorndyke's inquisitive eye
could view with interest. We wandered disconsolately round the room,
peering into the empty cupboards and scanning the floor and the corners
by the skirting, without discovering a single object or relic of the
late occupants. In the course of my perambulations I halted by the
window and was looking down into the street when Thorndyke called to me
sharply:

"Come away from the window, Jervis! Have you forgotten that Mrs.
Schallibaum may be in the neighbourhood at this moment?"

As a matter of fact I had entirely forgotten the matter, nor did it now
strike me as anything but the remotest of possibilities. I replied to
that effect.

"I don't agree with you," Thorndyke rejoined. "We have heard that she
comes here to look for letters. Probably she comes every day, or even
oftener. There is a good deal at stake, remember, and they cannot feel
quite as secure as they would wish. Weiss must have seen what view you
took of the case and must have had some uneasy moments thinking of what
you might do. In fact, we may take it that the fear of you drove them
out of the neighbourhood, and that they are mighty anxious to get that
letter and cut the last link that binds them to this house."

"I suppose that is so," I agreed; "and if the lady should happen to pass
this way and should see me at the window and recognize me, she would
certainly smell a rat."

"A rat!" exclaimed Thorndyke. "She would smell a whole pack of foxes,
and Mr. H. Weiss would be more on his guard than ever. Let us have a
look at the other rooms; there is nothing here."

We went up to the next floor and found traces of recent occupation in
one room only. The garrets had evidently been unused, and the kitchen
and ground-floor rooms offered nothing that appeared to Thorndyke worth
noting. Then we went out by the side door and down the covered way into
the yard at the back. The workshops were fastened with rusty padlocks
that looked as if they had not been disturbed for months. The stables
were empty and had been tentatively cleaned out, the coach-house was
vacant, and presented no traces of recent use excepting a half-bald
spoke-brush. We returned up the covered way and I was about to close the
side door, which Thorndyke had left ajar, when he stopped me.

"We'll have another look at the hall before we go," said he; and,
walking softly before me, he made his way to the front door, where,
producing his lamp, he threw a beam of light into the letter-box.

"Any more letters?" I asked.

"Any more!" he repeated. "Look for yourself."

I stooped and peered through the grille into the lighted interior; and
then I uttered an exclamation.

The box was empty.

Thorndyke regarded me with a grim smile. "We have been caught on the
hop, Jervis, I suspect," said he.

"It is queer," I replied. "I didn't hear any sound of the opening or
closing of the door; did you?"

"No; I didn't hear any sound; which makes me suspect that she did. She
would have heard our voices and she is probably keeping a sharp look-out
at this very moment. I wonder if she saw you at the window. But whether
she did or not, we must go very warily. Neither of us must return to the
Temple direct, and we had better separate when we have returned the keys
and I will watch you out of sight and see if anyone is following you.
What are you going to do?"

"If you don't want me, I shall run over to Kensington and drop in to
lunch at the Hornbys'. I said I would call as soon as I had an hour or
so free."

"Very well. Do so; and keep a look-out in case you are followed. I have
to go down to Guildford this afternoon. Under the circumstances, I shall
not go back home, but send Polton a telegram and take a train at
Vauxhall and change at some small station where I can watch the
platform. Be as careful as you can. Remember that what you have to
avoid is being followed to any place where you are known, and, above
all, revealing your connection with number Five A, King's Bench Walk."

Having thus considered our immediate movements, we emerged together from
the wicket, and locking it behind us, walked quickly to the
house-agents', where an opportune office-boy received the keys without
remark. As we came out of the office, I halted irresolutely and we both
looked up and down the lane.

"There is no suspicious looking person in sight at present," Thorndyke
said, and then asked: "Which way do you think of going?"

"It seems to me," I replied, "that my best plan would be to take a cab
or an omnibus so as to get out of the neighbourhood as quickly as
possible. If I go through Ravensden Street into Kennington Park Road, I
can pick up an omnibus that will take me to the Mansion House, where I
can change for Kensington. I shall go on the top so that I can keep a
look-out for any other omnibus or cab that may be following."

"Yes," said Thorndyke, "that seems a good plan. I will walk with you and
see that you get a fair start."

We walked briskly along the lane and through Ravensden Street to the
Kennington Park Road. An omnibus was approaching from the south at a
steady jog-trot and we halted at the corner to wait for it. Several
people passed us in different directions, but none seemed to take any
particular notice of us, though we observed them rather narrowly,
especially the women. Then the omnibus crawled up. I sprang on the
foot-board and ascended to the roof, where I seated myself and surveyed
the prospect to the rear. No one else got on the omnibus--which had not
stopped--and no cab or other passenger vehicle was in sight. I continued
to watch Thorndyke as he stood sentinel at the corner, and noted that no
one appeared to be making any effort to overtake the omnibus. Presently
my colleague waved his hand to me and turned back towards Vauxhall, and
I, having satisfied myself once more that no pursuing cab or hurrying
foot-passenger was in sight, decided that our precautions had been
unnecessary and settled myself in a rather more comfortable position.




Chapter X

The Hunter Hunted


The omnibus of those days was a leisurely vehicle. Its ordinary pace was
a rather sluggish trot, and in a thickly populated thoroughfare its
speed was further reduced by frequent stoppages. Bearing these facts in
mind, I gave an occasional backward glance as we jogged northward,
though my attention soon began to wander from the rather remote
possibility of pursuit to the incidents of our late exploration.

It had not been difficult to see that Thorndyke was very well pleased
with the results of our search, but excepting the letter--which
undoubtedly opened up a channel for further inquiry and possible
identification--I could not perceive that any of the traces that we had
found justified his satisfaction. There were the spectacles, for
instance. They were almost certainly the pair worn by Mr. Graves. But
what then? It was exceedingly improbable that we should be able to
discover the maker of them, and if we were, it was still more improbable
that he would be able to give us any information that would help us.
Spectacle-makers are not usually on confidential terms with their
customers.

As to the other objects, I could make nothing of them. The little sticks
of reed evidently had some use that was known to Thorndyke and
furnished, by inference, some kind of information about Weiss, Graves,
or Mrs. Schallibaum. But I had never seen anything like them before and
they conveyed nothing whatever to me. Then the bottle that had seemed so
significant to Thorndyke was to me quite uninforming. It did, indeed,
suggest that some member of the household might be connected with the
stage, but it gave no hint as to which one. Certainly that person was
not Mr. Weiss, whose appearance was as remote from that of an actor as
could well be imagined. At any rate, the bottle and its label gave me no
more useful hint than it might be worth while to call on Mr. Fox and
make inquiries; and something told me very emphatically that this was
not what it had conveyed to Thorndyke.

These reflections occupied me until the omnibus, having rumbled over
London Bridge and up King William Street, joined the converging streams
of traffic at the Mansion House. Here I got down and changed to an
omnibus bound for Kensington; on which I travelled westward pleasantly
enough, looking down into the teeming streets and whiling away the time
by meditating upon the very agreeable afternoon that I promised myself,
and considering how far my new arrangement with Thorndyke would justify
me in entering into certain domestic engagements of a highly interesting
kind.

What might have happened under other circumstances it is impossible to
tell and useless to speculate; the fact is that my journey ended in a
disappointment. I arrived, all agog, at the familiar house in Endsley
Gardens only to be told by a sympathetic housemaid that the family was
out; that Mrs. Hornby had gone into the country and would not be home
until night, and--which mattered a good deal more to me--that her niece,
Miss Juliet Gibson, had accompanied her.

Now a man who drops into lunch without announcing his intention or
previously ascertaining those of his friends has no right to quarrel
with fate if he finds an empty house. Thus philosophically I reflected
as I turned away from the house in profound discontent, demanding of the
universe in general why Mrs. Hornby need have perversely chosen my first
free day to go gadding into the country, and above all, why she must
needs spirit away the fair Juliet. This was the crowning misfortune (for
I could have endured the absence of the elder lady with commendable
fortitude), and since I could not immediately return to the Temple it
left me a mere waif and stray for the time being.

Instinct--of the kind that manifests itself especially about one
o'clock in the afternoon--impelled me in the direction of Brompton Road,
and finally landed me at a table in a large restaurant apparently
adjusted to the needs of ladies who had come from a distance to engage
in the feminine sport of shopping. Here, while waiting for my lunch, I
sat idly scanning the morning paper and wondering what I should do with
the rest of the day; and presently it chanced that my eye caught the
announcement of a matinée at the theatre in Sloane Square. It was quite
a long time since I had been at a theatre, and, as the play--light
comedy--seemed likely to satisfy my not very critical taste, I decided
to devote the afternoon to reviving my acquaintance with the drama.
Accordingly as soon as my lunch was finished, I walked down the Brompton
Road, stepped on to an omnibus, and was duly deposited at the door of
the theatre. A couple of minutes later I found myself occupying an
excellent seat in the second row of the pit, oblivious alike of my
recent disappointment and of Thorndyke's words of warning.

I am not an enthusiastic play-goer. To dramatic performances I am
disposed to assign nothing further than the modest function of
furnishing entertainment. I do not go to a theatre to be instructed or
to have my moral outlook elevated. But, by way of compensation, I am not
difficult to please. To a simple play, adjusted to my primitive taste, I
can bring a certain bucolic appreciation that enables me to extract from
the performance the maximum of enjoyment; and when, on this occasion,
the final curtain fell and the audience rose, I rescued my hat from its
insecure resting-place and turned to go with the feeling that I had
spent a highly agreeable afternoon.

Emerging from the theatre, borne on the outgoing stream, I presently
found myself opposite the door of a tea-shop. Instinct--the five o'clock
instinct this time--guided me in; for we are creatures of habit,
especially of the tea habit. The unoccupied table to which I drifted was
in a shady corner not very far from the pay-desk; and here I had been
seated less than a minute when a lady passed me on her way to the
farther table. The glimpse that I caught of her as she approached--it
was but a glimpse, since she passed behind me--showed that she was
dressed in black, that she wore a beaded veil and hat, and in addition
to the glass of milk and the bun that she carried, she was encumbered by
an umbrella and a small basket, apparently containing some kind of
needlework. I must confess that I gave her very little attention at the
time, being occupied in anxious speculation as to how long it would be
before the fact of my presence would impinge on the consciousness of the
waitress.

The exact time by the clock on the wall was three minutes and a quarter,
at the expiration of which an anaemic young woman sauntered up to the
table and bestowed on me a glance of sullen interrogation, as if mutely
demanding what the devil I wanted. I humbly requested that I might be
provided with a pot of tea; whereupon she turned on her heel (which was
a good deal worn down on the offside) and reported my conduct to a lady
behind a marble-topped counter.

It seemed that the counter lady took a lenient view of the case, for in
less than four minutes the waitress returned and gloomily deposited on
the table before me a tea-pot, a milk-jug, a cup and saucer, a jug of
hot water, and a small pool of milk. Then she once more departed in
dudgeon.

I had just given the tea in the pot a preliminary stir and was about to
pour out the first cup when I felt some one bump lightly against my
chair and heard something rattle on the floor. I turned quickly and
perceived the lady, whom I had seen enter, stooping just behind my
chair. It seemed that having finished her frugal meal she was on her way
out when she had dropped the little basket that I had noticed hanging
from her wrist; which basket had promptly disgorged its entire contents
on the floor.

Now every one must have noticed the demon of agility that seems to enter
into an inanimate object when it is dropped, and the apparently
intelligent malice with which it discovers, and rolls into, the most
inaccessible places. Here was a case in point. This particular basket
had contained materials for Oriental bead-work; and no sooner had it
reached the floor than each item of its contents appeared to become
possessed of a separate and particular devil impelling it to travel at
headlong speed to some remote and unapproachable corner as distant as
possible from its fellows.

As the only man--and almost the only person--near, the duty of
salvage-agent manifestly devolved upon me; and down I went, accordingly,
on my hands and knees, regardless of a nearly new pair of trousers, to
grope under tables, chairs and settles in reach of the scattered
treasure. A ball of the thick thread or twine I recovered from a dark
and dirty corner after a brief interview with the sharp corner of a
settle, and a multitude of the large beads with which this infernal
industry is carried on I gathered from all parts of the compass, coming
forth at length (quadrupedally) with a double handful of the
treasure-trove and a very lively appreciation of the resistant qualities
of a cast-iron table-stand when applied to the human cranium.

The owner of the lost and found property was greatly distressed by the
accident and the trouble it had caused me; in fact she was quite
needlessly agitated about it. The hand which held the basket into which
I poured the rescued trash trembled visibly, and the brief glance that I
bestowed on her as she murmured her thanks and apologies--with a very
slight foreign accent--showed me that she was excessively pale. That
much I could see plainly in spite of the rather dim light in this part
of the shop and the beaded veil that covered her face; and I could also
see that she was a rather remarkable looking woman, with a great mass of
harsh, black hair and very broad black eyebrows that nearly met above
her nose and contrasted strikingly with the dead white of her skin. But,
of course, I did not look at her intently. Having returned her property
and received her acknowledgments, I resumed my seat and left her to go
on her way.

I had once more grasped the handle of the tea-pot when I made a rather
curious discovery. At the bottom of the tea-cup lay a single lump of
sugar. To the majority of persons it would have meant nothing. They
would have assumed that they had dropped it in and forgotten it and
would have proceeded to pour out the tea. But it happened that, at this
time, I did not take sugar in my tea; whence it followed that the lump
had not been put in by me. Assuming, therefore, that it had been
carelessly dropped in by the waitress, I turned it out on the table,
filled the cup, added the milk, and took a tentative draught to test the
temperature.

The cup was yet at my lips when I chanced to look into the mirror that
faced my table. Of course it reflected the part of the shop that was
behind me, including the cashier's desk; at which the owner of the
basket now stood paying for her refreshment. Between her and me was a
gas chandelier which cast its light on my back but full on her face; and
her veil notwithstanding, I could see that she was looking at me
steadily; was, in fact, watching me intently and with a very curious
expression--an expression of expectancy mingled with alarm. But this was
not all. As I returned her intent look--which I could do unobserved,
since my face, reflected in the mirror, was in deep shadow--I suddenly
perceived that that steady gaze engaged her right eye only; the other
eye was looking sharply towards her left shoulder. In short, she had a
divergent squint of the left eye.

I put down my cup with a thrill of amazement and a sudden surging up of
suspicion and alarm. An instant's reflection reminded me that when she
had spoken to me a few moments before, both her eyes had looked into
mine without the slightest trace of a squint. My thoughts flew back to
the lump of sugar, to the unguarded milk-jug and the draught of tea that
I had already swallowed; and, hardly knowing what I intended, I started
to my feet and turned to confront her. But as I rose, she snatched up
her change and darted from the shop. Through the glass door, I saw her
spring on to the foot-board of a passing hansom and give the driver some
direction. I saw the man whip up his horse, and, by the time I reached
the door, the cab was moving off swiftly towards Sloane Street.

I stood irresolute. I had not paid and could not run out of the shop
without making a fuss, and my hat and stick were still on the rail
opposite my seat. The woman ought to be followed, but I had no fancy for
the task. If the tea that I had swallowed was innocuous, no harm was
done and I was rid of my pursuer. So far as I was concerned, the
incident was closed. I went back to my seat, and picking up the lump of
sugar which still lay on the table where I had dropped it, put it
carefully in my pocket. But my appetite for tea was satisfied for the
present. Moreover it was hardly advisable to stay in the shop lest some
fresh spy should come to see how I fared. Accordingly I obtained my
check, handed it in at the cashier's desk and took my departure.

All this time, it will be observed, I had been taking it for granted
that the lady in black had followed me from Kensington to this shop;
that, in fact, she was none other than Mrs. Schallibaum. And, indeed,
the circumstances had rendered the conclusion inevitable. In the very
instant when I had perceived the displacement of the left eye, complete
recognition had come upon me. When I had stood facing the woman, the
brief glance at her face had conveyed to me something dimly reminiscent
of which I had been but half conscious and had instantly forgotten. But
the sight of that characteristic squint had at once revived and
explained it. That the woman was Mrs. Schallibaum I now felt no doubt
whatever.

Nevertheless, the whole affair was profoundly mysterious. As to the
change in the woman's appearance, there was little in that. The coarse,
black hair might be her own, dyed, or it might be a wig. The eyebrows
were made-up; it was a simple enough proceeding and made still more
simple by the beaded veil. But how did she come to be there at all? How
did she happen to be made-up in this fashion at this particular time?
And, above all, how came she to be provided with a lump of what I had
little doubt was poisoned sugar?

I turned over the events of the day, and the more I considered them the
less comprehensible they appeared. No one had followed the omnibus
either on foot or in a vehicle, as far as I could see; and I had kept a
careful look-out, not only at starting but for some considerable time
after. Yet, all the time, Mrs. Schallibaum must have been following.
But how? If she had known that I was intending to travel by the omnibus
she might have gone to meet it and entered before I did. But she could
not have known: and moreover she did not meet the omnibus, for we
watched its approach from some considerable distance. I considered
whether she might not have been concealed in the house and overheard me
mention my destination to Thorndyke. But this failed to explain the
mystery, since I had mentioned no address beyond "Kensington." I had,
indeed, mentioned the name of Mrs. Hornby, but the supposition that my
friends might be known by name to Mrs. Schallibaum, or even that she
might have looked the name up in the directory, presented a probability
too remote to be worth entertaining.

But, if I reached no satisfactory conclusion, my cogitations had one
useful effect; they occupied my mind to the exclusion of that
unfortunate draught of tea. Not that I had been seriously uneasy after
the first shock. The quantity that I had swallowed was not large--the
tea being hotter than I cared for--and I remembered that, when I had
thrown out the lump of sugar, I had turned the cup upside down on the
table; so there could have been nothing solid left in it. And the lump
of sugar was in itself reassuring, for it certainly would not have been
used in conjunction with any less conspicuous but more incriminating
form of poison. That lump of sugar was now in my pocket, reserved for
careful examination at my leisure; and I reflected with a faint grin
that it would be a little disconcerting if it should turn out to
contain nothing but sugar after all.

On leaving the tea-shop, I walked up Sloane Street with the intention of
doing what I ought to have done earlier in the day. I was going to make
perfectly sure that no spy was dogging my footsteps. But for my
ridiculous confidence I could have done so quite easily before going to
Endsley Gardens; and now, made wiser by a startling experience, I
proceeded with systematic care. It was still broad daylight--for the
lamps in the tea-shop had been rendered necessary only by the faulty
construction of the premises and the dullness of the afternoon--and in
an open space I could see far enough for complete safety. Arriving at
the top of Sloane Street, I crossed Knightsbridge, and, entering Hyde
Park, struck out towards the Serpentine. Passing along the eastern
shore, I entered one of the long paths that lead towards the Marble Arch
and strode along it at such a pace as would make it necessary for any
pursuer to hurry in order to keep me in sight. Half-way across the great
stretch of turf, I halted for a few moments and noted the few people who
were coming in my direction. Then I turned sharply to the left and
headed straight for the Victoria Gate, but again, half-way, I turned off
among a clump of trees, and, standing behind the trunk of one of them,
took a fresh survey of the people who were moving along the paths. All
were at a considerable distance and none appeared to be coming my way.

I now moved cautiously from one tree to another and passed through the
wooded region to the south, crossed the Serpentine bridge at a rapid
walk and hurrying along the south shore left the Park by Apsley House.
From hence I walked at the same rapid pace along Piccadilly, insinuating
myself among the crowd with the skill born of long acquaintance with the
London streets, crossed amidst the seething traffic at the Circus,
darted up Windmill Street and began to zigzag amongst the narrow streets
and courts of Soho. Crossing the Seven Dials and Drury Lane I passed
through the multitudinous back-streets and alleys that then filled the
area south of Lincoln's Inn, came out by Newcastle Street, Holywell
Street and Half-Moon Alley into the Strand, which I crossed immediately,
ultimately entering the Temple by Devereux Court.

