A 506863



1817
PRIORITARI
001
DO
WANIE
SCIENTIA
ARTESIV U SCHE
LIBRARY VERITAS OF THE
VERITAS
F MICHIGAN
UNIVERSITY OF MICHI
DWIDE
TUEBOR
ULUSALALALALA
31-QURRIS-PENINSULA
ULAM AMOENAM
CIRCUMSPICE
min
hinnat
hlum
TITUT
BEQUEST OF
ORMA FITCH BUTLER, PH.D., '07
PROFESSOR OF LATIN


828
B6274





THE RAVENELLE RIDDLE





THE RAVENELLE RIDDLE
A PETER STRANGELY MYSTERY
lisabeth By
E. BEST BLACK
NEW YORK
LORING AND MUSSEY, PUBLISHERS
248 EAST FIFTY-SEVENTH STREET





c. F BUTLER
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46-10-40
PAGE
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CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I. THE DISAPPEARANCE . . . . . . . . . . . 3
II. OUT OF THE STORM . ....
III. THE GHASTLY FIND .......
IV. THE MYSTERIOUS MR. SMITH. .......
V. THE EIGHT O'Clock Post . ........
VI. THE CLUTCHING DEATH . ......
VII. STRANGELY DISAPPEARS. .....
VIII. INQUESTS · · · · · ·
IX. ALL ABOUT MARTIE . ...
X. MR. PARKER PRATTLES ......
XI. TWISTED TRAILS . .............
XII. A SEA OF SUSPICIONS . .......... 103
XIII. DEATH STALKS AGAIN. .......... 113
XIV. MURDER ON WHEELS .......
· · · · 120
XV. A STARTLING DEVELOPMENT
.... 129
XVI. DORA TALKS . ....... .... 136
XVII. LAWE ACTS FOR HIMSELF . ........
XVIII. STRANGELY PLAYS A Lone HAND ....... 151
XIX. ABOARD THE Wall-Flower .........
XX. THE CABIN ON THE Rocks . .........
XXI. THE GIRL FROM LONDON ......... 169
XXII. STRANGELY GETS A JOLT. ......... 173
O
vii


viii
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
PAGE
XXIII. THE SOLVING OF THE CIPHER . ....... 178
XXIV. ENTER JOHN BELL . ........... 192
XXV. MORE ABOUT MARTIE ..........
XXVI. STRANGELY ACQUIRES A PAL.......
XXVII. BOBBs Hooks A FISH . .........
XXVIII. CONCERNING RAVENELLE. ..
XXIX. CLOSING IN .......... .... 231
XXX. THE FACE IN THE FLASH . ......... 238
XXXI. INSPECTOR MacDONALD SHUDDERS ...... 240
XXXII. THE CONFESSION . . . . . . . · · · · · 254
·


CHARACTERS
LAWE, SENIOR ........ Founder of Lawe & Son
GEOFFREY LAWE ...... Junior Partner of Lawe & Son
PETER STRANGELY ...... American Amateur Detective
RILLA RAVENELLE .......... The Missing Girl
BASIL RAVENELLE ............ Her Father
RALPH CUMBERLAND ...
....... Her Cousin
Mrs. O'BRIEN ............ Her Landlady
INSPECTOR MacDONALD ...... Of New Scotland Yard
KELLY ............ Of New Scotland Yard
MARTIE GREEN ......... Discharged Domestic
Mrs. LUGG........ Ralph Cumberland's Landlady
DORA .............. Mrs. Lugg's Maid
BERT BROWN ....... Dord's Sweetheart, a Plumber
BOBBS ............. The Butcher's Boy
MR. PARKER ......... Employed by Lawe & Son
TOMPKINS.......... Strangely's Man-Servant
SIMMONS ............... Lawe's Valet
WATKINS · · · · · · · · · · · · · · The Postman
“MR. SMITH" .............. Unknown
“JOHN BELL” ............ Man of Mystery
MRS. BAKER ........... Fisherman's Widow
WILLIE INGER............. Fisher Boy





PART ONE





THE RAVENELLE RIDDLE
THE DISAPPEARANCE
PETER STRANGELY shifted his position and recrossed his long,
gangling legs.
"I'm afraid you'll have to count me out,” he said irritably.
"Missing females aren't my province. I'm not a professional
sleuth, and I wish to heaven I'd kept my nose out of the Barton
affair. I've been hounded to death ever since by everyone who's
lost anything from a barpin to a South American fortune.”
“Well, you solved the Barton case, didn't you?” The young
man seated opposite rumpled his fair hair with a quick, nervous
gesture.
"I brought a little common sense to bear upon it. That's all,”
replied Strangely gruffly.
“That's all I ask of you,” said Geoffrey Lawe, rising and rest-
lessly starting to pace the floor of Strangely's tiny library. "A bit
of common sense! God knows I'd use my own, but I seem to
have lost all I ever had. As for that fool, MacDonald "the
tone was one of contemptuous dismissal.
Strangely puffed placidly upon his dilapidated corncob pipe, a
relic of Iowan farm days that persisted even after ten years in
London.
"Inspector MacDonald is not the fool you seem to think him, if
that's any satisfaction to you. A trifle slow, perhaps.”
“Slow! He's too deuced slow. That's why I've come to you."
A note of keenest anxiety had crept into the younger man's voice
in spite of his evident effort to subdue any emotion. “At this
oll.
3


THE RAVENELLE RIDDLE
That's onl
how
the head
"At Scotland Yarded up, too?
rate, she might be done away with a dozen times before they find
her!”
The last words broke off raggedly, and Strangely, through a
curtain of blue smoke, eyed the speaker with quickened interest.
There was something here that he did not quite understand.
"Where do you come in on this, Mr. Lawe?” he asked quietly.
"Just what is your position in the case?”
Young Lawe colored slightly at the unexpected question.
"Miss Ravenelle was employed by our firm. Naturally, we
feel the keenest anxiety over her disappearance,” he answered a
trifle stiffly.
"Oh-yes-of course," agreed Strangely mildly. “That's only
natural, I guess. And your father, now—the head of the firm-
I suppose he's all worked up, too? It was he who turned the case
over to Scotland Yard in the first place?"
"At my suggestion-yes.”
"And he's lying awake nights now-over the disappearance of
this rather obscure young typist from the main office? In fact,
he's so worked up over the affair that he can't wait for Scotland
Yard to do its stuff? And so he sent you to me? Is that what
I'm to understand?” drawled Strangely.
Young Lawe stood suddenly still, hands thrust deep in his coat
pockets, a brighter flush creeping slowly to his thin cheek-bones.
His eyes were fixed doggedly on Strangely's lazily compelling
ones.
"No," he said bitterly at last. “That's scarcely the situation.”
"I guessed as much.” Strangely's voice was distant, curt. “You
have not been frank with me. You come to me for aid—because
Scotland Yard is not swift enough to suit you. Yet you delib-
erately withhold from me information which might be of value.
Doubtless you have done the same thing with Inspector Mac-
Donald. Mr. Lawe,” the words were like the crack of a whip in
the quiet, book-lined room, "your feeling is obviously more than
the ordinary anxiety of a kindly employer for a disappearing
employee. What was this girl to you?”
For a second the other man hesitated, but Strangely's curt tones


THE DISAPPEARANCE
had evidently released some hitherto powerful repression in his
attitude. Now, with a slight hopeless gesture, he sank into the
lounge chair from which he had risen to pace the floor.
"Everything!” he replied in a low, passionate voice. “She was
everything to me!"
Then bitterly:
“I hadn't meant to tell that part of it. One doesn't parade one's
emotions. But, since you've seen-oh, it isn't what you're prob-
ably thinking. Why does the world always assume that the
relations between an employer and a typist he admires must
necessarily be sordid? She was so good-so brave and sweet,
working there every day. I-worshipped her.”
“Then I take it there were people who may have misunder-
stood this feeling of yours?” said Strangely more gently, his gaze
never leaving the young man's grief-torn face.
“My own father did not understand," replied young Lawe
harshly. “He was greatly opposed to our association. But that
didn't matter to me. Nothing mattered-except Rilla herself. I
hadn't said much to her. But she knew how I felt. II-if she's
dead, I can't- " his voice trailed off brokenly, and, momentarily
losing control of himself, he buried his fair young head in his
hands.
Strangely stared at the boyish, bowed figure with a musing light
in his usually hard gray eyes. Geoffrey Lawe was no stranger to
him, though their acquaintance was of the perfunctory sort one
might expect to find between a reserved thirty-eight-year-old
scientist he has
scientist, absorbed in his own activities, and a wealthy young man
whom he has seen grow to maturity in the same neighborhood.
Cromwell Road, on which Strangely had lived for the ten years
following the war, runs directly past that West London island of
upper-middle-class solidity known as The Boltons. And it was
in this small, park-like enclosure, with its circle of not-unattractive,
old-fashioned homes, that the Lawes—father and son-resided.
Strangely's interest had first been centered on the family through
the spectacular suicide of the elder Lawe's beautiful invalid wife.
Later, remembering his own healthfully riotous childhood on an