Even then I did not relax my precautions. From one court to another I
passed quickly, loitering in those dark entries and unexpected passages
that are known to so few but the regular Templars, and coming out into
the open only at the last where the wide passage of King's Bench Walk
admits of no evasion. Half-way up the stairs, I stood for some time in
the shadow, watching the approaches from the staircase window; and when,
at length, I felt satisfied that I had taken every precaution that was
possible, I inserted my key and let myself into our chambers.

Thorndyke had already arrived, and, as I entered, he rose to greet me
with an expression of evident relief.

"I am glad to see you, Jervis," he said. "I have been rather anxious
about you."

"Why?" I asked.

"For several reasons. One is that you are the sole danger that threatens
these people--as far as they know. Another is that we made a most
ridiculous mistake. We overlooked a fact that ought to have struck us
instantly. But how have you fared?"

"Better than I deserved. That good lady stuck to me like a burr--at
least I believe she did."

"I have no doubt she did. We have been caught napping finely, Jervis."

"How?"

"We'll go into that presently. Let us hear about your adventures first."

I gave him a full account of my movements from the time when we parted
to that of my arrival home, omitting no incident that I was able to
remember and, as far as I could, reconstituting my exceedingly devious
homeward route.

"Your retreat was masterly," he remarked with a broad smile. "I should
think that it would have utterly defeated any pursuer; and the only pity
is that it was probably wasted on the desert air. Your pursuer had by
that time become a fugitive. But you were wise to take these
precautions, for, of course, Weiss might have followed you."

"But I thought he was in Hamburg?"

"Did you? You are a very confiding young gentleman, for a budding
medical jurist. Of course we don't know that he is not; but the fact
that he has given Hamburg as his present whereabouts establishes a
strong presumption that he is somewhere else. I only hope that he has
not located you, and, from what you tell me of your later methods, I
fancy that you would have shaken him off even if he had started to
follow you from the tea-shop."

"I hope so too. But how did that woman manage to stick to me in that
way? What was the mistake we made?"

Thorndyke laughed grimly. "It was a perfectly asinine mistake, Jervis.
You started up Kennington Park Road on a leisurely, jog-trotting
omnibus, and neither you nor I remembered what there is underneath
Kennington Park Road."

"Underneath!" I exclaimed, completely puzzled for the moment. Then,
suddenly realizing what he meant, "Of course!" I exclaimed. "Idiot that
I am! You mean the electric railway?"

"Yes. That explains everything. Mrs. Schallibaum must have watched us
from some shop and quietly followed us up the lane. There were a good
many women about and several were walking in our direction. There was
nothing to distinguish her from the others unless you had recognized
her, which you would hardly have been able to do if she had worn a veil
and kept at a fair distance. At least I think not."

"No," I agreed, "I certainly should not. I had only seen her in a
half-dark room. In outdoor clothes and with a veil, I should never have
been able to identify her without very close inspection. Besides there
was the disguise or make-up."

"Not at that time. She would hardly come disguised to her own house,
for it might have led to her being challenged and asked who she was. I
think we may take it that there was no actual disguise, although she
would probably wear a shady hat and a veil; which would have prevented
either of us from picking her out from the other women in the street."

"And what do you think happened next?"

"I think that she simply walked past us--probably on the other side of
the road--as we stood waiting for the omnibus, and turned up Kennington
Park Road. She probably guessed that we were waiting for the omnibus and
walked up the road in the direction in which it was going. Presently the
omnibus would pass her, and there were you in full view on top keeping a
vigilant look-out in the wrong direction. Then she would quicken her
pace a little and in a minute or two would arrive at the Kennington
Station of the South London Railway. In a minute or two more she would
be in one of the electric trains whirling along under the street on
which your omnibus was crawling. She would get out at the Borough
Station, or she might take a more risky chance and go on to the
Monument; but in any case she would wait for your omnibus, hail it and
get inside. I suppose you took up some passengers on the way?"

"Oh dear, yes. We were stopping every two or three minutes to take up or
set down passengers; and most of them were women."

"Very well; then we may take it that when you arrived at the Mansion
House, Mrs. Schallibaum was one of your inside passengers. It was a
rather quaint situation, I think."

"Yes, confound her! What a couple of noodles she must have thought us!"

"No doubt. And that is the one consoling feature in the case. She will
have taken us for a pair of absolute greenhorns. But to continue. Of
course she travelled in your omnibus to Kensington--you ought to have
gone inside on both occasions, so that you could see every one who
entered and examine the inside passengers; she will have followed you to
Endsley Gardens and probably noted the house you went to. Thence she
will have followed you to the restaurant and may even have lunched
there."

"It is quite possible," said I. "There were two rooms and they were
filled principally with women."

"Then she will have followed you to Sloane Street, and, as you persisted
in riding outside, she could easily take an inside place in your
omnibus. As to the theatre, she must have taken it as a veritable gift
of the gods; an arrangement made by you for her special convenience."

"Why?"

"My dear fellow! consider. She had only to follow you in and see you
safely into your seat and there you were, left till called for. She
could then go home, make up for her part; draw out a plan of action,
with the help, perhaps, of Mr. Weiss, provide herself with the necessary
means and appliances and, at the appointed time, call and collect you."

"That is assuming a good deal," I objected. "It is assuming, for
instance, that she lives within a moderate distance of Sloane Square.
Otherwise it would have been impossible."

"Exactly. That is why I assume it. You don't suppose that she goes about
habitually with lumps of prepared sugar in her pocket. And if not, then
she must have got that lump from somewhere. Then the beads suggest a
carefully prepared plan, and, as I said just now, she can hardly have
been made-up when she met us in Kennington Lane. From all of which it
seems likely that her present abode is not very far from Sloane Square."

"At any rate," said I, "it was taking a considerable risk. I might have
left the theatre before she came back."

"Yes," Thorndyke agreed. "But it is like a woman to take chances. A man
would probably have stuck to you when once he had got you off your
guard. But she was ready to take chances. She chanced the railway, and
it came off; she chanced your remaining in the theatre, and that came
off too. She calculated on the probability of your getting tea when you
came out, and she hit it off again. And then she took one chance too
many; she assumed that you probably took sugar in your tea, and she was
wrong."

"We are taking it for granted that the sugar was prepared," I remarked.

"Yes. Our explanation is entirely hypothetical and may be entirely
wrong. But it all hangs together, and if we find any poisonous matter in
the sugar, it will be reasonable to assume that we are right. The sugar
is the Experimentum Crucis. If you will hand it over to me, we will go
up to the laboratory and make a preliminary test or two."

I took the lump of sugar from my pocket and gave it to him, and he
carried it to the gas-burner, by the light of which he examined it with
a lens.

"I don't see any foreign crystals on the surface," said he; "but we had
better make a solution and go to work systematically. If it contains any
poison we may assume that it will be some alkaloid, though I will test
for arsenic too. But a man of Weiss's type would almost certainly use an
alkaloid, on account of its smaller bulk and more ready solubility. You
ought not to have carried this loose in your pocket. For legal purposes
that would seriously interfere with its value as evidence. Bodies that
are suspected of containing poison should be carefully isolated and
preserved from contact with anything that might lead to doubt in the
analysis. It doesn't matter much to us, as this analysis is only for our
own information and we can satisfy ourselves as to the state of your
pocket. But bear the rule in mind another time."

We now ascended to the laboratory, where Thorndyke proceeded at once to
dissolve the lump of sugar in a measured quantity of distilled water by
the aid of gentle heat.

"Before we add any acid," said he, "or introduce any fresh matter, we
will adopt the simple preliminary measure of tasting the solution. The
sugar is a disturbing factor, but some of the alkaloids and most
mineral poisons excepting arsenic have a very characteristic taste."

He dipped a glass rod in the warm solution and applied it gingerly to
his tongue.

"Ha!" he exclaimed, as he carefully wiped his mouth with his
handkerchief, "simple methods are often very valuable. There isn't much
doubt as to what is in that sugar. Let me recommend my learned brother
to try the flavour. But be careful. A little of this will go a long
way."

He took a fresh rod from the rack, and, dipping it in the solution,
handed it to me. I cautiously applied it to the tip of my tongue and was
immediately aware of a peculiar tingling sensation accompanied by a
feeling of numbness.

"Well," said Thorndyke; "what is it?"

"Aconite," I replied without hesitation.

"Yes," he agreed; "aconite it is, or more probably aconitine. And that,
I think, gives us all the information we want. We need not trouble now
to make a complete analysis, though I shall have a quantitative
examination made later. You note the intensity of the taste and you see
what the strength of the solution is. Evidently that lump of sugar
contained a very large dose of the poison. If the sugar had been
dissolved in your tea, the quantity that you drank would have contained
enough aconitine to lay you out within a few minutes; which would
account for Mrs. Schallibaum's anxiety to get clear of the premises. She
saw you drink from the cup, but I imagine she had not seen you turn the
sugar out."

"No, I should say not, to judge by her expression. She looked
terrified. She is not as hardened as her rascally companion."

"Which is fortunate for you, Jervis. If she had not been in such a
fluster, she would have waited until you had poured out your tea, which
was what she probably meant to do, or have dropped the sugar into the
milk-jug. In either case you would have got a poisonous dose before you
noticed anything amiss."

"They are a pretty pair, Thorndyke," I exclaimed. "A human life seems to
be no more to them than the life of a fly or a beetle."

"No; that is so. They are typical poisoners of the worst kind; of the
intelligent, cautious, resourceful kind. They are a standing menace to
society. As long as they are at large, human lives are in danger, and it
is our business to see that they do not remain at large a moment longer
than is unavoidable. And that brings us to another point. You had better
keep indoors for the next few days."

"Oh, nonsense," I protested. "I can take care of myself."

"I won't dispute that," said Thorndyke, "although I might. But the
matter is of vital importance and we can't be too careful. Yours is the
only evidence that could convict these people. They know that and will
stick at nothing to get rid of you--for by this time they will almost
certainly have ascertained that the tea-shop plan has failed. Now your
life is of some value to you and to another person whom I could mention;
but apart from that, you are the indispensable instrument for ridding
society of these dangerous vermin. Moreover, if you were seen abroad and
connected with these chambers, they would get the information that their
case was really being investigated in a businesslike manner. If Weiss
has not already left the country he would do so immediately, and if he
has, Mrs. Schallibaum would join him at once, and we might never be able
to lay hands on them. You must stay indoors, out of sight, and you had
better write to Miss Gibson and ask her to warn the servants to give no
information about you to anyone."

"And how long," I asked, "am I to be held on parole?"

"Not long, I think. We have a very promising start. If I have any luck,
I shall be able to collect all the evidence I want in about a week. But
there is an element of chance in some of it which prevents me from
giving a date. And it is just possible that I may have started on a
false track. But that I shall be able to tell you better in a day or
two."

"And I suppose," I said gloomily, "I shall be out of the hunt
altogether?"

"Not at all," he replied. "You have got the Blackmore case to attend to.
I shall hand you over all the documents and get you to make an orderly
digest of the evidence. You will then have all the facts and can work
out the case for yourself. Also I shall ask you to help Polton in some
little operations which are designed to throw light into dark places and
which you will find both entertaining and instructive."

"Supposing Mrs. Hornby should propose to call and take tea with us in
the gardens?" I suggested.

"And bring Miss Gibson with her?" Thorndyke added dryly. "No, Jervis, it
would never do. You must make that quite clear to her. It is more
probable than not that Mrs. Schallibaum made a careful note of the house
in Endsley Gardens, and as that would be the one place actually known to
her, she and Weiss--if he is in England--would almost certainly keep a
watch on it. If they should succeed in connecting that house with these
chambers, a few inquiries would show them the exact state of the case.
No; we must keep them in the dark if we possibly can. We have shown too
much of our hand already. It is hard on you, but it cannot be helped."

"Oh, don't think I am complaining," I exclaimed. "If it is a matter of
business, I am as keen as you are. I thought at first that you were
merely considering the safety of my vile body. When shall I start on my
job?"

"To-morrow morning. I shall give you my notes on the Blackmore case and
the copies of the will and the depositions, from which you had better
draw up a digest of the evidence with remarks as to the conclusions that
it suggests. Then there are our gleanings from New Inn to be looked over
and considered; and with regard to this case, we have the fragments of a
pair of spectacles which had better be put together into a rather more
intelligible form in case we have to produce them in evidence. That will
keep you occupied for a day or two, together with some work
appertaining to other cases. And now let us dismiss professional topics.
You have not dined and neither have I, but I dare say Polton has made
arrangements for some sort of meal. We will go down and see."

We descended to the lower floor, where Thorndyke's anticipations were
justified by a neatly laid table to which Polton was giving the
finishing touches.




Chapter XI

The Blackmore Case Reviewed


One of the conditions of medical practice is the capability of
transferring one's attention at a moment's notice from one set of
circumstances to another equally important but entirely unrelated. At
each visit on his round, the practitioner finds himself concerned with a
particular, self-contained group of phenomena which he must consider at
the moment with the utmost concentration, but which he must instantly
dismiss from his mind as he moves on to the next case. It is a difficult
habit to acquire; for an important, distressing or obscure case is apt
to take possession of the consciousness and hinder the exercise of
attention that succeeding cases demand; but experience shows the faculty
to be indispensable, and the practitioner learns in time to forget
everything but the patient with whose condition he is occupied at the
moment.

My first morning's work on the Blackmore case showed me that the same
faculty is demanded in legal practice; and it also showed me that I had
yet to acquire it. For, as I looked over the depositions and the copy of
the will, memories of the mysterious house in Kennington Lane
continually intruded into my reflections, and the figure of Mrs.
Schallibaum, white-faced, terrified, expectant, haunted me continually.

In truth, my interest in the Blackmore case was little more than
academic, whereas in the Kennington case I was one of the parties and
was personally concerned. To me, John Blackmore was but a name, Jeffrey
but a shadowy figure to which I could assign no definite personality,
and Stephen himself but a casual stranger. Mr. Graves, on the other
hand, was a real person. I had seen him amidst the tragic circumstances
that had probably heralded his death, and had brought away with me, not
only a lively recollection of him, but a feeling of profound pity and
concern as to his fate. The villain Weiss, too, and the terrible woman
who aided, abetted and, perhaps, even directed him, lived in my memory
as vivid and dreadful realities. Although I had uttered no hint to
Thorndyke, I lamented inwardly that I had not been given some work--if
there was any to do--connected with this case, in which I was so deeply
interested, rather than with the dry, purely legal and utterly
bewildering case of Jeffrey Blackmore's will.

Nevertheless, I stuck loyally to my task. I read through the depositions
and the will--without getting a single glimmer of fresh light on the
case--and I made a careful digest of all the facts. I compared my
digest with Thorndyke's notes--of which I also made a copy--and found
that, brief as they were, they contained several matters that I had
overlooked. I also drew up a brief account of our visit to New Inn, with
a list of the objects that we had observed or collected. And then I
addressed myself to the second part of my task, the statement of my
conclusions from the facts set forth.

It was only when I came to make the attempt that I realized how
completely I was at sea. In spite of Thorndyke's recommendation to study
Marchmont's statement as it was summarized in those notes which I had
copied, and of his hint that I should find in that statement something
highly significant, I was borne irresistibly to one conclusion, and one
only--and the wrong one at that, as I suspected: that Jeffrey
Blackmore's will was a perfectly regular, sound and valid document.

I tried to attack the validity of the will from various directions, and
failed every time. As to its genuineness, that was obviously not in
question. There seemed to me only two conceivable respects in which any
objection could be raised, viz. the competency of Jeffrey to execute a
will and the possibility of undue influence having been brought to bear
on him.

With reference to the first, there was the undoubted fact that Jeffrey
was addicted to the opium habit, and this might, under some
circumstances, interfere with a testator's competency to make a will.
But had any such circumstances existed in this case? Had the drug habit
produced such mental changes in the deceased as would destroy or weaken
his judgment? There was not a particle of evidence in favour of any such
belief. Up to the very end he had managed his own affairs, and, if his
habits of life had undergone a change, they were still the habits of a
perfectly sane and responsible man.

The question of undue influence was more difficult. If it applied to any
person in particular, that person could be none other than John
Blackmore. Now it was an undoubted fact that, of all Jeffrey's
acquaintance, his brother John was the only one who knew that he was in
residence at New Inn. Moreover John had visited him there more than
once. It was therefore possible that influence might have been brought
to bear on the deceased. But there was no evidence that it had. The fact
that the deceased man's only brother should be the one person who knew
where he was living was not a remarkable one, and it had been
satisfactorily explained by the necessity of Jeffrey's finding a
reference on applying for the chambers. And against the theory of undue
influence was the fact that the testator had voluntarily brought his
will to the lodge and executed it in the presence of entirely
disinterested witnesses.

In the end I had to give up the problem in despair, and, abandoning the
documents, turned my attention to the facts elicited by our visit to New
Inn.

What had we learned from our exploration? It was clear that Thorndyke
had picked up some facts that had appeared to him important. But
important in what respect? The only possible issue that could be raised
was the validity or otherwise of Jeffrey Blackmore's will; and since the
validity of that will was supported by positive evidence of the most
incontestable kind, it seemed that nothing that we had observed could
have any real bearing on the case at all.

But this, of course, could not be. Thorndyke was no dreamer nor was he
addicted to wild speculation. If the facts observed by us seemed to him
to be relevant to the case, I was prepared to assume that they were
relevant, although I could not see their connection with it. And, on
this assumption, I proceeded to examine them afresh.

Now, whatever Thorndyke might have observed on his own account, I had
brought away from the dead man's chambers only a single fact; and a very
extraordinary fact it was. The cuneiform inscription was upside down.
That was the sum of the evidence that I had collected; and the question
was, What did it prove? To Thorndyke it conveyed some deep significance.
What could that significance be?

The inverted position was not a mere temporary accident, as it might
have been if the frame had been stood on a shelf or support. It was hung
on the wall, and the plates screwed on the frame showed that its
position was permanent and that it had never hung in any other. That it
could have been hung up by Jeffrey himself was clearly inconceivable.
But allowing that it had been fixed in its present position by some
workman when the new tenant moved in, the fact remained that there it
had hung, presumably for months, and that Jeffrey Blackmore, with his
expert knowledge of the cuneiform character, had never noticed that it
was upside down; or, if he had noticed it, that he had never taken the
trouble to have it altered.

What could this mean? If he had noticed the error but had not troubled
to correct it, that would point to a very singular state of mind, an
inertness and indifference remarkable even in an opium-smoker. But
assuming such a state of mind, I could not see that it had any bearing
on the will, excepting that it was rather inconsistent with the tendency
to make fussy and needless alterations which the testator had actually
shown. On the other hand, if he had not noticed the inverted position of
the photograph he must have been nearly blind or quite idiotic; for the
photograph was over two feet long and the characters large enough to be
read easily by a person of ordinary eyesight at a distance of forty or
fifty feet. Now he obviously was not in a state of dementia, whereas his
eyesight was admittedly bad; and it seemed to me that the only
conclusion deducible from the photograph was that it furnished a measure
of the badness of the deceased man's vision--that it proved him to have
been verging on total blindness.

But there was nothing startling new in this. He had, himself, declared
that he was fast losing his sight. And again, what was the bearing of
his partial blindness on the will? A totally blind man cannot draw up
his will at all. But if he has eyesight sufficient to enable him to
write out and sign a will, mere defective vision will not lead him to
muddle the provisions. Yet something of this kind seemed to be in
Thorndyke's mind, for now I recalled the question that he had put to the
porter: "When you read the will over in Mr. Blackmore's presence, did
you read it aloud?" That question could have but one significance. It
implied a doubt as to whether the testator was fully aware of the exact
nature of the document that he was signing. Yet, if he was able to write
and sign it, surely he was able also to read it through, to say nothing
of the fact that, unless he was demented, he must have remembered what
he had written.

Thus, once more, my reasoning only led me into a blind alley at the end
of which was the will, regular and valid and fulfilling all the
requirements that the law imposed. Once again I had to confess myself
beaten and in full agreement with Mr. Marchmont that "there was no
case"; that "there was nothing in dispute." Nevertheless, I carefully
fixed in the pocket file that Thorndyke had given me the copy that I had
made of his notes, together with the notes on our visit to New Inn, and
the few and unsatisfactory conclusions at which I had arrived; and this
brought me to the end of my first morning in my new capacity.