THE DISAPPEARANCE
“Relatives?”
"As far as I know her only living relatives are her father,
Basil Ravenelle, a cripple whom she supports, and one cousin-
Ralph Cumberland.”
"And her address?”
“19 Acacia Villas. She and her father have had rooms there
for some years. And, for the last six months, Rilla had been
employed as a typist in our offices.”
“Appearance?”
"Small and slight, with a-a lovely, delicate face,” here the
lover's pride broke through the forcedly impersonal data. “And
she had a quick, bright way of talking, almost foreign. On July
17th, the day she disappeared, she wore a black frock, a dark-
blue rain-proof coat, and a small black hat."
“Who saw her last?”
"As far as we can determine, the last person to see her was
her landlady, a Mrs. O'Brien."
“At what hour?”
“Eight o'clock in the evening. Rilla met her at the front door,
and said that she was going to the cinema with a friend. Mrs.
O'Brien noted this particularly.”
“Why particularly?” interrupted Strangely, his long, thin,
strong-jawed face expressing intense concentration. “Was it such
an unusual thing for Miss Ravenelle to go to the cinema?”
"Well, yes. It was. Her father was apt to have bad times at
night, and she was reluctant to leave him. She refused to go
with me, several times, for this reason.”
"Have you any idea to what friend she referred?”
"Absolutely none. She had three girl friends, or rather ac-
quaintances, for none of them knew her really well. We ques-
tioned them, but none of the three had seen her that evening.
There was no one else she ever went out with, except her cousin
Ralph Cumberland and myself. But when Inspector MacDonald
questioned Cumberland, he said he had not seen her for two
weeks. It seemed a bit odd.”
"You mean he had been in the habit of seeing her more often?”


THE RAVENELLE RIDDLE
"Rather. Or so I gathered from Rilla's conversation.”
“And where does this cousin, this Ralph Cumberland live?"
For the first time Strangely began to jot down something on the
little pad he had been fingering.
"37 Gordon Street.”
"And the girls you mentioned? The acquaintances of Miss
Ravenelle?”
"Two are typists from our own offices, Elsa Berry and Ruth
Wilson. They room together at 4 Russell Square. The third girl
is a doctor's assistant, Doctor Shepherd, and she lodges next door
to his office, at 17 Wimpole Street."
"And Miss Ravenelle's landlady is ?”
“Mrs. O'Brien. A pleasant enough woman and evidently de-
voted to Rilla. Seems all broken up over her disappearance. She's
been uncommonly good to old Ravenelle, too, for the past few
days. He's in bad shape from the shock. Peculiar old chap, any-
how. Looks like one of those early Roman Johnnies. I forget
which one. Marcus Aurelius or someone."
Strangely glanced up abstractedly, corncob pipe still clenched
tightly between his strong white teeth, although it had long since
gone out.
“You can think of no one else who was on intimate terms with
the girl?”
"Absolutely no one.”
Strangely was writing rapidly now, queer hieroglyphics and
whords form of shorta, but purely more advisa
"A form of shorthand,” he explained smilingly as he noted
Lawe's curious glance, “but purely my own, and incomprehensible
to anyone but myself. I find it more advisable in my research
work. Well, Mr. Lawe, you'd make a star witness.”
“I should,” replied Lawe wearily. “I've been over and over
every one of the details with Scotland Yard until they must know
them by heart. And yet they have found nothing, nothing."
His face contracted nervously as he continued.
“They have systematically investigated every single cinema
house in the city, and not a girl seen on the evening of July 17th