"And how," Thorndyke asked as we sat at lunch, "has my learned friend
progressed? Does he propose that we advise Mr. Marchmont to enter a
caveat?"

"I've read all the documents and boiled all the evidence down to a stiff
jelly; and I am in a worse fog than ever."

"There seems to be a slight mixture of metaphors in my learned friend's
remarks. But never mind the fog, Jervis. There is a certain virtue in
fog. It serves, like a picture frame, to surround the essential with a
neutral zone that separates it from the irrelevant."

"That is a very profound observation, Thorndyke," I remarked ironically.

"I was just thinking so myself," he rejoined.

"And if you could contrive to explain what it means--"

"Oh, but that is unreasonable. When one throws off a subtly philosophic
obiter dictum one looks to the discerning critic to supply the meaning.
By the way, I am going to introduce you to the gentle art of photography
this afternoon. I am getting the loan of all the cheques that were drawn
by Jeffrey Blackmore during his residence at New Inn--there are only
twenty-three of them, all told--and I am going to photograph them."

"I shouldn't have thought the bank people would have let them go out of
their possession."

"They are not going to. One of the partners, a Mr. Britton, is bringing
them here himself and will be present while the photographs are being
taken; so they will not go out of his custody. But, all the same, it is
a great concession, and I should not have obtained it but for the fact
that I have done a good deal of work for the bank and that Mr. Britton
is more or less a personal friend."

"By the way, how comes it that the cheques are at the bank? Why were
they not returned to Jeffrey with the pass-book in the usual way?"

"I understand from Britton," replied Thorndyke, "that all Jeffrey's
cheques were retained by the bank at his request. When he was travelling
he used to leave his investment securities and other valuable documents
in his bankers' custody, and, as he has never applied to have them
returned, the bankers still have them and are retaining them until the
will is proved, when they will, of course, hand over everything to the
executors."

"What is the object of photographing these cheques?" I asked.

"There are several objects. First, since a good photograph is
practically as good as the original, when we have the photographs we
practically have the cheques for reference. Then, since a photograph can
be duplicated indefinitely, it is possible to perform experiments on it
which involve its destruction; which would, of course, be impossible in
the case of original cheques."

"But the ultimate object, I mean. What are you going to prove?"

"You are incorrigible, Jervis," he exclaimed. "How should I know what I
am going to prove? This is an investigation. If I knew the result
beforehand, I shouldn't want to perform the experiment."

He looked at his watch, and, as we rose from the table, he said:

"If we have finished, we had better go up to the laboratory and see that
the apparatus is ready. Mr. Britton is a busy man, and, as he is doing
us a great service, we mustn't keep him waiting when he comes."

We ascended to the laboratory, where Polton was already busy inspecting
the massively built copying camera which--with the long, steel guides on
which the easel or copy-holder travelled--took up the whole length of
the room on the side opposite to that occupied by the chemical bench. As
I was to be inducted into the photographic art, I looked at it with more
attention than I had ever done before.

"We've made some improvements since you were here last, sir," said
Polton, who was delicately lubricating the steel guides. "We've fitted
these steel runners instead of the blackleaded wooden ones that we used
to have. And we've made two scales instead of one. Hallo! That's the
downstairs bell. Shall I go sir?"

"Perhaps you'd better," said Thorndyke. "It may not be Mr. Britton, and
I don't want to be caught and delayed just now."

However, it was Mr. Britton; a breezy alert-looking middle-aged man, who
came in escorted by Polton and shook our hands cordially, having been
previously warned of my presence. He carried a small but solid hand-bag,
to which he clung tenaciously up to the very moment when its contents
were required for use.

"So that is the camera," said he, running an inquisitive eye over the
instrument. "Very fine one, too; I am a bit of a photographer myself.
What is that graduation on the side-bar?"

"Those are the scales," replied Thorndyke, "that shows the degree of
magnification or reduction. The pointer is fixed to the easel and
travels with it, of course, showing the exact size of the photograph.
When the pointer is opposite 0 the photograph will be identical in size
with the object photographed; when it points to, say, × 6, the
photograph will be six times as long as the object, or magnified
thirty-six times superficially, whereas if the pointer is at ÷ 6, the
photograph will be a sixth of the length of the object, or one
thirty-sixth superficial."

"Why are there two scales?" Mr. Britton asked.

"There is a separate scale for each of the two lenses that we
principally use. For great magnification or reduction a lens of
comparatively short focus must be used, but, as a long-focus lens gives
a more perfect image, we use one of very long focus--thirty-six
inches--for copying the same size or for slight magnification or
reduction."

"Are you going to magnify these cheques?" Mr. Britton asked.

"Not in the first place," replied Thorndyke. "For convenience and speed
I am going to photograph them half-size, so that six cheques will go on
one whole plate. Afterwards we can enlarge from the negatives as much as
we like. But we should probably enlarge only the signatures in any
case."

The precious bag was now opened and the twenty-three cheques brought out
and laid on the bench in a consecutive series in the order of their
dates. They were then fixed by tapes--to avoid making pin-holes in
them--in batches of six to small drawing boards, each batch being so
arranged that the signatures were towards the middle. The first board
was clamped to the easel, the latter was slid along its guides until
the pointer stood at ÷ 2 on the long-focus scale and Thorndyke proceeded
to focus the camera with the aid of a little microscope that Polton had
made for the purpose. When Mr. Britton and I had inspected the
exquisitely sharp image on the focusing-screen through the microscope,
Polton introduced the plate and made the first exposure, carrying the
dark-slide off to develop the plate while the next batch of cheques was
being fixed in position.

In his photographic technique, as in everything else, Polton followed as
closely as he could the methods of his principal and instructor; methods
characterized by that unhurried precision that leads to perfect
accomplishment. When the first negative was brought forth, dripping,
from the dark-room, it was without spot or stain, scratch or pin-hole;
uniform in colour and of exactly the required density. The six cheques
shown on it--ridiculously small in appearance, though only reduced to
half-length--looked as clear and sharp as fine etchings; though, to be
sure, my opportunity for examining them was rather limited, for Polton
was uncommonly careful to keep the wet plate out of reach and so safe
from injury.

"Well," said Mr. Britton, when, at the end of the séance, he returned
his treasures to the bag, "you have now got twenty-three of our cheques,
to all intents and purposes. I hope you are not going to make any
unlawful use of them--must tell our cashiers to keep a bright look-out;
and"--here he lowered his voice impressively and addressed himself to
me and Polton--"you understand that this is a private matter between Dr.
Thorndyke and me. Of course, as Mr. Blackmore is dead, there is no
reason why his cheques should not be photographed for legal purposes;
but we don't want it talked about; nor, I think, does Dr. Thorndyke."

"Certainly not," Thorndyke agreed emphatically; "but you need not be
uneasy, Mr. Britton. We are very uncommunicative people in this
establishment."

As my colleague and I escorted our visitor down the stairs, he returned
to the subject of the cheques.

"I don't understand what you want them for," he remarked. "There is no
question turning on signatures in the case of Blackmore deceased, is
there?"

"I should say not," Thorndyke replied rather evasively.

"I should say very decidedly not," said Mr. Britton, "if I understood
Marchmont aright. And, even if there were, let me tell you, these
signatures that you have got wouldn't help you. I have looked them over
very closely--and I have seen a few signatures in my time, you know.
Marchmont asked me to glance over them as a matter of form, but I don't
believe in matters of form; I examined them very carefully. There is an
appreciable amount of variation; a very appreciable amount. <i>But</i> under
the variation one can trace the personal character (which is what
matters); the subtle, indescribable quality that makes it recognizable
to the expert eye as Jeffrey Blackmore's writing. You understand me.
There is such a quality, which remains when the coarser characteristics
vary; just as a man may grow old, or fat, or bald, or may take to drink,
and become quite changed; and yet, through it all, he preserves a
certain something which makes him recognizable as a member of a
particular family. Well, I find that quality in all those signatures,
and so will you, if you have had enough experience of handwriting. I
thought it best to mention it in case you might be giving yourself
unnecessary trouble."

"It is very good of you," said Thorndyke, "and I need not say that the
information is of great value, coming from such a highly expert source.
As a matter of fact, your hint will be of great value to me."

He shook hands with Mr. Britton, and, as the latter disappeared down the
stairs, he turned into the sitting-room and remarked:

"There is a very weighty and significant observation, Jervis. I advise
you to consider it attentively in all its bearings."

"You mean the fact that these signatures are undoubtedly genuine?"

"I meant, rather, the very interesting general truth that is contained
in Britton's statement; that physiognomy is not a mere matter of facial
character. A man carries his personal trademark, not in his face only,
but in his nervous system and muscles--giving rise to characteristic
movements and gait; in his larynx--producing an individual voice; and
even in his mouth, as shown by individual peculiarities of speech and
accent. And the individual nervous system, by means of these
characteristic movements, transfers its peculiarities to inanimate
objects that are the products of such movements; as we see in pictures,
in carving, in musical execution and in handwriting. No one has ever
painted quite like Reynolds or Romney; no one has ever played exactly
like Liszt or Paganini; the pictures or the sounds produced by them,
were, so to speak, an extension of the physiognomy of the artist. And so
with handwriting. A particular specimen is the product of a particular
set of motor centres in an individual brain."

"These are very interesting considerations, Thorndyke," I remarked; "but
I don't quite see their present application. Do you mean them to bear in
any special way on the Blackmore case?"

"I think they do bear on it very directly. I thought so while Mr.
Britton was making his very illuminating remarks."

"I don't see how. In fact I cannot see why you are going into the
question of the signatures at all. The signature on the will is
admittedly genuine, and that seems to me to dispose of the whole
affair."

"My dear Jervis," said he, "you and Marchmont are allowing yourselves to
be obsessed by a particular fact--a very striking and weighty fact, I
will admit, but still, only an isolated fact. Jeffrey Blackmore executed
his will in a regular manner, complying with all the necessary
formalities and conditions. In the face of that single circumstance you
and Marchmont would 'chuck up the sponge,' as the old pugilists
expressed it. Now that is a great mistake. You should never allow
yourself to be bullied and browbeaten by a single fact."

"But, my dear Thorndyke!" I protested, "this fact seems to be final. It
covers all possibilities---unless you can suggest any other that would
cancel it."

"I could suggest a dozen," he replied. "Let us take an instance.
Supposing Jeffrey executed this will for a wager; that he immediately
revoked it and made a fresh will, that he placed the latter in the
custody of some person and that that person has suppressed it."

"Surely you do not make this suggestion seriously!" I exclaimed.

"Certainly I do not," he replied with a smile. "I merely give it as an
instance to show that your final and absolute fact is really only
conditional on there being no other fact that cancels it."

"Do you think he might have made a third will?"

"It is obviously possible. A man who makes two wills may make three or
more; but I may say that I see no present reason for assuming the
existence of another will. What I want to impress on you is the
necessity of considering all the facts instead of bumping heavily
against the most conspicuous one and forgetting all the rest. By the
way, here is a little problem for you. What was the object of which
these are the parts?"

He pushed across the table a little cardboard box, having first removed
the lid. In it were a number of very small pieces of broken glass, some
of which had been cemented together by their edges.

"These, I suppose," said I, looking with considerable curiosity at the
little collection, "are the pieces of glass that we picked up in poor
Blackmore's bedroom?"

"Yes. You see that Polton has been endeavouring to reconstitute the
object, whatever it was; but he has not been very successful, for the
fragments were too small and irregular and the collection too
incomplete. However, here is a specimen, built up of six small pieces,
which exhibits the general character of the object fairly well."

He picked out the little irregularly shaped object and handed it to me;
and I could not but admire the neatness with which Polton had joined the
tiny fragments together.

I took the little "restoration," and, holding it up before my eyes,
moved it to and fro as I looked through it at the window.

"It was not a lens," I pronounced eventually.

"No," Thorndyke agreed, "it was not a lens."

"And so cannot have been a spectacle-glass. But the surface was
curved--one side convex and the other concave--and the little piece that
remains of the original edge seems to have been ground to fit a bezel or
frame. I should say that these are portions of a watch-glass."

"That is Polton's opinion," said Thorndyke, "and I think you are both
wrong."

"What do you say to the glass of a miniature or locket?"

"That is rather more probable, but it is not my view."

"What do you think it is?" I asked. But Thorndyke was not to be drawn.

"I am submitting the problem for solution by my learned friend," he
replied with an exasperating smile, and then added: "I don't say that
you and Polton are wrong; only that I don't agree with you. Perhaps you
had better make a note of the properties of this object, and consider it
at your leisure when you are ruminating on the other data referring to
the Blackmore case."

"My ruminations," I said, "always lead me back to the same point."

"But you mustn't let them," he replied. "Shuffle your data about. Invent
hypotheses. Never mind if they seem rather wild. Don't put them aside on
that account. Take the first hypothesis that you can invent and test it
thoroughly with your facts. You will probably have to reject it, but you
will be certain to have learned something new. Then try again with a
fresh one. You remember what I told you of my methods when I began this
branch of practice and had plenty of time on my hands?"

"I am not sure that I do."

"Well, I used to occupy my leisure in constructing imaginary cases,
mostly criminal, for the purpose of study and for the acquirement of
experience. For instance, I would devise an ingenious fraud and would
plan it in detail, taking every precaution that I could think of against
failure or detection, considering, and elaborately providing for, every
imaginable contingency. For the time being, my entire attention was
concentrated on it, making it as perfect and secure and undetectable as
I could with the knowledge and ingenuity at my command. I behaved
exactly as if I were proposing actually to carry it out, and my life or
liberty depended on its success--excepting that I made full notes of
every detail of the scheme. Then when my plans were as complete as I
could make them, and I could think of no way in which to improve them, I
changed sides and considered the case from the standpoint of detection.
I analysed the case, I picked out its inherent and unavoidable
weaknesses, and, especially, I noted the respects in which a fraudulent
proceeding of a particular kind differed from the <i>bona fide</i> proceeding
that it simulated. The exercise was invaluable to me. I acquired as much
experience from those imaginary cases as I should from real ones, and in
addition, I learned a method which is the one that I practise to this
day."

"Do you mean that you still invent imaginary cases as mental exercises?"

"No; I mean that, when I have a problem of any intricacy, I invent a
case which fits the facts and the assumed motives of one of the parties.
Then I work at that case until I find whether it leads to elucidation or
to some fundamental disagreement. In the latter case I reject it and
begin the process over again."

"Doesn't that method sometimes involve a good deal of wasted time and
energy?" I asked.

"No; because each time that you fail to establish a given case, you
exclude a particular explanation of the facts and narrow down the field
of inquiry. By repeating the process, you are bound, in the end, to
arrive at an imaginary case which fits all the facts. Then your
imaginary case is the real case and the problem is solved. Let me
recommend you to give the method a trial."

I promised to do so, though with no very lively expectations as to the
result, and with this, the subject was allowed, for the present, to
drop.




Chapter XII

The Portrait


The state of mind which Thorndyke had advised me to cultivate was one
that did not come easily. However much I endeavoured to shuffle the
facts of the Blackmore case, there was one which inevitably turned up on
the top of the pack. The circumstances surrounding the execution of
Jeffrey Blackmore's will intruded into all my cogitations on the subject
with hopeless persistency. That scene in the porter's lodge was to me
what King Charles's head was to poor Mr. Dick. In the midst of my
praiseworthy efforts to construct some intelligible scheme of the case,
it would make its appearance and reduce my mind to instant chaos.

For the next few days, Thorndyke was very much occupied with one or two
civil cases, which kept him in court during the whole of the sitting;
and when he came home, he seemed indisposed to talk on professional
topics. Meanwhile, Polton worked steadily at the photographs of the
signatures, and, with a view to gaining experience, I assisted him and
watched his methods.

In the present case, the signatures were enlarged from their original
dimensions--rather less than an inch and a half in length--to a length
of four and a half inches; which rendered all the little peculiarities
of the handwriting surprisingly distinct and conspicuous. Each signature
was eventually mounted on a slip of card bearing a number and the date
of the cheque from which it was taken, so that it was possible to place
any two signatures together for comparison. I looked over the whole
series and very carefully compared those which showed any differences,
but without discovering anything more than might have been expected in
view of Mr. Britton's statement. There were some trifling variations,
but they were all very much alike, and no one could doubt, on looking at
them, that they were all written by the same hand.

As this, however, was apparently not in dispute, it furnished no new
information. Thorndyke's object--for I felt certain that he had
something definite in his mind--must be to test something apart from the
genuineness of the signatures. But what could that something be? I dared
not ask him, for questions of that kind were anathema, so there was
nothing for it but to lie low and see what he would do with the
photographs.

The whole series was finished on the fourth morning after my adventure
at Sloane Square, and the pack of cards was duly delivered by Polton
when he brought in the breakfast tray. Thorndyke took up the pack
somewhat with the air of a whist player, and, as he ran through them, I
noticed that the number had increased from twenty-three to twenty-four.

"The additional one," Thorndyke explained, "is the signature to the
first will, which was in Marchmont's possession. I have added it to the
collection as it carries us back to an earlier date. The signature of
the second will presumably resembles those of the cheques drawn about
the same date. But that is not material, or, if it should become so, we
could claim to examine the second will."

He laid the cards out on the table in the order of their dates and
slowly ran his eye down the series. I watched him closely and ventured
presently to ask:

"Do you agree with Mr. Britton as to the general identity of character
in the whole set of signatures?"

"Yes," he replied. "I should certainly have put them down as being all
the signatures of one person. The variations are very slight. The later
signatures are a little stiffer, a little more shaky and indistinct, and
the B's and k's are both appreciably different from those in the earlier
ones. But there is another fact which emerges when the whole series is
seen together, and it is so striking and significant a fact, that I am
astonished at its not having been remarked on by Mr. Britton."

"Indeed!" said I, stooping to examine the photographs with fresh
interest; "what is that?"

"It is a very simple fact and very obvious, but yet, as I have said,
very significant. Look carefully at number one, which is the signature
of the first will, dated three years ago, and compare it with number
three, dated the eighteenth of September last year."

"They look to me identical," said I, after a careful comparison.

"So they do to me," said Thorndyke. "Neither of them shows the change
that occurred later. But if you look at number two, dated the sixteenth
of September, you will see that it is in the later style. So is number
four, dated the twenty-third of September; but numbers five and six,
both at the beginning of October, are in the earlier style, like the
signature of the will. Thereafter all the signatures are in the new
style; but, if you compare number two, dated the sixteenth of September
with number twenty-four, dated the fourteenth of March of this year--the
day of Jeffrey's death--you see that they exhibit no difference. Both
are in the 'later style,' but the last shows no greater change than the
first. Don't you consider these facts very striking and significant?"

I reflected a few moments, trying to make out the deep significance to
which Thorndyke was directing my attention--and not succeeding very
triumphantly.

"You mean," I said, "that the occasional reversions to the earlier form
convey some material suggestion?"

"Yes; but more than that. What we learn from an inspection of this
series is this: that there was a change in the character of the
signature; a very slight change, but quite recognizable. Now that change
was not gradual or insidious nor was it progressive. It occurred at a
certain definite time. At first there were one or two reversions to the
earlier form, but after number six the new style continued to the end;
and you notice that it continued without any increase in the change and
without any variation. There are no intermediate forms. Some of the
signatures are in the 'old style' and some in the 'new,' but there are
none that are half and half. So that, to repeat: We have here two types
of signature, very much alike, but distinguishable. They alternate, but
do not merge into one another to produce intermediate forms. The change
occurs abruptly, but shows no tendency to increase as time goes on; it
is not a progressive change. What do you make of that, Jervis?"

"It is very remarkable," I said, poring over the cards to verify
Thorndyke's statements. "I don't quite know what to make of it. If the
circumstances admitted of the idea of forgery, one would suspect the
genuineness of some of the signatures. But they don't--at any rate, in
the case of the later will, to say nothing of Mr. Britton's opinion on
the signatures."