THE DISAPPEARANCE ,
rangely tappe, that she hawith a little sings and the be would
who resembles the description. Or rather too many who do. But
none the right one. It seems hopeless!"
“Nonsense,” chided the older man. “We can't say that. Why,
I've just entered the case, and I assure you I don't take up hopeless
affairs. But about Miss Ravenelle's work. You say she had been
with Lawe & Son for just six months?”
"That's all. But she and her father have lived in London for
about eight years.”
“In the same place all that time?”
“I think so-yes.”
Strangely tapped the table with his pencil.
“Curious, then, that she had no more friends."
“I think not,” said Lawe with a little smile. "You see, Rilla
is much superior to her enforced surroundings and the people in
them. She's not their sort, and it's very unlikely that she would
make friends among them. She and her father are distinctly out
of place in Acacia Villas.”
"She was cheerful not the melancholy type?"
“Decidedly not. The word melancholy is absurd in connection
with Rilla. So bright always. Sunny- ” Geoffrey's hands
clenched suddenly. "I'm going crazy about this. I can't stand it.
While we sit here, she may be may be "
Strangely took the younger man firmly by the arm.
“Look here,” he commanded not unkindly. “From now on,
you cut out the sob-stuff. Don't let your imagination run away
with you. It's fatal. I grant you the situation looks bad. Miss
Ravenelle may have met with foul play. But then again she may
not. Every girl who disappears is not the victim of a conspiracy,
especially a relatively unimportant young typist. Has it never
occurred to you that she may simply have run away?”
Lawe's face expressed stupefaction.
“Why should she?"
“Why shouldn't she?” countered the American drily. "From
your description her life sounds the reverse of alluring for a
beautiful, eighteen-year-old girl. She would not be the first to
dread poverty and drudgery!”
with Rilla.y sot. The word melancholy type?


1ο
THE RAVENELLE RIDDLE
Geoffrey Lawe shook his head incredulously.
“I know it wasn't that. She never complained. And I don't
believe she minded poverty for herself—just for her father. Be-
sides, if she had run away, she would have taken her clothes. No,
you can count that out.”
Strangely gave a grim smile.
"In my work, everything is a possibility till proven otherwise,”
he said. “However, you are probably right, and we must hunt
some other solution for our problem.” He glanced once more
over his odd-looking notes.
“There doesn't seem to be much to go on thus far. But at
least it's a beginning. Put on your hat now, and we'll start.”
“Start where?” inquired Lawe as he complied.
“My dear fellow," replied Strangely with a characteristic little
curl of the lips, “the first thing, according to Hoyle (or rather,
according to Doyle) is to visit the scene of the crime. As far as
we yet know, there has been no crime. But we can at least visit
the scene of the disappearance!”


OUT OF THE STORM
ACACIA Villas proved to be a narrow, rather dingy passageway
between two more pretentious streets, and No. 19 the very picture
of neat, poverty-stricken respectability. The two callers rang
several times before the door finally was opened by a stout, red-
faced woman who greeted them breathlessly.
"Your pardon, gentlemen,” she said, “but it's to the top of the
house I was, tending the poor lone soul there. Oh, good evenin',
Mr. Lawe. 'Tis yerself, is it? I couldn't rightly tell for the shaddy
on yer face. It's Mister Ravenelle you're wantin' to see, I don't
doubt.”
"Not this time, Mrs. O'Brien. But how is he?" inquired Lawe
as they followed her into the clean, bare hallway odorous of tea
and mutton chops.
"He's worse, and that's the truth, Mister Lawe. Not a morsel
would he eat, and me cookin' it so careful with me own two
hands, along of being without help the day. Like an immidge
he lays there, with a froze look that fair chills the marrow. And
every onct in a while he gives a moan, like. A very corp he looks,
and I'm thinkin' he's not long for the world at all.” She shook
her head sadly.
Upon her last words Strangely pushed his long awkward form
further into the light.
“Mrs. O'Brien,” he said pleasantly, with the slightly nasal
twang that his long residence abroad had done nothing to modify,
“my name is Strangely. As you know, Mr. Lawe is most anxious
about the fate of Miss Ravenelle, and I am eager to help him. I
guess you are, too. Now isn't there some quiet place where we
Eile he eats of being wie. Took tha
hands, accal, and that's the
II


12
THE RAVENELLE RIDDLE
can sit while you tell us all you know about the young lady ar
her father?”
"Indeed and there is,” replied Mrs. O'Brien heartily, su
cumbing at once to the charm of the tall American's manne
"Walk yerselves right into me sitting-room.”
She bustled through the long, dim hallway into a bright enoug
little cubby-hole at the end. Here everything, though old, w
neat and shining, while a red checked table-cover gave a chee
aspect to the place. Several small paintings hung on the wall, ar
a life-size crayon portrait of the late O'Brien stood on an eas
near the tiny, glowing fireplace.
They seated themselves before the blaze, for, although it w:
just past mid-July, the evening—like so many in England—w
raw and cold, and the warmth from the small grate most a
ceptable.
Strangely immediately settled back, his long legs wound twii
around each other in a favorite contortionist attitude, with the le
foot hooked about the right ankle. His hands were claspe
across his chest and his eyes thoughtfully narrowed.
"Now then,” he began, "when did the Ravenelles come to you?
Mrs. O'Brien cleared her throat impressively.
“ 'Twas eight years ago come Januwery,” she said slowly."
mind well the day-a bitter cold one, with rain and fog to boo
Along about nine of the evening come a ring at the bell, an
when I opened to it, there was three persons fair blown into th
hall. Half-froze they was, and wet. Himself was alive at th
time, and when he see that one of the men was a cripple, nav
thing would do but that he must carry him in, in his great stron
arms, to our bit of a fire. Old Ravenelle, it was, Mr. Lawe. Ju
as you see him now, but a fine handsome man for all of h
twisted limbs. 'Tother was short and dark with a foreign loo
to him, though he spoke like you or meself. A thick, black bear
he had on his face, and O'Brien—who'd follied the sea as a lad-
said he'd the look of a sailor. The third was the young chil
Miss Rilla, a poor half-starved lookin' creature, but even so
sweet, pretty way with her.”
across his chest and the right anklertionist attitude, wound twi.