"Still," said Thorndyke, "there must be some explanation of the change
in the character of the signatures, and that explanation cannot be the
failing eyesight of the writer; for that is a gradually progressive and
continuous condition, whereas the change in the writing is abrupt and
intermittent."

I considered Thorndyke's remark for a few moments; and then a
light--though not a very brilliant one--seemed to break on me.

"I think I see what you are driving at," said I. "You mean that the
change in the writing must be associated with some new condition
affecting the writer, and that that condition existed intermittently?"

Thorndyke nodded approvingly, and I continued:

"The only intermittent condition that we know of is the effect of opium.
So that we might consider the clearer signatures to have been made when
Jeffrey was in his normal state, and the less distinct ones after a bout
of opium-smoking."

"That is perfectly sound reasoning," said Thorndyke. "What further
conclusion does it lead to?"

"It suggests that the opium habit had been only recently acquired, since
the change was noticed only about the time he went to live at New Inn;
and, since the change in the writing is at first intermittent and then
continuous, we may infer that the opium-smoking was at first occasional
and later became a a confirmed habit."

"Quite a reasonable conclusion and very clearly stated," said Thorndyke.
"I don't say that I entirely agree with you, or that you have exhausted
the information that these signatures offer. But you have started in the
right direction."

"I may be on the right road," I said gloomily; "but I am stuck fast in
one place and I see no chance of getting any farther."

"But you have a quantity of data," said Thorndyke. "You have all the
facts that I had to start with, from which I constructed the hypothesis
that I am now busily engaged in verifying. I have a few more data now,
for 'as money makes money' so knowledge begets knowledge, and I put my
original capital out to interest. Shall we tabulate the facts that are
in our joint possession and see what they suggest?"

I grasped eagerly at the offer, though I had conned over my notes again
and again.

Thorndyke produced a slip of paper from a drawer, and, uncapping his
fountain-pen, proceeded to write down the leading facts, reading each
aloud as soon as it was written.

"1. The second will was unnecessary since it contained no new matter,
expressed no new intentions and met no new conditions, and the first
will was quite clear and efficient.

"2. The evident intention of the testator was to leave the bulk of his
property to Stephen Blackmore.

"3. The second will did not, under existing circumstances, give effect
to this intention, whereas the first will did.

"4. The signature of the second will differs slightly from that of the
first, and also from what had hitherto been the testator's ordinary
signature.

"And now we come to a very curious group of dates, which I will advise
you to consider with great attention.

"5. Mrs. Wilson made her will at the beginning of September last year,
without acquainting Jeffrey Blackmore, who seems to have been unaware of
the existence of this will.

"6. His own second will was dated the twelfth of November of last year.

"7. Mrs. Wilson died of cancer on the twelfth of March this present
year.

"8. Jeffrey Blackmore was last seen alive on the fourteenth of March.

"9. His body was discovered on the fifteenth of March.

"10. The change in the character of his signature began about September
last year and became permanent after the middle of October.

"You will find that collection of facts repay careful study, Jervis,
especially when considered in relation to the further data:

"11. That we found in Blackmore's chambers a framed inscription of large
size, hung upside down, together with what appeared to be the remains of
a watch-glass and a box of stearine candles and some other objects."

He passed the paper to me and I pored over it intently, focusing my
attention on the various items with all the power of my will. But,
struggle as I would, no general conclusion could be made to emerge from
the mass of apparently disconnected facts.

"Well?" Thorndyke said presently, after watching with grave interest my
unavailing efforts; "what do you make of it?"

"Nothing!" I exclaimed desperately, slapping the paper down on the
table. "Of course, I can see that there are some queer coincidences. But
how do they bear on the case? I understand that you want to upset this
will; which we know to have been signed without compulsion or even
suggestion in the presence of two respectable men, who have sworn to the
identity of the document. That is your object, I believe?"

"Certainly it is."

"Then I am hanged if I see how you are going to do it. Not, I should
say, by offering a group of vague coincidences that would muddle any
brain but your own."

Thorndyke chuckled softly but pursued the subject no farther.

"Put that paper in your file with your other notes," he said, "and think
it over at your leisure. And now I want a little help from you. Have you
a good memory for faces?"

"Fairly good, I think. Why?"

"Because I have a photograph of a man whom I think you may have met.
Just look at it and tell me if you remember the face."

He drew a cabinet size photograph from an envelope that had come by the
morning's post and handed it to me.

"I have certainly seen this face somewhere," said I, taking the portrait
over to the window to examine it more thoroughly, "but I can't, at the
moment, remember where."

"Try," said Thorndyke. "If you have seen the face before, you should be
able to recall the person."

I looked intently at the photograph, and the more I looked, the more
familiar did the face appear. Suddenly the identity of the man flashed
into my mind and I exclaimed in astonishment:

"It can't be that poor creature at Kennington, Mr. Graves?"

"I think it can," replied Thorndyke, "and I think it is. But could you
swear to the identity in a court of law?"

"It is my firm conviction that the photograph is that of Mr. Graves. I
would swear to that."

"No man ought to swear to more," said Thorndyke. "Identification is
always a matter of opinion or belief. The man who will swear
unconditionally to identity from memory only is a man whose evidence
should be discredited. I think your sworn testimony would be
sufficient."

It is needless to say that the production of this photograph filled me
with amazement and curiosity as to how Thorndyke had obtained it. But,
as he replaced it impassively in its envelope without volunteering any
explanation, I felt that I could not question him directly.
Nevertheless, I ventured to approach the subject in an indirect manner.

"Did you get any information from those Darmstadt people?" I asked.

"Schnitzler? Yes. I learned, through the medium of an official
acquaintance, that Dr. H. Weiss was a stranger to them; that they knew
nothing about him excepting that he had ordered from them, and been
supplied with, a hundred grammes of pure hydrochlorate of morphine."

"All at once?"

"No. In separate parcels of twenty-five grammes each."

"Is that all you know about Weiss?"

"It is all that I actually know; but it is not all that I suspect--on
very substantial grounds. By the way, what did you think of the
coachman?"

"I don't know that I thought very much about him. Why?"

"You never suspected that he and Weiss were one and the same person?"

"No. How could they be? They weren't in the least alike. And one was a
Scotchman and the other a German. But perhaps you know that they were
the same?"

"I only know what you have told me. But considering that you never saw
them together, that the coachman was never available for messages or
assistance when Weiss was with you; that Weiss always made his
appearance some time after you arrived, and disappeared some time before
you left; it has seemed to me that they might have been the same
person."

"I should say it was impossible. They were so very different in
appearance. But supposing that they were the same; would the fact be of
any importance?"

"It would mean that we could save ourselves the trouble of looking for
the coachman. And it would suggest some inferences, which will occur to
you if you think the matter over. But being only a speculative opinion,
at present, it would not be safe to infer very much from it."

"You have rather taken me by surprise," I remarked. "It seems that you
have been working at this Kennington case, and working pretty actively I
imagine, whereas I supposed that your entire attention was taken up by
the Blackmore affair."

"It doesn't do," he replied, "to allow one's entire attention to be
taken up by any one case. I have half a dozen others--minor cases,
mostly--to which I am attending at this moment. Did you think I was
proposing to keep you under lock and key indefinitely?"

"Well, no. But I thought the Kennington case would have to wait its
turn. And I had no idea that you were in possession of enough facts to
enable you to get any farther with it."

"But you knew all the very striking facts of the case, and you saw the
further evidence that we extracted from the empty house."

"Do you mean those things that we picked out from the rubbish under the
grate?"

"Yes. You saw those curious little pieces of reed and the pair of
spectacles. They are lying in the top drawer of that cabinet at this
moment, and I should recommend you to have another look at them. To me
they are most instructive. The pieces of reed offered an extremely
valuable suggestion, and the spectacles enabled me to test that
suggestion and turn it into actual information."

"Unfortunately," said I, "the pieces of reed convey nothing to me. I
don't know what they are or of what they have formed a part."

"I think," he replied, "that if you examine them with due consideration,
you will find their use pretty obvious. Have a good look at them and the
spectacles too. Think over all that you know of that mysterious group of
people who lived in that house, and see if you cannot form some coherent
theory of their actions. Think, also, if we have not some information in
our possession by which we might be able to identify some of them, and
infer the identity of the others. You will have a quiet day, as I shall
not be home until the evening; set yourself this task. I assure you that
you have the material for identifying--or rather for testing the
identity of--at least one of those persons. Go over your material
systematically, and let me know in the evening what further
investigations you would propose."

"Very well," said I. "It shall be done according to your word. I will
addle my brain afresh with the affair of Mr. Weiss and his patient, and
let the Blackmore case rip."

"There is no need to do that. You have a whole day before you. An hour's
really close consideration of the Kennington case ought to show you what
your next move should be, and then you could devote yourself to the
consideration of Jeffrey Blackmore's will."

With this final piece of advice, Thorndyke collected the papers for his
day's work, and, having deposited them in his brief bag, took his
departure, leaving me to my meditations.




Chapter XIII

The Statement of Samuel Wilkins


As soon as I was alone, I commenced my investigations with a rather
desperate hope of eliciting some startling and unsuspected facts. I
opened the drawer and taking from it the two pieces of reed and the
shattered remains of the spectacles, laid them on the table. The repairs
that Thorndyke had contemplated in the case of the spectacles, had not
been made. Apparently they had not been necessary. The battered wreck
that lay before me, just as we had found it, had evidently furnished the
necessary information; for, since Thorndyke was in possession of a
portrait of Mr. Graves, it was clear that he had succeeded in
identifying him so far as to get into communication with some one who
had known him intimately.

The circumstance should have been encouraging. But somehow it was not.
What was possible to Thorndyke was, theoretically, possible to me--or to
anyone else. But the possibility did not realize itself in practice.
There was the personal equation. Thorndyke's brain was not an ordinary
brain. Facts of which his mind instantly perceived the relation remained
to other people unconnected and without meaning. His powers of
observation and rapid inference were almost incredible, as I had noticed
again and again, and always with undiminished wonder. He seemed to take
in everything at a single glance and in an instant to appreciate the
meaning of everything that he had seen.

Here was a case in point. I had myself seen all that he had seen, and,
indeed, much more; for I had looked on the very people and witnessed
their actions, whereas he had never set eyes on any of them. I had
examined the little handful of rubbish that he had gathered up so
carefully, and would have flung it back under the grate without a qualm.
Not a glimmer of light had I perceived in the cloud of mystery, nor even
a hint of the direction in which to seek enlightenment. And yet
Thorndyke had, in some incomprehensible manner, contrived to piece
together facts that I had probably not even observed, and that so
completely that he had already, in these few days, narrowed down the
field of inquiry to quite a small area.

From these reflections I returned to the objects on the table. The
spectacles, as things of which I had some expert knowledge, were not so
profound a mystery to me. A pair of spectacles might easily afford good
evidence for identification; that I perceived clearly enough. Not a
ready-made pair, picked up casually at a shop, but a pair constructed by
a skilled optician to remedy a particular defect of vision and to fit a
particular face. And such were the spectacles before me. The build of
the frames was peculiar; the existence of a cylindrical lens--which I
could easily make out from the remaining fragments--showed that one
glass had been cut to a prescribed shape and almost certainly ground to
a particular formula, and also that the distance between centres must
have been carefully secured. Hence these spectacles had an individual
character. But it was manifestly impossible to inquire of all the
spectacle-makers in Europe--for the glasses were not necessarily made in
England. As confirmation the spectacles might be valuable; as a
starting-point they were of no use at all.

From the spectacles I turned to the pieces of reed. These were what had
given Thorndyke his start. Would they give me a leading hint too? I
looked at them and wondered what it was that they had told Thorndyke.
The little fragment of the red paper label had a dark-brown or thin
black border ornamented with a fret-pattern, and on it I detected a
couple of tiny points of gold like the dust from leaf-gilding. But I
learned nothing from that. Then the shorter piece of reed was
artificially hollowed to fit on the longer piece. Apparently it formed a
protective sheath or cap. But what did it protect? Presumably a point or
edge of some kind. Could this be a pocket-knife of any sort, such as a
small stencil-knife? No; the material was too fragile for a
knife-handle. It could not be an etching-needle for the same reason; and
it was not a surgical appliance--at least it was not like any surgical
instrument that was known to me.

I turned it over and over and cudgelled my brains; and then I had a
brilliant idea. Was it a reed pen of which the point had been broken
off? I knew that reed pens were still in use by draughtsmen of
decorative leanings with an affection for the "fat line." Could any of
our friends be draughtsmen? This seemed the most probable solution of
the difficulty, and the more I thought about it the more likely it
seemed. Draughtsmen usually sign their work intelligibly, and even when
they use a device instead of a signature their identity is easily
traceable. Could it be that Mr. Graves, for instance, was an
illustrator, and that Thorndyke had established his identity by looking
through the works of all the well-known thick-line draughtsmen?

This problem occupied me for the rest of the day. My explanation did not
seem quite to fit Thorndyke's description of his methods; but I could
think of no other. I turned it over during my solitary lunch; I
meditated on it with the aid of several pipes in the afternoon; and
having refreshed my brain with a cup of tea, I went forth to walk in the
Temple gardens--which I was permitted to do without breaking my
parole--to think it out afresh.

The result was disappointing. I was basing my reasoning on the
assumption that the pieces of reed were parts of a particular appliance,
appertaining to a particular craft; whereas they might be the remains of
something quite different, appertaining to a totally different craft or
to no craft at all. And in no case did they point to any known
individual or indicate any but the vaguest kind of search. After pacing
the pleasant walks for upwards of two hours, I at length turned back
towards our chambers, where I arrived as the lamp-lighter was just
finishing his round.

My fruitless speculations had left me somewhat irritable. The lighted
windows that I had noticed as I approached had given me the impression
that Thorndyke had returned. I had intended to press him for a little
further information. When, therefore, I let myself into our chambers and
found, instead of my colleague, a total stranger--and only a back view
at that--I was disappointed and annoyed.

The stranger was seated by the table, reading a large document that
looked like a lease. He made no movement when I entered, but when I
crossed the room and wished him "Good evening," he half rose and bowed
silently. It was then that I first saw his face, and a mighty start he
gave me. For one moment I actually thought he was Mr. Weiss, so close
was the resemblance, but immediately I perceived that he was a much
smaller man.

I sat down nearly opposite and stole an occasional furtive glance at
him. The resemblance to Weiss was really remarkable. The same flaxen
hair, the same ragged beard and a similar red nose, with the patches of
<i>acne rosacea</i> spreading to the adjacent cheeks. He wore spectacles,
too, through which he took a quick glance at me now and again, returning
immediately to his document.

After some moments of rather embarrassing silence, I ventured to remark
that it was a mild evening; to which he assented with a sort of Scotch
"Hm--hm" and nodded slowly. Then came another interval of silence,
during which I speculated on the possibility of his being a relative of
Mr. Weiss and wondered what the deuce he was doing in our chambers.

"Have you an appointment with Dr. Thorndyke?" I asked, at length.

He bowed solemnly, and by way of reply--in the affirmative, as I
assumed--emitted another "hm--hm."

I looked at him sharply, a little nettled by his lack of manners;
whereupon he opened out the lease so that it screened his face, and as I
glanced at the back of the document, I was astonished to observe that it
was shaking rapidly.

The fellow was actually laughing! What he found in my simple question to
cause him so much amusement I was totally unable to imagine. But there
it was. The tremulous movements of the document left me in no possible
doubt that he was for some reason convulsed with laughter.

It was extremely mysterious. Also, it was rather embarrassing. I took
out my pocket file and began to look over my notes. Then the document
was lowered and I was able to get another look at the stranger's face.
He was really extraordinarily like Weiss. The shaggy eyebrows, throwing
the eye-sockets into shadow, gave him, in conjunction with the
spectacles, the same owlish, solemn expression that I had noticed in my
Kennington acquaintance; and which, by the way, was singularly out of
character with the frivolous behaviour that I had just witnessed.

From time to time as I looked at him, he caught my eye and instantly
averted his own, turning rather red. Apparently he was a shy, nervous
man, which might account for his giggling; for I have noticed that shy
or nervous people have a habit of smiling inopportunely and even
giggling when embarrassed by meeting an over-steady eye. And it seemed
my own eye had this disconcerting quality, for even as I looked at him,
the document suddenly went up again and began to shake violently.

I stood it for a minute or two, but, finding the situation intolerably
embarrassing, I rose, and brusquely excusing myself, went up to the
laboratory to look for Polton and inquire at what time Thorndyke was
expected home. To my surprise, however, on entering, I discovered
Thorndyke himself just finishing the mounting of a microscopical
specimen.

"Did you know that there is some one below waiting to see you?" I asked.

"Is it anyone you know?" he inquired.

"No," I answered. "It is a red-nosed, sniggering fool in spectacles. He
has got a lease or a deed or some other sort of document which he has
been using to play a sort of idiotic game of Peep-Bo! I couldn't stand
him, so I came up here."

Thorndyke laughed heartily at my description of his client.

"What are you laughing at?" I asked sourly; at which he laughed yet more
heartily and added to the aggravation by wiping his eyes.

"Our friend seems to have put you out," he remarked.

"He put me out literally. If I had stayed much longer I should have
punched his head."

"In that case," said Thorndyke, "I am glad you didn't stay. But come
down and let me introduce you."

"No, thank you. I've had enough of him for the present."

"But I have a very special reason for wishing to introduce you. I think
you will get some information from him that will interest you very much;
and you needn't quarrel with a man for being of a cheerful disposition."

"Cheerful be hanged!" I exclaimed. "I don't call a man cheerful because
he behaves like a gibbering idiot."

To this Thorndyke made no reply but a broad and appreciative smile, and
we descended to the lower floor. As we entered the room, the stranger
rose, and, glancing in an embarrassed way from one of us to the other,
suddenly broke out into an undeniable snigger. I looked at him sternly,
and Thorndyke, quite unmoved by his indecorous behaviour, said in a
grave voice:

"Let me introduce you, Jervis; though I think you have met this
gentleman before."

"I think not," I said stiffly.

"Oh yes, you have, sir," interposed the stranger; and, as he spoke, I
started; for the voice was uncommonly like the familiar voice of Polton.

I looked at the speaker with sudden suspicion. And now I could see that
the flaxen hair was a wig; that the beard had a decidedly artificial
look, and that the eyes that beamed through the spectacles were
remarkably like the eyes of our factotum. But the blotchy face, the
bulbous nose and the shaggy, overhanging eyebrows were alien features
that I could not reconcile with the personality of our refined and
aristocratic-looking little assistant.

"Is this a practical joke?" I asked.

"No," replied Thorndyke; "it is a demonstration. When we were talking
this morning it appeared to me that you did not realize the extent to
which it is possible to conceal identity under suitable conditions of
light. So I arranged, with Polton's rather reluctant assistance, to give
you ocular evidence. The conditions are not favourable--which makes the
demonstration more convincing. This is a very well-lighted room and
Polton is a very poor actor; in spite of which it has been possible for
you to sit opposite him for several minutes and look at him, I have no
doubt, very attentively, without discovering his identity. If the room
had been lighted only with a candle, and Polton had been equal to the
task of supporting his make-up with an appropriate voice and manner, the
deception would have been perfect."

"I can see that he has a wig on, quite plainly," said I.

"Yes; but you would not in a dimly lighted room. On the other hand, if
Polton were to walk down Fleet Street at mid-day in this condition, the
make-up would be conspicuously evident to any moderately observant
passer-by. The secret of making up consists in a careful adjustment to
the conditions of light and distance in which the make-up is to be seen.
That in use on the stage would look ridiculous in an ordinary room; that
which would serve in an artificially lighted room would look ridiculous
out of doors by daylight."

"Is any effective make-up possible out of doors in ordinary daylight?" I
asked.

"Oh, yes," replied Thorndyke. "But it must be on a totally different
scale from that of the stage. A wig, and especially a beard or
moustache, must be joined up at the edges with hair actually stuck on
the skin with transparent cement and carefully trimmed with scissors.
The same applies to eyebrows; and alterations in the colour of the skin
must be carried out much more subtly. Polton's nose has been built up
with a small covering of toupée-paste, the pimples on the cheeks
produced with little particles of the same material; and the general
tinting has been done with grease-paint with a very light scumble of
powder colour to take off some of the shine. This would be possible in
outdoor make-up, but it would have to be done with the greatest care and
delicacy; in fact, with what the art-critics call 'reticence.' A very
little make-up is sufficient and too much is fatal. You would be
surprised to see how little paste is required to alter the shape of the
nose and the entire character of the face."

At this moment there came a loud knock at the door; a single, solid dab
of the knocker which Polton seemed to recognize, for he ejaculated:

"Good lord, sir! That'll be Wilkins, the cabman! I'd forgotten all
about him. Whatever's to be done?"

He stared at us in ludicrous horror for a moment or two, and then,
snatching off his wig, beard and spectacles, poked them into a cupboard.
But his appearance was now too much even for Thorndyke--who hastily got
behind him--for he had now resumed his ordinary personality--but with a
very material difference.

"Oh, it's nothing to laugh at, sir," he exclaimed indignantly as I
crammed my handkerchief into my mouth. "Somebody's got to let him in, or
he'll go away."

"Yes; and that won't do," said Thorndyke. "But don't worry, Polton. You
can step into the office. I'll open the door."

Polton's presence of mind, however, seemed to have entirely forsaken
him, for he only hovered irresolutely in the wake of his principal. As
the door opened, a thick and husky voice inquired:

"Gent of the name of Polton live here?"

"Yes, quite right," said Thorndyke. "Come in. Your name is Wilkins, I
think?"

"That's me, sir," said the voice; and in response to Thorndyke's
invitation, a typical "growler" cabman of the old school, complete even
to imbricated cape and dangling badge, stalked into the room, and
glancing round with a mixture of embarrassment and defiance, suddenly
fixed on Polton's nose a look of devouring curiosity.

"Here you are, then," Polton remarked nervously.

"Yus," replied the cabman in a slightly hostile tone. "Here I am. What
am I wanted to do? And where's this here Mr. Polton?"

"I am Mr. Polton," replied our abashed assistant.

"Well, it's the other Mr. Polton what I want," said the cabman, with his
eyes still riveted on the olfactory prominence.

"There isn't any other Mr. Polton," our subordinate replied irritably.
"I am the--er--person who spoke to you in the shelter."

"Are you though?" said the manifestly incredulous cabby. "I shouldn't
have thought it; but you ought to know. What do you want me to do?"

"We want you," said Thorndyke, "to answer one or two questions. And the
first one is, Are you a teetotaller?"

The question being illustrated by the production of a decanter, the
cabman's dignity relaxed somewhat.

"I ain't bigoted," said he.

"Then sit down and mix yourself a glass of grog. Soda or plain water?"

"May as well have all the extries," replied the cabman, sitting down and
grasping the decanter with the air of a man who means business. "Per'aps
you wouldn't mind squirtin' out the soda, sir, bein' more used to it."

While these preliminaries were being arranged, Polton silently slipped
out of the room, and when our visitor had fortified himself with a gulp
of the uncommonly stiff mixture, the examination began.

"Your name, I think, is Wilkins?" said Thorndyke.

"That's me, sir. Samuel Wilkins is my name."

"And your occupation?"

"Is a very tryin' one and not paid for as it deserves. I drives a cab,
sir; a four-wheeled cab is what I drives; and a very poor job it is."

"Do you happen to remember a very foggy day about a month ago?"

"Do I not, sir! A regler sneezer that was! Wednesday, the fourteenth of
March. I remember the date because my benefit society came down on me
for arrears that morning."

"Will you tell us what happened to you between six and seven in the
evening of that day?"

"I will, sir," replied the cabman, emptying his tumbler by way of
bracing himself up for the effort. "A little before six I was waiting on
the arrival side of the Great Northern Station, King's Cross, when I see
a gentleman and a lady coming out. The gentleman he looks up and down
and then he sees me and walks up to the cab and opens the door and helps
the lady in. Then he says to me: 'Do you know New Inn?' he says. That's
what he says to me what was born and brought up in White Horse Alley,
Drury Lane.

"'Get inside,' says I.

"'Well,' says he, 'you drive in through the gate in Wych Street,' he
says, as if he expected me to go in by Houghton Street and down the
steps, 'and then,' he says, 'you drive nearly to the end and you'll see
a house with a large brass plate at the corner of the doorway. That's
where we want to be set down,' he says, and with that he nips in and
pulls up the windows and off we goes.

"It took us a full half-hour to get to New Inn through the fog, for I
had to get down and lead the horse part of the way. As I drove in under
the archway, I saw it was half-past six by the clock in the porter's
lodge. I drove down nearly to the end of the inn and drew up opposite a
house where there was a big brass plate by the doorway. It was number
thirty-one. Then the gent crawls out and hands me five bob--two
'arf-crowns--and then he helps the lady out, and away they waddles to
the doorway and I see them start up the stairs very slow--regler
Pilgrim's Progress. And that was the last I see of 'em."

Thorndyke wrote down the cabman's statement verbatim together with his
own questions, and then asked:

"Can you give us any description of the gentleman?"

"The gent," said Wilkins, was a very respectable-looking gent, though he
did look as if he'd had a drop of something short, and small blame to
him on a day like that. But he was all there, and he knew what was the
proper fare for a foggy evening, which is more than some of 'em do. He
was a elderly gent, about sixty, and he wore spectacles, but he didn't
seem to be able to see much through 'em. He was a funny 'un to look at;
as round in the back as a turtle and he walked with his head stuck
forward like a goose."

"What made you think he had been drinking?"

"Well, he wasn't as steady as he might have been on his pins. But he
wasn't drunk, you know. Only a bit wobbly on the plates."

"And the lady; what was she like?"

"I couldn't see much of her because her head was wrapped up in a sort of
woollen veil. But I should say she wasn't a chicken. Might have been
about the same age as the gent, but I couldn't swear to that. She seemed
a trifle rickety on the pins too; in fact they were a rum-looking
couple. I watched 'em tottering across the pavement and up the stairs,
hanging on to each other, him peering through his blinkers and she
trying to see through her veil, and I thought it was a jolly good job
they'd got a nice sound cab and a steady driver to bring 'em safe home."

"How was the lady dressed?"

"Can't rightly say, not being a hexpert. Her head was done up in this
here veil like a pudden in a cloth and she had a small hat on. She had a
dark brown mantle with a fringe of beads round it and a black dress; and
I noticed when she got into the cab at the station that one of her
stockings looked like the bellows of a concertina. That's all I can tell
you."

Thorndyke wrote down the last answer, and, having read the entire
statement aloud, handed the pen to our visitor.

"If that is all correct," he said, "I will ask you to sign your name at
the bottom."

"Do you want me to swear a affidavy that it's all true?" asked Wilkins.

"No, thank you," replied Thorndyke. "We may have to call you to give
evidence in court, and then you'll be sworn; and you'll also be paid for
your attendance. For the present I want you to keep your own counsel and
say nothing to anybody about having been here. We have to make some
other inquiries and we don't want the affair talked about."

"I see, sir," said Wilkins, as he laboriously traced his signature at
the foot of the statement; "you don't want the other parties for to ogle
your lay. All right, sir; you can depend on me. I'm fly, I am."

"Thank you, Wilkins," said Thorndyke. "And now what are we to give you
for your trouble in coming here?"

"I'll leave the fare to you, sir. You know what the information's worth;
but I should think 'arf a thick-un wouldn't hurt you."

Thorndyke laid on the table a couple of sovereigns, at the sight of
which the cabman's eyes glistened.

"We have your address, Wilkins," said he. "If we want you as a witness
we shall let you know, and if not, there will be another two pounds for
you at the end of a fortnight, provided you have not let this little
interview leak out."

Wilkins gathered up the spoils gleefully. "You can trust me, sir," said
he, "for to keep my mouth shut. I knows which side my bread's buttered.
Good night, gentlemen all."

With this comprehensive salute he moved towards the door and let
himself out.

"Well, Jervis; what do you think of it?" Thorndyke asked, as the
cabman's footsteps faded away in a creaky diminuendo.

"I don't know what to think. This woman is a new factor in the case and
I don't know how to place her."

"Not entirely new," said Thorndyke. "You have not forgotten those beads
that we found in Jeffrey's bedroom, have you?"

"No, I had not forgotten them, but I did not see that they told us much
excepting that some woman had apparently been in his bedroom at some
time."

"That, I think, is all that they did tell us. But now they tell us that
a particular woman was in his bedroom at a particular time, which is a
good deal more significant."

"Yes. It almost looks as if she must have been there when he made away
with himself."

"It does, very much."

"By the way, you were right about the colours of those beads, and also
about the way they were used."

"As to their use, that was a mere guess; but it has turned out to be
correct. It was well that we found the beads, for, small as is the
amount of information they give, it is still enough to carry us a stage
further."

"How so?"

"I mean that the cabman's evidence tells us only that this woman entered
the house. The beads tell us that she was in the bedroom; which, as you
say, seems to connect her to some extent with Jeffrey's death. Not
necessarily, of course. It is only a suggestion; but a rather strong
suggestion under the peculiar circumstances."

"Even so," said I, "this new fact seems to me so far from clearing up
the mystery, only to add to it a fresh element of still deeper mystery.
The porter's evidence at the inquest could leave no doubt that Jeffrey
contemplated suicide, and his preparations pointedly suggest this
particular night as the time selected by him for doing away with
himself. Is not that so?"

"Certainly. The porter's evidence was very clear on that point."

"Then I don't see where this woman comes in. It is obvious that her
presence at the inn, and especially in the bedroom, on this occasion and
in these strange, secret circumstances, has a rather sinister look; but
yet I do not see in what way she could have been connected with the
tragedy. Perhaps, after all, she has nothing to do with it. You remember
that Jeffrey went to the lodge about eight o'clock, to pay his rent, and
chatted for some time with the porter. That looks as if the lady had
already left."

"Yes," said Thorndyke. "But, on the other hand, Jeffrey's remarks to the
porter with reference to the cab do not quite agree with the account
that we have just heard from Wilkins. Which suggests--as does Wilkins's
account generally--some secrecy as to the lady's visit to his chambers."

"Do you know who the woman was?" I asked.

"No, I don't know," he replied. "I have a rather strong suspicion that I
can identify her, but I am waiting for some further facts."

"Is your suspicion founded on some new matter that you have discovered,
or is it deducible from facts that are known to me?"

"I think," he replied, "that you know practically all that I know,
although I have, in one instance, turned a very strong suspicion into a
certainty by further inquiries. But I think you ought to be able to form
some idea as to who this lady probably was."

"But no woman has been mentioned in the case at all."

"No; but I think you should be able to give this lady a name,
notwithstanding."

"Should I? Then I begin to suspect that I am not cut out for
medico-legal practice, for I don't see the faintest glimmer of a
suggestion."

Thorndyke smiled benevolently. "Don't be discouraged, Jervis," said he.
"I expect that when you first began to go round the wards, you doubted
whether you were cut out for medical practice. I did. For special work
one needs special knowledge and an acquired faculty for making use of
it. What does a second year's student make of a small thoracic aneurysm?
He knows the anatomy of the chest; he begins to know the normal heart
sounds and areas of dullness; but he cannot yet fit his various items of
knowledge together. Then comes the experienced physician and perhaps
makes a complete diagnosis without any examination at all, merely from
hearing the patient speak or cough. He has the same facts as the
student, but he has acquired the faculty of instantly connecting an
abnormality of function with its correleated anatomical change. It is a
matter of experience. And, with your previous training, you will soon
acquire the faculty. Try to observe everything. Let nothing escape you.
And try constantly to find some connection between facts and events that
seem to be unconnected. That is my advice to you; and with that we will
put away the Blackmore case for the present and consider our day's work
at an end."




Chapter XIV

Thorndyke Lays the Mine


The information supplied by Mr. Samuel Wilkins, so far from dispelling
the cloud of mystery that hung over the Blackmore case, only enveloped
it in deeper obscurity, so far as I was concerned. The new problem that
Thorndyke offered for solution was a tougher one than any of the others.
He proposed that I should identify and give a name to this mysterious
woman. But how could I? No woman, excepting Mrs. Wilson, had been
mentioned in connection with the case. This new <i>dramatis persona</i> had
appeared suddenly from nowhere and straightway vanished without leaving
a trace, excepting the two or three beads that we had picked up in
Jeffrey's room.

Nor was it in the least clear what part, if any, she had played in the
tragedy. The facts still pointed as plainly to suicide as before her
appearance. Jeffrey's repeated hints as to his intentions, and the very
significant preparations that he had made, were enough to negative any
idea of foul play. And yet the woman's presence in the chambers at that
time, the secret manner of her arrival and her precautions against
recognition, strongly suggested some kind of complicity in the dreadful
event that followed.

But what complicity is possible in the case of suicide? The woman might
have furnished him with the syringe and the poison, but it would not
have been necessary for her to go to his chambers for that purpose.
Vague ideas of persuasion and hypnotic suggestion floated through my
brain; but the explanations did not fit the case and the hypnotic
suggestion of crime is not very convincing to the medical mind. Then I
thought of blackmail in connection with some disgraceful secret; but
though this was a more hopeful suggestion, it was not very probable,
considering Jeffrey's age and character.

And all these speculations failed to throw the faintest light on the
main question: "Who was this woman?"

A couple of days passed, during which Thorndyke made no further
reference to the case. He was, most of the time, away from home, though
how he was engaged I had no idea. What was rather more unusual was that
Polton seemed to have deserted the laboratory and taken to outdoor
pursuits. I assumed that he had seized the opportunity of leaving me in
charge, and I dimly surmised that he was acting as Thorndyke's private
inquiry agent, as he seemed to have done in the case of Samuel Wilkins.

On the evening of the second day Thorndyke came home in obviously good
spirits, and his first proceedings aroused my expectant curiosity. He
went to a cupboard and brought forth a box of Trichinopoly cheroots. Now
the Trichinopoly cheroot was Thorndyke's one dissipation, to be enjoyed
only on rare and specially festive occasions; which, in practice, meant
those occasions on which he had scored some important point or solved
some unusually tough problem. Wherefore I watched him with lively
interest.

"It's a pity that the 'Trichy' is such a poisonous beast," he remarked,
taking up one of the cheroots and sniffing at it delicately. "There is
no other cigar like it, to a really abandoned smoker." He laid the cigar
back in the box and continued: "I think I shall treat myself to one
after dinner to celebrate the occasion."

"What occasion?" I asked.

"The completion of the Blackmore case. I am just going to write to
Marchmont advising him to enter a caveat."

"Do you mean to say that you have discovered a flaw in the will, after
all?"

"A flaw!" he exclaimed. "My dear Jervis, that second will is a forgery."

I stared at him in amazement; for his assertion sounded like nothing
more or less than arrant nonsense.

"But the thing is impossible, Thorndyke," I said. "Not only did the
witnesses recognize their own signatures and the painter's greasy
finger-marks, but they had both read the will and remembered its
contents."

"Yes; that is the interesting feature in the case. It is a very pretty
problem. I shall give you a last chance to solve it. To-morrow evening
we shall have to give a full explanation, so you have another
twenty-four hours in which to think it over. And, meanwhile, I am going
to take you to my club to dine. I think we shall be pretty safe there
from Mrs. Schallibaum."

He sat down and wrote a letter, which was apparently quite a short one,
and having addressed and stamped it, prepared to go out.

"Come," said he, "let us away to 'the gay and festive scenes and halls
of dazzling light.' We will lay the mine in the Fleet Street pillar box.
I should like to be in Marchmont's office when it explodes."

"I expect, for that matter," said I, "that the explosion will be felt
pretty distinctly in these chambers."

"I expect so, too," replied Thorndyke; "and that reminds me that I shall
be out all day to-morrow, so, if Marchmont calls, you must do all that
you can to persuade him to come round after dinner and bring Stephen
Blackmore, if possible. I am anxious to have Stephen here, as he will be
able to give us some further information and confirm certain matters of
fact."

I promised to exercise my utmost powers of persuasion on Mr. Marchmont
which I should certainly have done on my own account, being now on the
very tiptoe of curiosity to hear Thorndyke's explanation of the
unthinkable conclusion at which he had arrived--and the subject dropped
completely; nor could I, during the rest of the evening, induce my
colleague to reopen it even in the most indirect or allusive manner.

Our explanations in respect of Mr. Marchmont were fully realized; for,
on the following morning, within an hour of Thorndyke's departure from
our chambers, the knocker was plied with more than usual emphasis, and,
on my opening the door, I discovered the solicitor in company with a
somewhat older gentleman. Mr. Marchmont appeared somewhat out of humour,
while his companion was obviously in a state of extreme irritation.

"How d'you do, Dr. Jervis?" said Marchmont as he entered at my
invitation. "Your friend, I suppose, is not in just now?"

"No; and he will not be returning until the evening."

"Hm; I'm sorry. We wished to see him rather particularly. This is my
partner, Mr. Winwood."

The latter gentleman bowed stiffly and Marchmont continued:

"We have had a letter from Dr. Thorndyke, and it is, I may say, a rather
curious letter; in fact, a very singular letter indeed."

"It is the letter of a madman!" growled Mr. Winwood.

"No, no, Winwood; nothing of the kind. Control yourself, I beg you. But
really, the letter is rather incomprehensible. It relates to the will of
the late Jeffrey Blackmore--you know the main facts of the case; and we
cannot reconcile it with those facts."

"This is the letter," exclaimed Mr. Winwood, dragging the document from
his wallet and slapping it down on the table. "If you are acquainted
with the case, sir, just read that, and let us hear what <i>you</i> think."

I took up the letter and read aloud:

"JEFFREY BLACKMORE, DECD.

"DEAR MR. MARCHMONT,--

"I have gone into this case with great care and have now no doubt that
the second will is a forgery. Criminal proceedings will, I think, be
inevitable, but meanwhile it would be wise to enter a caveat.

"If you could look in at my chambers to-morrow evening we could talk the
case over; and I should be glad if you could bring Mr. Stephen
Blackmore; whose personal knowledge of the events and the parties
concerned would be of great assistance in clearing up obscure details.

"I am,

"Yours sincerely,

"JOHN EVELYN THORNDYKE

"C.F. MARCHMONT, ESQ."

"Well!" exclaimed Mr. Winwood, glaring ferociously at me, "what do you
think of the learned counsel's opinion?"

"I knew that Thorndyke was writing to you to this effect," I replied,
"but I must frankly confess that I can make nothing of it. Have you
acted on his advice?"

"Certainly not!" shouted the irascible lawyer. "Do you suppose that we
wish to make ourselves the laughing-stock of the courts? The thing is
impossible--ridiculously impossible!"

"It can't be that, you know," I said, a little stiffly, for I was
somewhat nettled by Mr. Winwood's manner, "or Thorndyke would not have
written this letter. The conclusion looks as impossible to me as it does
to you; but I have complete confidence in Thorndyke. If he says that the
will is a forgery, I have no doubt that it is a forgery."

"But how the deuce can it be?" roared Winwood. "You know the
circumstances under which the will was executed."

"Yes; but so does Thorndyke. And he is not a man who overlooks important
facts. It is useless to argue with me. I am in a complete fog about the
case myself. You had better come in this evening and talk it over with
him as he suggests."

"It is very inconvenient," grumbled Mr. Winwood. "We shall have to dine
in town."

"Yes," said Marchmont, "but it is the only thing to be done. As Dr.
Jervis says, we must take it that Thorndyke has something solid to base
his opinion on. He doesn't make elementary mistakes. And, of course, if
what he says is correct, Mr. Stephen's position is totally changed."

"Bah!" exclaimed Winwood, "he has found a mare's nest, I tell you.
Still, I agree that the explanation should be worth hearing."

"You mustn't mind Winwood," said Marchmont, in an apologetic undertone;
"he's a peppery old fellow with a rough tongue, but he doesn't mean any
harm." Which statement Winwood assented to--or dissented from; for it
was impossible to say which--by a prolonged growl.