14
THE RAVENELLE RIDDLE
"I knowed full well she'd one of the machines, along of the
other lodgers complainin', the way she kept them from sleepin'
at nights. Well, she's left long since, and I've never let another
of the contraptions enter me house. But she served her purpose,
gentlemen. I rejuced her rent a tidy bit while she learned Miss
Rilla to work. And that's the story, gentlemen. That's all I
know!"
She settled back with a long breath.
“Thank you, Mrs. O'Brien,” said Strangely, who had listened
patiently, as was his invariable custom with garrulous witnesses.
“You have told your story very clearly. And now we come to
July 17th, the day, or rather the night, of the disappearance. I
understand you saw Miss Ravenelle at eight o'clock, and were, as
far as we know, the last person to see her that night.”
“True, sir,” replied the woman quickly, with all the volubility
and willingness to talk that characterizes her race; yet somehow
Strangely had the feeling that she was carefully choosing her
words. “I'd been to the corner pillar box to post a letter I'd just
been after writin', and as I come back up the steps out walks
Miss Rilla. 'Good evenin', Mrs. O'Brien,' she says in her pretty
voice, ‘Father is better to-night, and I'm going to the cinema with
a friend. 'Have you got your key, Miss Rilla?' says I. 'Indeed
and I have,' says she, and takes it out of her black bag and shakes
it at me.”
“What's that?” interrupted Strangely quickly. “Her bag?
You say she had a black bag? You mean a travelling bag?”.
“Lord love you, no, sir," replied his informant. “Her hand-
bag, it was. The big one she carried to work and all. She used
to ”
“Yes,” broke in Lawe impatiently, “she always carried a good-
sized bag, more like a brief-case, for she used to do typing at
home at night— ".
“Well, now," began Mrs. O'Brien with a surprised look, but
Lawe was not listening.
“I'd know it anywhere,” he went on rapidly, “because of a


OUT OF THE STORM
15
scratch I made one day on the side. I wanted to get her a new
one, but she wouldn't hear of it.”
“A fair-sized black bag with a scratch on one side,” ruminated
Strangely. “That's a good thing to remember. Can either of
you think of anything else that might be helpful in the search,
something you may have overlooked until now—some distinguish-
ing trait or mannerism?”
Mrs. O'Brien shook her head vigorously, and Lawe confirmed
her denial.
“There was nothing-unless the fact of her extraordinary
beauty could mark her out.”
“The world is full of beautiful girls,” said Strangely wearily.
"You can think of nothing farther then, Mrs. O'Brien, nothing
Miss Ravenelle did—or said?”
The landlady thought for a minute or two, her pleasant, florid
face creased in a frown.
"Well, now, I seem to-yes, sir, I do remember something now.
She was after saying one more thing. “Tell Father it will be all
right!”
Both men looked up sharply.
"What did she mean?” questioned Strangely swiftly. “Had
anything gone wrong?”
"No, sir, it didn't seem so. Leastwise, naught that I'd knowl-
edge of. And, truth to tell, the words slipped me mind till this
minute past. She was always that thoughtful of poor Mr. Rav-
enelle, I figgered as how she only meant to say she'd be all right
and home soon. Indeed, I never give a thought more to it. I
took him his tea at half after the hour and tolt him she'd soon be
back. He only smiled, and I know he thought naught of it. But,
come morning, 'twas half wild he was, for she'd not been home
the night. And there's no one seen her since!"
There was a pause, Strangely piecing together as best he could
the jumble of facts he had just heard, Geoffrey Lawe wondering
desperately as to his sweetheart's fate, Mrs. O'Brien openly wiping
her eyes on her apron.
"Now then,” continued Strangely finally, shaking himself out