"We shall expect you then," I said, "about eight to-night, and you will
try to bring Mr. Stephen with you?"

"Yes," replied Marchmont; "I think we can promise that he shall come
with us. I have sent him a telegram asking him to attend."

With this the two lawyers took their departure, leaving me to meditate
upon my colleague's astonishing statement; which I did, considerably to
the prejudice of other employment. That Thorndyke would be able to
justify the opinion that he had given, I had no doubt whatever; but yet
there was no denying that his proposition was what Mr. Dick Swiveller
would call "a staggerer."

When Thorndyke returned, I informed him of the visit of our two friends,
and acquainted him with the sentiments that they had expressed; whereat
he smiled with quiet amusement.

"I thought," he remarked, "that letter would bring Marchmont to our door
before long. As to Winwood, I have never met him, but I gather that he
is one of those people whom you 'mustn't mind.' In a general way, I
object to people who tacitly claim exemption from the ordinary rules of
conduct that are held to be binding on their fellows. But, as he
promises to give us what the variety artists call 'an extra turn,' we
will make the best of him and give him a run for his money."

Here Thorndyke smiled mischievously--I understood the meaning of that
smile later in the evening--and asked: "What do you think of the affair
yourself?"

"I have given it up," I answered. "To my paralysed brain, the Blackmore
case is like an endless algebraical problem propounded by an insane
mathematician."

Thorndyke laughed at my comparison, which I flatter myself was a rather
apt one.

"Come and dine," said he, "and let us crack a bottle, that our hearts
may not turn to water under the frown of the disdainful Winwood. I think
the old 'Bell' in Holborn will meet our present requirements better than
the club. There is something jovial and roystering about an ancient
tavern; but we must keep a sharp lookout for Mrs. Schallibaum."

Thereupon we set forth; and, after a week's close imprisonment, I once
more looked upon the friendly London streets, the cheerfully lighted
shop windows and the multitudes of companionable strangers who moved
unceasingly along the pavements.



Chapter XV

Thorndyke Explodes the Mine


We had not been back in our chambers more than a few minutes when the
little brass knocker on the inner door rattled out its summons.
Thorndyke himself opened the door, and, finding our three expected
visitors on the threshold, he admitted them and closed the "oak."

"We have accepted your invitation, you see," said Marchmont, whose
manner was now a little flurried and uneasy. "This is my partner, Mr.
Winwood; you haven't met before, I think. Well, we thought we should
like to hear some further particulars from you, as we could not quite
understand your letter."

"My conclusion, I suppose," said Thorndyke, "was a little unexpected?"

"It was more than that, sir," exclaimed Winwood. "It was absolutely
irreconcilable either with the facts of the case or with common physical
possibilities."

"At the first glance," Thorndyke agreed, "it would probably have that
appearance."

"It has that appearance still to me." said Winwood, growing suddenly red
and wrathful, "and I may say that I speak as a solicitor who was
practising in the law when you were an infant in arms. You tell us, sir,
that this will is a forgery; this will, which was executed in broad
daylight in the presence of two unimpeachable witnesses who have sworn,
not only to their signatures and the contents of the document, but to
their very finger-marks on the paper. Are those finger-marks forgeries,
too? Have you examined and tested them?"

"I have not," replied Thorndyke. "The fact is they are of no interest to
me, as I am not disputing the witnesses' signatures."

At this, Mr. Winwood fairly danced with irritation.

"Marchmont!" he exclaimed fiercely, "you know this good gentleman, I
believe. Tell me, is he addicted to practical jokes?"

"Now, my dear Winwood," groaned Marchmont, "I pray you--I beg you to
control yourself. No doubt--"

"But confound it!" roared Winwood, "you have, yourself, heard him say
that the will is a forgery, but that he doesn't dispute the signatures;
which," concluded Winwood, banging his fist down on the table, "is
damned nonsense."

"May I suggest," interposed Stephen Blackmore, "that we came here to
receive Dr. Thorndyke's explanation of his letter. Perhaps it would be
better to postpone any comments until we have heard it."

"Undoubtedly, undoubtedly," said Marchmont. "Let me entreat you,
Winwood, to listen patiently and refrain from interruption until we have
heard our learned friend's exposition of the case."

"Oh, very well," Winwood replied sulkily; "I'll say no more."

He sank into a chair with the manner of a man who shuts himself up and
turns the key; and so remained--excepting when the internal pressure
approached bursting-point--throughout the subsequent proceedings,
silent, stony and impassive, like a seated statue of Obstinacy.

"I take it," said Marchmont, "that you have some new facts that are not
in our possession?"

"Yes," replied Thorndyke; "we have some new facts, and we have made some
new use of the old ones. But how shall I lay the case before you? Shall
I state my theory of the sequence of events and furnish the verification
afterwards? Or shall I retrace the actual course of my investigations
and give you the facts in the order in which I obtained them myself,
with the inferences from them?"

"I almost think," said Mr. Marchmont, "that it would be better if you
would put us in possession of the new facts. Then, if the conclusions
that follow from them are not sufficiently obvious, we could hear the
argument. What do you say, Winwood?"

Mr. Winwood roused himself for an instant, barked out the one word
"Facts," and shut himself up again with a snap.

"You would like to have the new facts by themselves?" said Thorndyke.

"If you please. The facts only, in the first place, at any rate."

"Very well," said Thorndyke; and here I caught his eye with a
mischievous twinkle in it that I understood perfectly; for I had most of
the facts myself and realized how much these two lawyers were likely to
extract from them. Winwood was going to "have a run for his money," as
Thorndyke had promised.

My colleague, having placed on the table by his side a small cardboard
box and the sheets of notes from his file, glanced quickly at Mr.
Winwood and began:

"The first important new facts came into my possession on the day on
which you introduced the case to me. In the evening, after you left, I
availed myself of Mr. Stephen's kind invitation to look over his uncle's
chambers in New Inn. I wished to do so in order to ascertain, if
possible, what had been the habits of the deceased during his residence
there. When I arrived with Dr. Jervis, Mr. Stephen was in the chambers,
and I learned from him that his uncle was an Oriental scholar of some
position and that he had a very thorough acquaintance with the cuneiform
writing. Now, while I was talking with Mr. Stephen I made a very curious
discovery. On the wall over the fire-place hung a large framed
photograph of an ancient Persian inscription in the cuneiform character;
and that photograph was upside down."

"Upside down!" exclaimed Stephen. "But that is really very odd."

"Very odd indeed," agreed Thorndyke, "and very suggestive. The way in
which it came to be inverted is pretty obvious and also rather
suggestive. The photograph had evidently been in the frame some years
but had apparently never been hung up before."

"It had not," said Stephen, "though I don't know how you arrived at the
fact. It used to stand on the mantelpiece in his old rooms in Jermyn
Street."

"Well," continued Thorndyke, "the frame-maker had pasted his label on
the back of the frame, and as this label hung the right way up, it
appeared as if the person who fixed the photograph on the wall had
adopted it as a guide."

"It is very extraordinary," said Stephen. "I should have thought the
person who hung it would have asked Uncle Jeffrey which was the right
way up; and I can't imagine how on earth it could have hung all those
months without his noticing it. He must have been practically blind."

Here Marchmont, who had been thinking hard, with knitted brows, suddenly
brightened up.

"I see your point," said he. "You mean that if Jeffrey was as blind as
that, it would have been possible for some person to substitute a false
will, which he might sign without noticing the substitution."

"That wouldn't make the will a forgery," growled Winwood. "If Jeffrey
signed it, it was Jeffrey's will. You could contest it if you could
prove the fraud. But he said: 'This is my will,' and the two witnesses
read it and have identified it."

"Did they read it aloud?" asked Stephen.

"No, they did not," replied Thorndyke.

"Can you prove substitution?" asked Marchmont.

"I haven't asserted it," answered Thorndyke, "My position is that the
will is a forgery."

"But it is not," said Winwood.

"We won't argue it now," said Thorndyke. "I ask you to note the fact
that the inscription was upside down. I also observed on the walls of
the chambers some valuable Japanese colour-prints on which were recent
damp-spots. I noted that the sitting-room had a gas-stove and that the
kitchen contained practically no stores or remains of food and hardly
any traces of even the simplest cooking. In the bedroom I found a large
box that had contained a considerable stock of hard stearine candles,
six to the pound, and that was now nearly empty. I examined the clothing
of the deceased. On the soles of the boots I observed dried mud, which
was unlike that on my own and Jervis's boots, from the gravelly square
of the inn. I noted a crease on each leg of the deceased man's trousers
as if they had been turned up half-way to the knee; and in the waistcoat
pocket I found the stump of a 'Contango' pencil. On the floor of the
bedroom, I found a portion of an oval glass somewhat like that of a
watch or locket, but ground at the edge to a double bevel. Dr. Jervis
and I also found one or two beads and a bugle, all of dark brown glass."

Here Thorndyke paused, and Marchmont, who had been gazing at him with
growing amazement, said nervously:

"Er--yes. Very interesting. These observations of yours--er--are--"

"Are all the observations that I made at New Inn."

The two lawyers looked at one another and Stephen Blackmore stared
fixedly at a spot on the hearth-rug. Then Mr. Winwood's face contorted
itself into a sour, lopsided smile.

"You might have observed a good many other things, sir," said he, "if
you had looked. If you had examined the doors, you would have noted that
they had hinges and were covered with paint; and, if you had looked up
the chimney you might have noted that it was black inside."

"Now, now, Winwood," protested Marchmont in an agony of uneasiness as to
what his partner might say next, "I must really beg you--er--to refrain
from--what Mr. Winwood means, Dr. Thorndyke, is that--er--we do not
quite perceive the relevancy of these--ah--observations of yours."

"Probably not," said Thorndyke, "but you will perceive their relevancy
later. For the present, I will ask you to note the facts and bear them
in mind, so that you may be able to follow the argument when we come to
that.

"The next set of data I acquired on the same evening, when Dr. Jervis
gave me a detailed account of a very strange adventure that befell him.
I need not burden you with all the details, but I will give you the
substance of his story."

He then proceeded to recount the incidents connected with my visits to
Mr. Graves, dwelling on the personal peculiarities of the parties
concerned and especially of the patient, and not even forgetting the
very singular spectacles worn by Mr. Weiss. He also explained briefly
the construction of the chart, presenting the latter for the inspection
of his hearers. To this recital our three visitors listened in utter
bewilderment, as, indeed did I also; for I could not conceive in what
way my adventures could possibly be related to the affairs of the late
Mr. Blackmore. This was manifestly the view taken by Mr. Marchmont, for,
during a pause in which the chart was handed to him, he remarked
somewhat stiffly:

"I am assuming, Dr. Thorndyke, that the curious story you are telling us
has some relevance to the matter in which we are interested."

"You are quite correct in your assumption," replied Thorndyke. "The
story is very relevant indeed, as you will presently be convinced."

"Thank you," said Marchmont, sinking back once more into his chair with
a sigh of resignation.

"A few days ago," pursued Thorndyke, "Dr. Jervis and I located, with the
aid of this chart, the house to which he had been called. We found that
the late tenant had left somewhat hurriedly and that the house was to
let; and, as no other kind of investigation was possible, we obtained
the keys and made an exploration of the premises."

Here he gave a brief account of our visit and the conditions that we
observed, and was proceeding to furnish a list of the articles that we
had found under the grate, when Mr. Winwood started from his chair.

"Really, sir!" he exclaimed, "this is too much! Have I come here, at
great personal inconvenience, to hear you read the inventory of a
dust-heap?"

Thorndyke smiled benevolently and caught my eye, once more, with a gleam
of amusement.

"Sit down, Mr. Winwood," he said quietly. "You came here to learn the
facts of the case, and I am giving them to you. Please don't interrupt
needlessly and waste time."

Winwood stared at him ferociously for several seconds; then, somewhat
disconcerted by the unruffled calm of his manner, he uttered a snort of
defiance, sat down heavily and shut himself up again.

"We will now," Thorndyke continued, with unmoved serenity, "consider
these relics in more detail, and we will begin with this pair of
spectacles. They belonged to a person who was near-sighted and
astigmatic in the left eye and almost certainly blind in the right. Such
a description agrees entirely with Dr. Jervis's account of the sick
man."

He paused for the moment, and then, as no one made any comment,
proceeded:

"We next come to these little pieces of reed, which you, Mr. Stephen,
will probably recognize as the remains of a Japanese brush, such as is
used for writing in Chinese ink or for making small drawings."

Again he paused, as though expecting some remark from his listeners; but
no one spoke, and he continued:

"Then there is this bottle with the theatrical wig-maker's label on it,
which once contained cement such as is used for fixing on false beards,
moustaches or eyebrows."

He paused once more and looked round expectantly at his audience, none
of whom, however, volunteered any remark.

"Do none of these objects that I have described and shown you, seem to
have any significance for us?" he asked, in a tone of some surprise.

"They convey nothing to me," said Mr. Marchmont, glancing at his
partner, who shook his head like a restive horse.

"Nor to you, Mr. Stephen?"

"No," replied Stephen. "Under the existing circumstances they convey no
reasonable suggestion to me."

Thorndyke hesitated as if he were half inclined to say something more;
then, with a slight shrug, he turned over his notes and resumed:

"The next group of new facts is concerned with the signatures of the
recent cheques. We have photographed them and placed them together for
the purpose of comparison and analysis."

"I am not prepared to question the signatures." said Winwood. "We have
had a highly expert opinion, which would override ours in a court of law
even if we differed from it; which I think we do not."

"Yes," said Marchmont; "that is so. I think we must accept the
signatures, especially as that of the will has been proved, beyond any
question" to be authentic."

"Very well," agreed Thorndyke; "we will pass over the signatures. Then
we have some further evidence in regard to the spectacles, which serves
to verify our conclusions respecting them."

"Perhaps," said Marchmont, "we might pass over that, too, as we do not
seem to have reached any conclusions."

"As you please," said Thorndyke. "It is important, but we can reserve it
for verification. The next item will interest you more, I think. It is
the signed and witnessed statement of Samuel Wilkins, the driver of the
cab in which the deceased came home to the inn on the evening of his
death."

My colleague was right. An actual document, signed by a tangible
witness, who could be put in the box and sworn, brought both lawyers to
a state of attention; and when Thorndyke read out the cabman's evidence,
their attention soon quickened into undisguised astonishment.

"But this is a most mysterious affair," exclaimed Marchmont. "Who could
this woman have been, and what could she have been doing in Jeffrey's
chambers at this time? Can you throw any light on it, Mr. Stephen?"

"No, indeed I can't," replied Stephen. "It is a complete mystery to me.
My uncle Jeffrey was a confirmed old bachelor, and, although he did not
dislike women, he was far from partial to their society, wrapped up as
he was in his favourite studies. To the best of my belief, he had not a
single female friend. He was not on intimate terms even with his sister,
Mrs. Wilson."

"Very remarkable," mused Marchmont; "most remarkable. But, perhaps, you
can tell us, Dr. Thorndyke, who this woman was?"

"I think," replied Thorndyke, "that the next item of evidence will
enable you to form an opinion for yourselves. I only obtained it
yesterday, and, as it made my case quite complete, I wrote off to you
immediately. It is the statement of Joseph Ridley, another cabman, and
unfortunately, a rather dull, unobservant fellow, unlike Wilkins. He has
not much to tell us, but what little he has is highly instructive. Here
is the statement, signed by the deponent and witnessed by me:

"'My name is Joseph Ridley. I am the driver of a four-wheeled cab. On
the fourteenth of March, the day of the great fog, I was waiting at
Vauxhall Station, where I had just set down a fare. About five o'clock a
lady came and told me to drive over to Upper Kennington Lane to take up
a passenger. She was a middle-sized woman. I could not tell what her age
was, or what she was like, because her head was wrapped up in a sort of
knitted, woollen veil to keep out the fog. I did not notice how she was
dressed. She got into the cab and I led the horse over to Upper
Kennington Lane and a little way up the lane, until the lady tapped at
the front window for me to stop.

"'She got out of the cab and told me to wait. Then she went away and
disappeared in the fog. Presently a lady and gentleman came from the
direction in which she had gone. The lady looked like the same lady, but
I won't answer to that. Her head was wrapped up in the same kind of veil
or shawl, and I noticed that she had on a dark coloured mantle with
bead fringe on it.

"'The gentleman was clean shaved and wore spectacles, and he stooped a
good deal. I can't say whether his sight was good or bad. He helped the
lady into the cab and told me to drive to the Great Northern Station,
King's Cross. Then he got in himself and I drove off. I got to the
station about a quarter to six and the lady and gentleman got out. The
gentleman paid my fare and they both went into the station. I did not
notice anything unusual about either of them. Directly after they had
gone, I got a fresh fare and drove away.'

"That," Thorndyke concluded, "is Joseph Ridley's statement; and I think
it will enable you to give a meaning to the other facts that I have
offered for your consideration."

"I am not so sure about that," said Marchmont. "It is all exceedingly
mysterious. Your suggestion is, of course, that the woman who came to
New Inn in the cab was Mrs. Schallibaum!"

"Not at all," replied Thorndyke. "My suggestion is that the woman was
Jeffrey Blackmore."

There was deathly silence for a few moments. We were all absolutely
thunderstruck, and sat gaping at Thorndyke in speechless-astonishment.
Then--Mr. Winwood fairly bounced out of his chair.

"But--my--good--sir!" he screeched. "Jeffrey Blackmore was with her at
the time!"

"Naturally," replied Thorndyke, "my suggestion implies that the person
who was with her was not Jeffrey Blackmore."

"But he was!" bawled Winwood. "The porter saw him!"

"The porter saw a person whom he believed to be Jeffrey Blackmore. I
suggest that the porter's belief was erroneous."

"Well," snapped Winwood, "perhaps you can prove that it was. I don't see
how you are going to; but perhaps you can."

He subsided once more into his chair and glared defiantly at Thorndyke.

"You seemed," said Stephen, "to suggest some connection between the sick
man, Graves, and my uncle. I noted it at the time, but put it aside as
impossible. Was I right. Did you mean to suggest any connection?"

"I suggest something more than a connection. I suggest identity. My
position is that the sick man, Graves, was your uncle."

"From Dr. Jervis's description," said Stephen, "this man must have been
very like my uncle. Both were blind in the right eye and had very poor
vision with the left; and my uncle certainly used brushes of the kind
that you have shown us, when writing in the Japanese character, for I
have watched him and admired his skill; but--"

"But," said Marchmont, "there is the insuperable objection that, at the
very time when this man was lying sick in Kennington Lane, Mr. Jeffrey
was living at New Inn."

"What evidence is there of that?" asked Thorndyke.

"Evidence!" Marchmont exclaimed impatiently. "Why, my dear sir--"

He paused suddenly, and, leaning forward, regarded Thorndyke with a new
and rather startled expression.

"You mean to suggest--" he began.

"I suggest that Jeffrey Blackmore never lived at New Inn at all."

For the moment, Marchmont seemed absolutely paralysed by astonishment.

"This is an amazing proposition!" he exclaimed, at length. "Yet the
thing is certainly not impossible, for, now that you recall the fact, I
realize that no one who had known him previously--excepting his brother,
John--ever saw him at the inn. The question of identity was never
raised."

"Excepting," said Mr. Winwood, "in regard to the body; which was
certainly that of Jeffrey Blackmore."

"Yes, yes. Of course," said Marchmont. "I had forgotten that for the
moment. The body was identified beyond doubt. You don't dispute the
identity of the body, do you?"

"Certainly not," replied Thorndyke.

Here Mr. Winwood grasped his hair with both hands and stuck his elbows
on his knees, while Marchmont drew forth a large handkerchief and mopped
his forehead. Stephen Blackmore looked from one to the other
expectantly, and finally said:

"If I might make a suggestion, it would be that, as Dr. Thorndyke has
shown us the pieces now of the puzzle, he should be so kind as to put
them together for our information."