16
THE RAVENELLE RIDDLE
of a heavy reverie. "Just one more thing, and we'll be done." He
smiled pleasantly. “Had Mr. Ravenelle or his daughter any
friends who came often to see them?”
The woman considered
“They was always very quiet folk,” she said at last, "though
Miss Rilla was sweet enough to all me lodgers. But friends—10.
As for the old man, his nevvy was all ever come to see him. Mr.
Cumberland, that was. And I'm thinkin' 'twas more Miss Rilla
brought him, than love for his uncle,” she ended shrewdly.
Her tone, though conveying the admission that Cumberland
was to be praised for his taste, nevertheless also subtly conveyed
a hint of something else that Strangely was quick to seize upon.
“You dislike Cumberland, Mrs. O'Brien,” he pronounced
sharply.
“That I do!” replied the landlady firmly. “Though why, I
don't know. A pleasant enough spoke young man he is, but, from
the first time ever I laid eyes on him a year past, I could not abide
him. Him and his smooth ways!"
Strangely looked surprised.
“You say you first saw him a year ago? Then he was not
living in London before that?”
"I couldn't say, sir. But he never come here till one year past."
“And did he come often to see Mr. Ravenelle?”
"Every day or so, till the past fortnight.”
“What type of man was he-in appearance, I mean?” probed
Strangely.
"I'm thinkin' he was the kind might well turn a colleen's head,"
was the shrewd reply, “what with the glib talk of him and his
great black eyes. Powerful built he was, six foot if an inch, with
a fine high color the which many a girl could envy, white teeth
and hair as black as a Japanee. But a look I didn't like for all
that."
Strangely pondered this fresh information for some minutes
longer, and then brought the interview to a close by demanding
whether he might, without disturbing Mr. Ravenelle, take a look
at the missing girl's bed-chamber.


OUT OF THE STORM
17
It appeared that this was easily possible, as the old man had not
stirred from his own bed since the day after his daughter's dis-
appearance, and his sleeping room was separated from hers by a
small living-room. This last room opened, in turn, on the stair
landing. Mrs. O'Brien let them in with her own key, remarking
that they could inspect the place to their heart's content, for Mr.
Ravenelle was now under the influence of a sleeping-draught and
would not hear them.
It was with totally diverse emotions that the two men entered
the door of the girl's room. Lawe half paused, feeling a reluctance
to enter here in Rilla's absence, to poke and pry among her poor
possessions, and to disclose to alien eyes those simple things with
which she had surrounded herself in her poverty-stricken home.
Strangely entertained no such qualms. He was there to seek
information which might aid in the recovery, living or dead, of
the girl upon whom centered young Lawe's devotion. There was
no time for hesitancy. A minute examination must be made.
He stood slowly revolving in the center of the room, trying to
picture from it the possible tastes of its owner. There was little
enough to go on, and the place, to one less keen than the Amer-
ican, might well have offered no clue to the character of Rilla
Ravenelle. The room, while fresh and clean, was patently devoid
of all those frivolous little touches which usually distinguish one
which is occupied by a girl still in her 'teens. Poverty or dis-
inclination or both had erased the imprint of her personality here,
unless its very simplicity could be adjudged as such. There were
no pictures on the walls, no unessential fripperies. On a small
table by the window stood a sewing-box filled with mended stock-
ings, attesting at least to an industrious nature. A small book
and a neatly folded newspaper lay beside them. On the dresser
were a few cheap toilet articles of the type found at Woolworth's,
and Strangely had no doubt that they were indeed purchased at
the Tottenham Court Road branch store, which was not far away.
Beside these, in an inexpensive little frame, stood a kodak picture
of Geoffrey Lawe. Strangely noted, half pitying and half amused,