"Yes," agreed Marchmont, "that will be the best plan. Let us have the
argument, Doctor, and any additional evidence that you possess."

"The argument," said Thorndyke, "will be a rather long one, as the data
are so numerous, and there are some points in verification on which I
shall have to dwell in some detail. We will have some coffee to clear
our brains, and then I will bespeak your patience for what may seem like
a rather prolix demonstration."




Chapter XVI

An Exposition and a Tragedy


"You may have wondered," Thorndyke commenced, when he had poured out the
coffee and handed round the cups, "what induced me to undertake the
minute investigation of so apparently simple and straightforward a case.
Perhaps I had better explain that first and let you see what was the
real starting-point of the inquiry.

"When you, Mr. Marchmont and Mr. Stephen, introduced the case to me, I
made a very brief précis of the facts as you presented them, and of
these there were one or two which immediately attracted my attention. In
the first place, there was the will. It was a very strange will. It was
perfectly unnecessary. It contained no new matter; it expressed no
changed intentions; it met no new circumstances, as known to the
testator. In short it was not really a new will at all, but merely a
repetition of the first one, drafted in different and less suitable
language. It differed only in introducing a certain ambiguity from which
the original was free. It created the possibility that, in certain
circumstances, not known to or anticipated by the testator, John
Blackmore might become the principal beneficiary, contrary to the
obvious wishes of the testator.

"The next point that impressed me was the manner of Mrs. Wilson's death.
She died of cancer. Now people do not die suddenly and unexpectedly of
cancer. This terrible disease stands almost alone in that it marks out
its victim months in advance. A person who has an incurable cancer is a
person whose death may be predicted with certainty and its date fixed
within comparatively narrow limits.

"And now observe the remarkable series of coincidences that are brought
into light when we consider this peculiarity of the disease. Mrs. Wilson
died on the twelfth of March of this present year. Mr. Jeffrey's second
will was signed on the twelfth of November of last year; at a time, that
is to say, when the existence of cancer must have been known to Mrs.
Wilson's doctor, and might have been known to any of her relatives who
chose to inquire after her.

"Then you will observe that the remarkable change in Mr. Jeffrey's
habits coincides in the most singular way with the same events. The
cancer must have been detectable as early as September of last year;
about the time, in fact, at which Mrs. Wilson made her will. Mr. Jeffrey
went to the inn at the beginning of October. From that time his habits
were totally changed, and I can demonstrate to you that a change--not a
gradual, but an abrupt change--took place in the character of his
signature.

"In short, the whole of this peculiar set of circumstances--the change
in Jeffrey's habits, the change in his signature, and the execution of
his strange will--came into existence about the time when Mrs. Wilson
was first known to be suffering from cancer.

"This struck me as a very suggestive fact.

"Then there is the extraordinarily opportune date of Mr. Jeffrey's
death. Mrs. Wilson died on the twelfth of March. Mr. Jeffrey was found
dead on the fifteenth of March, having apparently died on the
fourteenth, on which day he was seen alive. If he had died only three
days sooner, he would have predeceased Mrs. Wilson, and her property
would never have devolved on him at all; while, if he had lived only a
day or two longer, he would have learned of her death and would
certainly have made a new will or codicil in his nephew's favour.

"Circumstances, therefore, conspired in the most singular manner in
favour of John Blackmore.

"But there is yet another coincidence. Jeffrey's body was found, by the
merest chance, the day after his death. But it might have remained
undiscovered for weeks, or even months; and if it had, it would have
been impossible to fix the date of his death. Then Mrs. Wilson's next
of kin would certainly have contested John Blackmore's claim--and
probably with success--on the ground that Jeffrey died before Mrs.
Wilson. But all this uncertainty is provided for by the circumstance
that Mr. Jeffrey paid his rent personally--and prematurely--to the
porter on the fourteenth of March, thus establishing beyond question the
fact that he was alive on that date; and yet further, in case the
porter's memory should be untrustworthy or his statement doubted,
Jeffrey furnished a signed and dated document--the cheque--which could
be produced in a court to furnish incontestable proof of survival.

"To sum up this part of the evidence. Here was a will which enabled John
Blackmore to inherit the fortune of a man who, almost certainly, had no
intention of bequeathing it to him. The wording of that will seemed to
be adjusted to the peculiarities of Mrs. Wilson's disease; and the death
of the testator occurred under a peculiar set of circumstances which
seemed to be exactly adjusted to the wording of the will. Or, to put it
in another way: the wording of the will and the time, the manner and the
circumstances of the testator's death, all seemed to be precisely
adjusted to the fact that the approximate date of Mrs. Wilson's death
was known some months before it occurred.

"Now you must admit that this compound group of coincidences, all
conspiring to a single end--the enrichment of John Blackmore--has a very
singular appearance. Coincidences are common enough in real life; but
we cannot accept too many at a time. My feeling was that there were too
many in this case and that I could not accept them without searching
inquiry."

Thorndyke paused, and Mr. Marchmont, who had listened with close
attention, nodded, as he glanced at his silent partner.

"You have stated the case with remarkable clearness," he said; "and I am
free to confess that some of the points that you have raised had escaped
my notice."

"My first idea," Thorndyke resumed, "was that John Blackmore, taking
advantage of the mental enfeeblement produced by the opium habit, had
dictated this will to Jeffrey, It was then that I sought permission to
inspect Jeffrey's chambers; to learn what I could about him and to see
for myself whether they presented the dirty and disorderly appearance
characteristic of the regular opium-smoker's den. But when, during a
walk into the City, I thought over the case, it seemed to me that this
explanation hardly met the facts. Then I endeavoured to think of some
other explanation; and looking over my notes I observed two points that
seemed worth considering. One was that neither of the witnesses to the
will was really acquainted with Jeffrey Blackmore; both being strangers
who had accepted his identity on his own statement. The other was that
no one who had previously known him, with the single exception of his
brother John, had ever seen Jeffrey at the inn.

"What was the import of these two facts? Probably they had none. But
still they suggested the desirability of considering the question: Was
the person who signed the will really Jeffrey Blackmore? The contrary
supposition--that some one had personated Jeffrey and forged his
signature to a false will--seemed wildly improbable, especially in view
of the identification of the body; but it involved no actual
impossibility; and it offered a complete explanation of the, otherwise
inexplicable, coincidences that I have mentioned.

"I did not, however, for a moment, think that this was the true
explanation, but I resolved to bear it in mind, to test it when the
opportunity arose, and consider it by the light of any fresh facts that
I might acquire.

"The new facts came sooner than I had expected. That same evening I went
with Dr. Jervis to New Inn and found Mr. Stephen in the chambers. By him
I was informed that Jeffrey was a learned Orientalist, with a quite
expert knowledge of the cuneiform writing; and even as he was telling me
this, I looked over his shoulder and saw a cuneiform inscription hanging
on the wall upside down.

"Now, of this there could be only one reasonable explanation.
Disregarding the fact that no one would screw the suspension plates on a
frame without ascertaining which was the right way up, and assuming it
to be hung up inverted, it was impossible that the misplacement could
have been overlooked by Jeffrey. He was not blind, though his sight was
defective. The frame was thirty inches long and the individual
characters nearly an inch in length--about the size of the D 18 letters
of Snellen's test-types, which can be read by a person of ordinary sight
at a distance of fifty-five feet. There was, I repeat, only one
reasonable explanation; which was that the person who had inhabited
those chambers was not Jeffrey Blackmore.

"This conclusion received considerable support from a fact which I
observed later, but mention in this place. On examining the soles of the
shoes taken from the dead man's feet, I found only the ordinary mud of
the streets. There was no trace of the peculiar gravelly mud that
adhered to my own boots and Jervis's, and which came from the square of
the inn. Yet the porter distinctly stated that the deceased, after
paying the rent, walked back towards his chambers across the square; the
mud of which should, therefore, have been conspicuous on his shoes.

"Thus, in a moment, a wildly speculative hypothesis had assumed a high
degree of probability.

"When Mr. Stephen was gone, Jervis and I looked over the chambers
thoroughly; and then another curious fact came to light. On the wall
were a number of fine Japanese colour-prints, all of which showed recent
damp-spots. Now, apart from the consideration that Jeffrey, who had been
at the trouble and expense of collecting these valuable prints, would
hardly have allowed them to rot on his walls, there arose the question:
How came they to be damp? There was a gas stove in the room, and a gas
stove has at least the virtue of preserving a dry atmosphere. It was
winter weather, when the stove would naturally be pretty constantly
alight. How came the walls to be so damp? The answer seemed to be that
the stove had not been constantly alight, but had been lighted only
occasionally. This suggestion was borne out by a further examination of
the rooms. In the kitchen there were practically no stores and hardly
any arrangements even for simple bachelor cooking; the bedroom offered
the same suggestion; the soap in the wash-stand was shrivelled and
cracked; there was no cast-off linen, and the shirts in the drawers,
though clean, had the peculiar yellowish, faded appearance that linen
acquires when long out of use. In short, the rooms had the appearance of
not having been lived in at all, but only visited at intervals.

"Against this view, however, was the statement of the night porter that
he had often seen a light in Jeffrey's sitting-room at one o'clock in
the morning, with the apparent implication that it was then turned out.
Now a light may be left in an empty room, but its extinction implies the
presence of some person to extinguish it; unless some automatic device
be adopted for putting it out at a given time. Such a device--the alarm
movement of a clock, for instance, with a suitable attachment--is a
simple enough matter, but my search of the rooms failed to discover
anything of the kind. However, when looking over the drawers in the
bedroom, I came upon a large box that had held a considerable quantity
of hard stearine candles. There were only a few left, but a flat
candlestick with numerous wick-ends in its socket accounted for the
remainder.

"These candles seemed to dispose of the difficulty. They were not
necessary for ordinary lighting, since gas was laid on in all three
rooms. For what purpose, then, were they used, and in such considerable
quantities? I subsequently obtained some of the same brand--Price's
stearine candles, six to the pound--and experimented with them. Each
candle was seven and a quarter inches in length, not counting the cone
at the top, and I found that they burned in still air at the rate of a
fraction over one inch in an hour. We may say that one of these candles
would burn in still air a little over six hours. It would thus be
possible for the person who inhabited these rooms to go away at seven
o'clock in the evening and leave a light which would burn until past one
in the morning and then extinguish itself. This, of course, was only
surmise, but it destroyed the significance of the night porter's
statement.

"But, if the person who inhabited these chambers was not Jeffrey, who
was he?

"The answer to that question seemed plain enough. There was only one
person who had a strong motive for perpetrating a fraud of this kind,
and there was only one person to whom it was possible. If this person
was not Jeffrey, he must have been very like Jeffrey; sufficiently like
for the body of the one to be mistaken for the body of the other. For
the production of Jeffrey's body was an essential part of the plan and
must have been contemplated from the first. But the only person who
fulfills the conditions is John Blackmore.

"We have learned from Mr. Stephen that John and Jeffrey, though very
different in appearance in later years, were much alike as young men.
But when two brothers who are much alike as young men, become unlike in
later life, we shall find that the unlikeness is produced by superficial
differences and that the essential likeness remains. Thus, in the
present case, Jeffrey was clean shaved, had bad eyesight, wore
spectacles and stooped as he walked; John wore a beard and moustache,
had good eyesight, did not wear spectacles and had a brisk gait and
upright carriage. But supposing John to shave off his beard and
moustache, to put on spectacles and to stoop in his walk, these
conspicuous but superficial differences would vanish and the original
likeness reappear.

"There is another consideration. John had been an actor and was an actor
of some experience. Now, any person can, with some care and practice,
make up a disguise; the great difficulty is to support that disguise by
a suitable manner and voice. But to an experienced actor this difficulty
does not exist. To him, personation is easy; and, moreover, an actor is
precisely the person to whom the idea of disguise and impersonation
would occur.

"There is a small item bearing on this point, so small as to be hardly
worth calling evidence, but just worth noting. In the pocket of the
waistcoat taken from the body of Jeffrey I found the stump of a
'Contango' pencil; a pencil that is sold for the use of stock dealers
and brokers. Now John was an outside broker and might very probably have
used such a pencil, whereas Jeffrey had no connection with the stock
markets and there is no reason why he should have possessed a pencil of
this kind. But the fact is merely suggestive; it has no evidential
value.

"A more important inference is to be drawn from the collected
signatures. I have remarked that the change in the signature occurred
abruptly, with one or two alterations of manner, last September, and
that there are two distinct forms with no intermediate varieties. This
is, in itself, remarkable and suspicious. But a remark made by Mr.
Britton furnishes a really valuable piece of evidence on the point we
are now considering. He admitted that the character of the signature had
undergone a change, but observed that the change did not affect the
individual or personal character of the writing. This is very important;
for handwriting is, as it were, an extension of the personality of the
writer. And just as a man to some extent snares his personality with his
near blood-relations in the form of family resemblances, so his
handwriting often shows a subtle likeness to that of his near relatives.
You must have noticed, as I have, how commonly the handwriting of one
brother resembles that of another, and in just this peculiar and subtle
way. The inference, then, from Mr. Britton's statement is, that if the
signature of the will was forged, it was probably forged by a relative
of the deceased. But the only relative in question is his brother John.

"All the facts, therefore, pointed to John Blackmore as the person who
occupied these chambers, and I accordingly adopted that view as a
working hypothesis."

"But this was all pure speculation," objected Mr. Winwood.

"Not speculation," said Thorndyke. "Hypothesis. It was ordinary
inductive reasoning such as we employ in scientific research. I started
with the purely tentative hypothesis that the person who signed the will
was not Jeffrey Blackmore. I assumed this; and I may say that I did not
believe it at the time, but merely adopted it as a proposition that was
worth testing. I accordingly tested it, 'Yes?' or 'No?' with each new
fact; but as each new fact said 'Yes,' and no fact said definitely 'No,'
its probability increased rapidly by a sort of geometrical progression.
The probabilities multiplied into one another. It is a perfectly sound
method, for one knows that if a hypothesis be true, it will lead one,
sooner or later, to a crucial fact by which its truth can be
demonstrated.

"To resume our argument. We have now set up the proposition that John
Blackmore was the tenant of New Inn and that he was personating Jeffrey.
Let us reason from this and see what it leads to.

"If the tenant of New Inn was John, then Jeffrey must be elsewhere,
since his concealment at the inn was clearly impossible. But he could
not have been far away, for he had to be producible at short notice
whenever the death of Mrs. Wilson should make the production of his
body necessary. But if he was producible, his person must have been in
the possession or control of John. He could not have been at large, for
that would have involved the danger of his being seen and recognized. He
could not have been in any institution or place where he would be in
contact with strangers. Then he must be in some sort of confinement. But
it is difficult to keep an adult in confinement in an ordinary house.
Such a proceeding would involve great risk of discovery and the use of
violence which would leave traces on the body, to be observed and
commented on at the inquest. What alternative method could be suggested?

"The most obvious method is that of keeping the prisoner in such a state
of debility as would confine him to his bed. But such debility could be
produced by only starvation, unsuitable food, or chronic poisoning. Of
these alternatives, poisoning is much more exact, more calculable in its
effect and more under control. The probabilities, then, were in favour
of chronic poisoning.

"Having reached this stage, I recalled a singular case which Jervis had
mentioned to me and which seemed to illustrate this method. On our
return home I asked him for further particulars, and he then gave me a
very detailed description of the patient and the circumstances. The
upshot was rather startling. I had looked on his case as merely
illustrative, and wished to study it for the sake of the suggestions
that it might offer. But when I had heard his account, I began to
suspect that there was something more than mere parallelism of method.
It began to look as if his patient, Mr. Graves, might actually be
Jeffrey Blackmore.

"The coincidences were remarkable. The general appearance of the patient
tallied completely with Mr. Stephen's description of his uncle Jeffrey.
The patient had a tremulous iris in his right eye and had clearly
suffered from dislocation of the crystalline lens. But from Mr.
Stephen's account of his uncle's sudden loss of sight in the right eye
after a fall, I judged that Jeffrey had also suffered from dislocation
of the lens and therefore had a tremulous iris in the right eye. The
patient, Graves, evidently had defective vision in his left eye, as
proved by the marks made behind his ears by the hooked side-bars of his
spectacles; for it is only on spectacles that are intended for constant
use that we find hooked side-bars. But Jeffrey had defective vision in
his left eye and wore spectacles constantly. Lastly, the patient Graves
was suffering from chronic morphine poisoning, and morphine was found in
the body of Jeffrey.

"Once more, it appeared to me that there were too many coincidences.

"The question as to whether Graves and Jeffrey were identical admitted
of fairly easy disproof; for if Graves was still alive, he could not be
Jeffrey. It was an important question and I resolved to test it without
delay. That night, Jervis and I plotted out the chart, and on the
following morning we located the house. But it was empty and to let.
The birds had flown, and we failed to discover whither they had gone.

"However, we entered the house and explored. I have told you about the
massive bolts and fastenings that we found on the bedroom doors and
window, showing that the room had been used as a prison. I have told you
of the objects that we picked out of the dust-heap under the grate. Of
the obvious suggestion offered by the Japanese brush and the bottle of
'spirit gum' or cement, I need not speak now; but I must trouble you
with some details concerning the broken spectacles. For here we had come
upon the crucial fact to which, as I have said, all sound inductive
reasoning brings one sooner or later.

"The spectacles were of a rather peculiar pattern. The frames were of
the type invented by Mr. Stopford of Moorfields and known by his name.
The right eye-piece was fitted with plain glass, as is usual in the case
of a blind, or useless, eye. It was very much shattered, but its
character was obvious. The glass of the left eye was much thicker and
fortunately less damaged, so that I was able accurately to test its
refraction.

"When I reached home, I laid the pieces of the spectacles together,
measured the frames very carefully, tested the left eye-glass, and wrote
down a full description such as would have been given by the surgeon to
the spectacle-maker. Here it is, and I will ask you to note it
carefully.

"'Spectacles for constant use. Steel frame, Stopford's pattern, curl
sides, broad bridge with gold lining. Distance between centres, 6.2
centimetres; extreme length of side-bars, 13.3 centimetres.

"'Right eye plain glass.

"'Left eye -5.75 D. spherical
            -------------------
           -3.25 D. cylindrical axis 35°.'

"The spectacles, you see, were of a very distinctive character and
seemed to offer a good chance of identification. Stopford's frames are,
I believe, made by only one firm of opticians in London, Parry & Cuxton
of Regent Street. I therefore wrote to Mr. Cuxton, who knows me, asking
him if he had supplied spectacles to the late Jeffrey Blackmore,
Esq.--here is a copy of my letter--and if so, whether he would mind
letting me have a full description of them, together with the name of
the oculist who prescribed them.

"He replied in this letter, which is pinned to the copy of mine, that,
about four years ago, he supplied a pair of glasses to Mr. Jeffrey
Blackmore, and described them thus: 'The spectacles were for constant
use and had steel frames of Stopford's pattern with curl sides, the
length of the side-bars including the curled ends being 13.3 cm. The
bridge was broad with a gold lining-plate, shaped as shown by the
enclosed tracing from the diagram on the prescription. Distance between
centres 6.2 cm.

"'Right eye plain glass.

"'Left eye -5.75 D. spherical
            -------------------
           -3.25 D. cylindrical, axis 35°.'

"'The spectacles were prescribed by Mr. Hindley of Wimpole Street.'

"You see that Mr. Cuxton's description is identical with mine. However,
for further confirmation, I wrote to Mr. Hindley, asking certain
questions, to which he replied thus:

"'You are quite right. Mr. Jeffrey Blackmore had a tremulous iris in his
right eye (which was practically blind), due to dislocation of the lens.
The pupils were rather large; certainly not contracted.'

"Here, then, we have three important facts. One is that the spectacles
found by us at Kennington Lane were undoubtedly Jeffrey's; for it is as
unlikely that there exists another pair of spectacles exactly identical
with those as that there exists another face exactly like Jeffrey's
face. The second fact is that the description of Jeffrey tallies
completely with that of the sick man, Graves, as given by Dr. Jervis;
and the third is that when Jeffrey was seen by Mr. Hindley, there was no
sign of his being addicted to the taking of morphine. The first and
second facts, you will agree, constitute complete identification."

"Yes," said Marchmont; "I think we must admit the identification as
being quite conclusive, though the evidence is of a kind that is more
striking to the medical than to the legal mind."

"You will not have that complaint to make against the next item of
evidence," said Thorndyke. "It is after the lawyer's own heart, as you
shall hear. A few days ago I wrote to Mr. Stephen asking him if he
possessed a recent photograph of his uncle Jeffrey. He had one, and he
sent it to me by return. This portrait I showed to Dr. Jervis and asked
him if he had ever seen the person it represented. After examining it
attentively, without any hint whatever from me, he identified it as the
portrait of the sick man, Graves."

"Indeed!" exclaimed Marchmont. "This is most important. Are you prepared
to swear to the identity, Dr. Jervis?"

"I have not the slightest doubt," I replied, "that the portrait is that
of Mr. Graves."

"Excellent!" said Marchmont, rubbing his hands gleefully; "this will be
much more convincing to a jury. Pray go on, Dr. Thorndyke."

"That," said Thorndyke, "completes the first part of my investigation.
We had now reached a definite, demonstrable fact; and that fact, as you
see, disposed at once of the main question--the genuineness of the will.
For if the man at Kennington Lane was Jeffrey Blackmore, then the man at
New Inn was not. But it was the latter who had signed the will.
Therefore the will was not signed by Jeffrey Blackmore; that is to say,
it was a forgery. The case was complete for the purposes of the civil
proceedings; the rest of my investigations had reference to the criminal
prosecution that was inevitable. Shall I proceed, or is your interest
confined to the will?"

"Hang the will!" exclaimed Stephen. "I want to hear how you propose to
lay hands on the villain who murdered poor old uncle Jeffrey--for I
suppose he did murder him?"

"I think there is no doubt of it," replied Thorndyke.

"Then," said Marchmont, "we will hear the rest of the argument, if you
please."

"Very well," said Thorndyke. "As the evidence stands, we have proved
that Jeffrey Blackmore was a prisoner in the house in Kennington Lane
and that some one was personating him at New Inn. That some one, we have
seen, was, in all probability, John Blackmore. We now have to consider
the man Weiss. Who was he? and can we connect him in any way with New
Inn?

"We may note in passing that Weiss and the coachman were apparently one
and the same person. They were never seen together. When Weiss was
present, the coachman was not available even for so urgent a service as
the obtaining of an antidote to the poison. Weiss always appeared some
time after Jervis's arrival and disappeared some time before his
departure, in each case sufficiently long to allow of a change of
disguise. But we need not labour the point, as it is not of primary
importance.

"To return to Weiss. He was clearly heavily disguised, as we see by his
unwillingness to show himself even by the light of a candle. But there
is an item of positive evidence on this point which is important from
having other bearings. It is furnished by the spectacles worn by Weiss,
of which you have heard Jervis's description. These spectacles had very
peculiar optical properties. When you looked <i>through</i> them they had the
properties of plain glass; when you looked <i>at</i> them they had the
appearance of lenses. But only one kind of glass possesses these
properties; namely, that which, like an ordinary watch-glass, has
curved, parallel surfaces. But for what purpose could a person wear
'watch-glass' spectacles? Clearly, not to assist his vision. The only
alternative is disguise.

"The properties of these spectacles introduce a very curious and
interesting feature into the case. To the majority of persons, the
wearing of spectacles for the purpose of disguise or personation, seems
a perfectly simple and easy proceeding. But, to a person of normal
eyesight, it is nothing of the kind. For, if he wears spectacles suited
for long sight he cannot see distinctly through them at all; while, if
he wears concave, or near sight, glasses, the effort to see through them
produces such strain and fatigue that his eyes become disabled
altogether. On the stage the difficulty is met by using spectacles of
plain window-glass, but in real life this would hardly do; the
'property' spectacles would be detected at once and give rise to
suspicion.

"The personator is therefore in this dilemma: if he wears actual
spectacles, he cannot see through them; if he wears sham spectacles of
plain glass, his disguise will probably be detected. There is only one
way out of the difficulty, and that not a very satisfactory one; but Mr.
Weiss seems to have adopted it in lieu of a better. It is that of using
watch-glass spectacles such as I have described.

"Now, what do we learn from these very peculiar glasses? In the first
place they confirm our opinion that Weiss was wearing a disguise. But,
for use in a room so very dimly lighted, the ordinary stage spectacles
would have answered quite well. The second inference is, then, that
these spectacles were prepared to be worn under more trying conditions
of light--out of doors, for instance. The third inference is that Weiss
was a man with normal eyesight; for otherwise he could have worn real
spectacles suited to the state of his vision.

"These are inferences by the way, to which we may return. But these
glasses furnish a much more important suggestion. On the floor of the
bedroom at New Inn I found some fragments of glass which had been
trodden on. By joining one or two of them together, we have been able to
make out the general character of the object of which they formed parts.
My assistant--who was formerly a watch-maker--judged that object to be
the thin crystal glass of a lady's watch, and this, I think, was
Jervis's opinion. But the small part which remains of the original edge
furnishes proof in two respects that this was not a watch-glass. In the
first place, on taking a careful tracing of this piece of the edge, I
found that its curve was part of an ellipse; but watch-glasses,
nowadays, are invariably circular. In the second place, watch-glasses
are ground on the edge to a single bevel to snap into the bezel or
frame; but the edge of this object was ground to a double bevel, like
the edge of a spectacle-glass, which fits into a groove in the frame and
is held by the side-bar screw. The inevitable inference was that this
was a spectacle-glass. But, if so, it was part of a pair of spectacles
identical in properties with those worn by Mr. Weiss.

"The importance of this conclusion emerges when we consider the
exceptional character of Mr. Weiss's spectacles. They were not merely
peculiar or remarkable; they were probably unique. It is exceedingly
likely that there is not in the entire world another similar pair of
spectacles. Whence the finding of these fragments of glass in the
bedroom establishes a considerable probability that Mr. Weiss was, at
some time, in the chambers at New Inn.

"And now let us gather up the threads of this part of the argument. We
are inquiring into the identity of the man Weiss. Who was he?

"In the first place, we find him committing a secret crime from which
John Blackmore alone will benefit. This suggests the <i>prima-facie</i>
probability that he was John Blackmore.

"Then we find that he was a man of normal eyesight who was wearing
spectacles for the purpose of disguise. But the tenant of New Inn, whom
we have seen to be, almost certainly, John Blackmore--and whom we will,
for the present, assume to have been John Blackmore--was a man with
normal eyesight who wore spectacles for disguise.

"John Blackmore did not reside at New Inn, but at some place within
easy reach of it. But Weiss resided at a place within easy reach of New
Inn.

"John Blackmore must have had possession and control of the person of
Jeffrey. But Weiss had possession and control of the person of Jeffrey.

"Weiss wore spectacles of a certain peculiar and probably unique
character. But portions of such spectacles were found in the chambers at
New Inn.

"The overwhelming probability, therefore, is that Weiss and the tenant
of New Inn were one and the same person; and that that person was John
Blackmore."

"That," said Mr. Winwood, "is a very plausible argument. But, you
observe, sir, that it contains an undistributed middle term."

Thorndyke smiled genially. I think he forgave Winwood everything for
that remark.

"You are quite right, sir," he said. "It does. And, for that reason, the
demonstration is not absolute. But we must not forget, what logicians
seem occasionally to overlook: that the 'undistributed middle,' while it
interferes with absolute proof, may be quite consistent with a degree of
probability that approaches very near to certainty. Both the Bertillon
system and the English fingerprint system involve a process of reasoning
in which the middle term is undistributed. But the great probabilities
are accepted in practice as equivalent to certainties."

Mr. Winwood grunted a grudging assent, and Thorndyke resumed:

"We have now furnished fairly conclusive evidence on three heads: we
have proved that the sick man, Graves, was Jeffrey Blackmore; that the
tenant of New Inn was John Blackmore; and that the man Weiss was also
John Blackmore. We now have to prove that John and Jeffrey were together
in the chambers at New Inn on the night of Jeffrey's death.

"We know that two persons, and two persons only, came from Kennington
Lane to New Inn. But one of those persons was the tenant of New
Inn--that is, John Blackmore. Who was the other? Jeffrey is known by us
to have been at Kennington Lane. His body was found on the following
morning in the room at New Inn. No third person is known to have come
from Kennington Lane; no third person is known to have arrived at New
Inn. The inference, by exclusion, is that the second person--the
woman--was Jeffrey.

"Again; Jeffrey had to be brought from Kennington to the inn by John.
But John was personating Jeffrey and was made up to resemble him very
closely. If Jeffrey were undisguised the two men would be almost exactly
alike; which would be very noticeable in any case and suspicious after
the death of one of them. Therefore Jeffrey would have to be disguised
in some way; and what disguise could be simpler and more effective than
the one that I suggest was used?

"Again; it was unavoidable that some one--the cabman--should know that
Jeffrey was not alone when he came to the inn that night. If the fact
had leaked out and it had become known that a man had accompanied him to
his chambers, some suspicion might have arisen, and that suspicion would
have pointed to John, who was directly interested in his brother's
death. But if it had transpired that Jeffrey was accompanied by a woman,
there would have been less suspicion, and that suspicion would not have
pointed to John Blackmore.

"Thus all the general probabilities are in favour of the hypothesis that
this woman was Jeffrey Blackmore. There is, however, an item of positive
evidence that strongly supports this view. When I examined the clothing
of the deceased, I found on the trousers a horizontal crease on each leg
as if the trousers had been turned up half-way to the knees. This
appearance is quite understandable if we suppose that the trousers were
worn under a skirt and were turned up so that they should not be
accidentally seen. Otherwise it is quite incomprehensible."

"Is it not rather strange," said Marchmont, "that Jeffrey should have
allowed himself to be dressed up in this remarkable manner?"

"I think not," replied Thorndyke. "There is no reason to suppose that he
knew how he was dressed. You have heard Jervis's description of his
condition; that of a mere automaton. You know that without his
spectacles he was practically blind, and that he could not have worn
them since we found them at the house in Kennington Lane. Probably his
head was wrapped up in the veil, and the skirt and mantle put on
afterwards; but, in any case, his condition rendered him practically
devoid of will power. That is all the evidence I have to prove that the
unknown woman was Jeffrey. It is not conclusive but it is convincing
enough for our purpose, seeing that the case against John Blackmore does
not depend upon it."

"Your case against him is on the charge of murder, I presume?" said
Stephen.

"Undoubtedly. And you will notice that the statements made by the
supposed Jeffrey to the porter, hinting at suicide, are now important
evidence. By the light of what we know, the announcement of intended
suicide becomes the announcement of intended murder. It conclusively
disproves what it was intended to prove; that Jeffrey died by his own
hand."

"Yes, I see that," said Stephen, and then after a pause he asked: "Did
you identify Mrs. Schallibaum? You have told us nothing about her."

"I have considered her as being outside the case as far as I am
concerned," replied Thorndyke. "She was an accessory; my business was
with the principal. But, of course, she will be swept up in the net. The
evidence that convicts John Blackmore will convict her. I have not
troubled about her identity. If John Blackmore is married, she is
probably his wife. Do you happen to know if he is married?"

"Yes; but Mrs. John Blackmore is not much like Mrs. Schallibaum,
excepting that she has a cast in the left eye. She is a dark woman with
very heavy eyebrows."

"That is to say that she differs from Mrs. Schallibaum in those
peculiarities that can be artificially changed and resembles her in the
one feature that is unchangeable. Do you know if her Christian name
happens to be Pauline?"

"Yes, it is. She was a Miss Pauline Hagenbeck, a member of an American
theatrical company. What made you ask?"

"The name which Jervis heard poor Jeffrey struggling to pronounce seemed
to me to resemble Pauline more than any other name."

"There is one little point that strikes me," said Marchmont. "Is it not
rather remarkable that the porter should have noticed no difference
between the body of Jeffrey and the living man whom he knew by sight,
and who must, after all, have been distinctly different in appearance?"

"I am glad you raised that question," Thorndyke replied, "for that very
difficulty presented itself to me at the beginning of the case. But on
thinking it over, I decided that it was an imaginary difficulty,
assuming, as we do, that there was a good deal of resemblance between
the two men. Put yourself in the porter's place and follow his mental
processes. He is informed that a dead man is lying on the bed in Mr.
Blackmore's rooms. Naturally, he assumes that the dead man is Mr.
Blackmore--who, by the way, had hinted at suicide only the night before.
With this idea he enters the chambers and sees a man a good deal like
Mr. Blackmore and wearing Mr. Blackmore's clothes, lying on Mr.
Blackmore's bed. The idea that the body could be that of some other
person has never entered his mind. If he notes any difference of
appearance he will put that down to the effects of death; for every one
knows that a man dead looks somewhat different from the same man alive.
I take it as evidence of great acuteness on the part of John Blackmore
that he should have calculated so cleverly, not only the mental process
of the porter, but the erroneous reasoning which every one would base on
the porter's conclusions. For, since the body was actually Jeffrey's,
and was identified by the porter as that of his tenant, it has been
assumed by every one that no question was possible as to the identity of
Jeffrey Blackmore and the tenant of New Inn."

There was a brief silence, and then Marchmont asked:

"May we take it that we have now heard all the evidence?"

"Yes," replied Thorndyke. "That is my case."

"Have you given information to the police?" Stephen asked eagerly.

"Yes. As soon as I had obtained the statement of the cabman, Ridley, and
felt that I had enough evidence to secure a conviction, I called at
Scotland Yard and had an interview with the Assistant Commissioner. The
case is in the hands of Superintendent Miller of the Criminal
Investigation Department, a most acute and energetic officer. I have
been expecting to hear that the warrant has been executed, for Mr.
Miller is usually very punctilious in keeping me informed of the
progress of the cases to which I introduce him. We shall hear to-morrow,
no doubt."

"And, for the present," said Marchmont, "the case seems to have passed
out of our hands."

"I shall enter a caveat, all the same," said Mr. Winwood.

"That doesn't seem very necessary," Marchmont objected. "The evidence
that we have heard is amply sufficient to ensure a conviction and there
will be plenty more when the police go into the case. And a conviction
on the charges of forgery and murder would, of course, invalidate the
second will."

"I shall enter a caveat, all the same," repeated Mr. Winwood.

As the two partners showed a disposition to become heated over this
question, Thorndyke suggested that they might discuss it at leisure by
the light of subsequent events. Acting on this hint--for it was now
close upon midnight--our visitors prepared to depart; and were, in fact,
just making their way towards the door when the bell rang. Thorndyke
flung open the door, and, as he recognized his visitor, greeted him with
evident satisfaction.

"Ha! Mr. Miller; we were just speaking of you. These gentlemen are Mr.
Stephen Blackmore and his solicitors, Mr. Marchmont and Mr. Winwood. You
know Dr. Jervis, I think."

The officer bowed to our friends and remarked:

"I am just in time, it seems. A few minutes more and I should have
missed these gentlemen. I don't know what you'll think of my news."

"You haven't let that villain escape, I hope," Stephen exclaimed.

"Well," said the Superintendent, "he is out of my hands and yours too;
and so is the woman. Perhaps I had better tell you what has happened."

"If you would be so kind," said Thorndyke, motioning the officer to a
chair.

The superintendent seated himself with the manner of a man who has had a
long and strenuous day, and forthwith began his story.

"As soon as we had your information, we procured a warrant for the
arrest of both parties, and then I went straight to their flat with
Inspector Badger and a sergeant. There we learned from the attendant
that they were away from home and were not expected back until to-day
about noon. We kept a watch on the premises, and this morning, about the
time appointed, a man and a woman, answering to the description, arrived
at the flat. We followed them in and saw them enter the lift, and we
were going to get into the lift too, when the man pulled the rope, and
away they went. There was nothing for us to do but run up the stairs,
which we did as fast as we could race; but they got to their landing
first, and we were only just in time to see them nip in and shut the
door. However, it seemed that we had them safe enough, for there was no
dropping out of the windows at that height; so we sent the sergeant to
get a locksmith to pick the lock or force the door, while we kept on
ringing the bell.

"About three minutes after the sergeant left, I happened to look out of
the landing window and saw a hansom pull up opposite the flats. I put my
head out of the window, and, hang me if I didn't see our two friends
getting into the cab. It seems that there was a small lift inside the
flat communicating with the kitchen, and they had slipped down it one at
a time.

"Well, of course, we raced down the stairs like acrobats, but by the
time we got to the bottom the cab was off with a fine start. We ran out
into Victoria Street, and there we could see it half-way down the street
and going like a chariot race. We managed to pick up another hansom and
told the cabby to keep the other one in sight, and away we went like the
very deuce; along Victoria Street and Broad Sanctuary, across Parliament
Square, over Westminster Bridge and along York Road; we kept the other
beggar in sight, but we couldn't gain an inch on him. Then we turned
into Waterloo Station, and, as we were driving up the slope we met
another hansom coming down; and when the cabby kissed his hand and
smiled at us, we guessed that he was the sportsman we had been
following.

"But there was no time to ask questions. It is an awkward station with a
lot of different exits, and it looked a good deal as if our quarry had
got away. However, I took a chance. I remembered that the Southampton
express was due to start about this time, and I took a short cut across
the lines and made for the platform that it starts from. Just as Badger
and I got to the end, about thirty yards from the rear of the train, we
saw a man and a woman running in front of us. Then the guard blew his
whistle and the train began to move. The man and the woman managed to
scramble into one of the rear compartments and Badger and I raced up the
platform like mad. A porter tried to head us off, but Badger capsized
him and we both sprinted harder than ever, and just hopped on the
foot-board of the guard's van as the train began to get up speed. The
guard couldn't risk putting us off, so he had to let us into his van,
which suited us exactly, as we could watch the train on both sides from
the look-out. And we did watch, I can tell you; for our friend in front
had seen us. His head was out of the window as we climbed on to the
foot-board.

"However, nothing happened until we stopped at Southampton West. There,
I need not say, we lost no time in hopping out, for we naturally
expected our friends to make a rush for the exit. But they didn't.
Badger watched the platform, and I kept a look-out to see that they
didn't slip away across the line from the off-side. But still there was
no sign of them. Then I walked up the train to the compartment which I
had seen them enter. And there they were, apparently fast asleep in the
corner by the off-side window, the man leaning back with his mouth open
and the woman resting against him with her head on his shoulder. She
gave me quite a turn when I went in to look at them, for she had her
eyes half-closed and seemed to be looking round at me with a most
horrible expression; but I found afterwards that the peculiar appearance
of looking round was due to the cast in her eye."

"They were dead, I suppose?" said Thorndyke.

"Yes, sir. Stone dead; and I found these on the floor of the carriage."

He held up two tiny yellow glass tubes, each labelled "Hypodermic
tabloids. Aconitine Nitrate gr. 1/640."

"Ha!" exclaimed Thorndyke, "this fellow was well up in alkaloidal
poisons, it seems; and they appear to have gone about prepared for
emergencies. These tubes each contained twenty tabloids, a thirty-second
of a grain altogether, so we may assume that about twelve times the
medicinal dose was swallowed. Death must have occurred in a few minutes,
and a merciful death too."

"A more merciful death than they deserved," exclaimed Stephen, "when one
thinks of the misery and suffering that they inflicted on poor old uncle
Jeffrey. I would sooner have had them hanged."

"It's better as it is, sir," said Miller. "There is no need, now, to
raise any questions in detail at the inquest. The publicity of a trial
for murder would have been very unpleasant for you. I wish Dr. Jervis
had given the tip to me instead of to that confounded,
over-cautious--but there, I mustn't run down my brother officers: and
it's easy to be wise after the event.

"Good night, gentlemen. I suppose this accident disposes of your
business as far as the will is concerned?"

"I suppose it does," agreed Mr. Winwood. "But I shall enter a caveat,
all the same."


THE END








End of Project Gutenberg's The Mystery of 31 New Inn, by R. Austin Freeman