18
THE RAVENELLE RIDDLE
how the quick color rushed to his companion's face when he, too,
observed this.
The American crossed in leisurely fashion to the table by the
window, ran his hand idly through the pages of the book, obsery-
ing as he did so that it was a French dictionary. He then glanced
carelessly at the folded newspaper and finally thrust both articles
into one baggy coat pocket. A further thorough inspection evi-
dently yielded little more of interest, but, when he had finished,
Strangely strolled back to the one small window, and again looked
out.
It opened, as is customary in most Bloomsbury houses, upon a
back courtyard some thirty feet below-a narrow courtyard dis-
playing a few islands of matted grass on its hard-packed dirt
surface—surrounded by a high brick wall. Two sides of this
wall separated other similar courtyards from that of Mrs. O'Brien.
The remaining side opened upon a dingy, alley-like passage by
means of a small green door, evidently the tradesman's entrance.
This door appeared to be bolted on the inside. Strangely gazed
out for a moment or two in a dissatisfied manner, then turned
back to his companion and Mrs. O'Brien, who had just tip-toed
heavily back from the sick man's room. She reported her lodger
as being in a light, restless sleep broken by tossing and muttering.
“Do you think I could look in without disturbing him?" asked
Strangely.
"Oh, yes, sir,” acquiesced the woman obligingly. “He won't
wake yet awhile. It's something the doctor was after giving him
to make him sleep. Just come this way.”
The two men softly followed her through a dreary living-room
in which there had been some apparent effort at beautification in
the shape of two potted plants and several gay cushions. Strangely
figured shrewdly that both touches bore the imprint of Mrs.
O'Brien's hand. Beyond this room 'was a door which opened
into a second bed-chamber. Bare, clean, unadorned as a monk's
cell, it was little more than a cubicle. A bed, a chair, a wash-
stand. And here again, as in Rilla's bed-chamber, no ornament of
any kind. A faint greenish glow shone from the night lamp be-


20
THE RAVENELLE RIDDLE
but I can't rightly say who painted them. They're just ones as
O'Brien picked up before he died. A great lover of pitchers was
O'Brien.”
“And I believe that's the first lie she's told to-night,” remarked
Strangely thoughtfully, as he and Lawe strolled away. "Now I
wonder why!”


III
THE GHASTLY FIND
“Don't know, I'm sure,” said Lawe indifferently, and then added
with impatience, “Well, did you find anything?”.
“Did you?” countered Strangely.
“Of course not. It's just because I've been looking for three
days, ever since she disappeared, and haven't found anything, that
I've come to you. Scotland Yard can't, or won't, give me any
information. Can't, is my opinion, for MacDonald said he'd give
me a call directly any new development arose. I asked him if he
minded my bringing you into the case if I could, and he said no,
as long as you didn't interfere with him. I'm to let him know if
you make any progress. Now, if you've found nothing, it seems
that we're at a deadlock!”
Strangely smiled as he loped along, taking his thin, rangy form
over the ground at a tremendous speed with no apparent effort.
“Did I say I hadn't found anything?” he inquired quietly. “I
just asked if you had.”
“Then you have!” cried Lawe with excitement.
"I'm not sure. I can tell you better later on. There are only
two things I am reasonably satisfied about at the present moment.
One—the young woman evidently reciprocated your affection.
Two-she expected to return very shortly."
“What makes you think that?” asked the younger man eagerly.
“Naturally,” elucidated Strangely, “she would not give the
picture of a man to whom she was totally indifferent, the place
of honor-in fact, the only place on her bureau. And naturally,
again, having once given that place, she would have taken the
picture with her had she contemplated a stay of some time away
21


22
THE RAVENELLE RIDDLE
from home, especially as the picture itself was small and easy to
pack away.”
“Oh, I don't know," said Lawe gloomily, his blue eyes clouded.
"She may have had one of this Cumberland that she took with
her. If he's as much of a lad as Mrs. O'Brien seems to think,
he's probably jolly fond of having his portrait made.”
“Was that your reason?” grinned Strangely amiably.
“No, it wasn't,” replied Lawe, a bit affronted. “That's a snap-
shot. She took it herself one Sunday afternoon, with my camera."
“And by the same token,” cut in the other lazily, “I guess you
must have one of her. I should have asked you at once, of course.
All the best detectives do, I've heard. That shows what a wet-
smack I am. I wonder you have any confidence in me. Or per-
haps you haven't?”
Lawe colored.
"I've heard enough of your methods, Mr. Strangely,” he replied,
"to know that if you didn't ask to see Rilla's portrait, you'd some
good reason for it. And,” he added curiously, “if you don't mind
telling, I'd really like to know what it was.”
“Such trust is touching," drawled Strangely, rather pleased
nevertheless. “Well, let's just call it a little peculiarity of mine.
As a matter of fact, I've found out from my work that, while you
can tell a whole lot from a man's face, you can find out darned
little from a woman's—and that little is generally just about what
she wants you to know. Women have a habit of registering
whatever they want to, in a photograph, and it's bound to have
some effect upon the fellow who's trying to figure out their char-
acter. I prefer to work the other way about. Have my estimate
of their personalities all worked out before I see them, if possible.
Even then I only bother with photographs as a means of identi-
fication-physical landmarks, as it were, bone structure, skull
formation and so on. Do you get me? Now let's have the photo.
You've got it with you, of course!”
Without replying, Lawe stopped under the next street-lamp, for
it was by now wholly dark, drew carefully from his inner coat
pocket a little leather case, and handed it open to his companion.


THE GHASTLY FIND
25
hared up. Lofty, narrado was covepholstered wall-pa
hand in an imperative silencing gesture. From somewhere above
them now came a light, quavering voice in reply to Dora's loud
information.
“Tell the gentlemen to come up, Dora."
They were met at the top of the first flight by a small, elderly
woman with a gentle, worried face.
“You can see the room, gentlemen,” she said in her plaintive
little voice, “but it isn't rightly set in order yet, Mr. Cumberland
just this minute leaving and all."
“That's all right, Mrs. Lugg,” said Strangely, already pat with
her name. “I can get an idea just the same.”
She led them down another hallway, high and gloomy like the
lower one, and stopped before a heavy dark door, numbered 16.
“Mind your foot, sirs,” she admonished as she opened it.
“There's two steps down."
As she spoke she struck a match, and a gas-jet by the door
flared up. Lawe and Strangely, entering after her, found them-
selves in a lofty, narrow room of the typical, middle-class lodging-
house type. The floor was covered with a dark, nondescript
carpet, heavy dark furniture was upholstered in ancient red plush
and hung with knitted tidies. The greenish wall-paper was old
and faded in spots where pictures at different times had been
hung and then removed. But three or four heads of Victorian
maidens still simpered modestly down at the onlooker, and dozens
of pieces of bric-à-brac and souvenirs crowded all the available
space on the chimney-piece. The dingy, dark brown hangings at
the windows did not look overly clean, but the bed was freshly
made-evidently Mrs. Lugg had been engaged in this task when
interrupted by Dora. The wardrobe and chest of drawers still
stood open, as if just recently hurriedly emptied of their contents;
a soiled and discolored towel hung over the back of a chair, and
the wash-bowl was still half full of dirty water.
Strangely glanced about appraisingly, and then spoke. At his
words, Lawe's jaw dropped before he could control it.
“I'll take the room, Mrs. Lugg. And, as I have no baggage
with me to-night, I'll pay you for a day in advance, and send for


26
THE RAVENELLE RIDDLE
itele woman band being a breakfast.
my belongings to-morrow. I'd like to take possession at once, if
I may." His hand went to his pocket.
“Very good, sir,” said the little woman hesitatingly. “It's a bit
irregular, sir, but I can see you're honest—and being a friend of
Mr. Cumberland-six and six it is, with bath and breakfast.
Lunch and dinner extra, if you're eating in. Was you hungry
now, sir? Supper is done, but Dora can bring you some tea and
cold joint, if you wish.”
"No, thank you,” replied Strangely amiably, as he counted out
the required coins and then walked toward the table. “However,
I'll just write a letter that I must post immediately, and I'm afraid
I'll have to trouble you for writing materials. The maid can clean
the room up after I've gone out.”
“Yes, sir, certainly. Dora, Dor-ah!” fluttered Mrs. Lugg, dis-
appearing through the doorway. “Writing paper for Mr. Six-
teen.”
Dora appeared at once with the required materials, awkwardly
bowing herself out after she had handed them to Strangely. The
bowimen were left a Lawe, at last time na
twWell,” explod under the name old one finger of
“Well,” exploded Lawe, at last giving way to his surprise and
curiosity, “What under the name of — "
But “Mr. Sixteen” quickly placed one finger on his lips in a
silencing gesture, crossed hastily to the door, turned the key in
the lock, deftly flung his broad-brimmed felt hat over the knob,
and recrossed the room to his companion's side.
Then, quietly and swiftly, he looked at the unemptied wash-
bowl, examined the soiled towel, and jammed it into his pocket,
hurriedly bending, as he did so, over the open bureau drawers.
“Luck, absolutely,” he breathed softly, “our coming just at that
moment. Otherwise, they might have had time to clean the place.
As it was, they'd begun and would have kept right on if I hadn't
pulled that bull about wanting to write a letter, in order to get rid
of them. Now what do you suppose took Cumberland away in
such an infernal hurry to-night?"
“Fright, perhaps,” suggested Lawe.
“Yes, but-well, never mind now. We can't spend too much


THE GHASTLY FIND
time here. There is too much to be done. Get busy and see if
you can find anything of interest—and look your darndest.”
Lawe obediently joined in the search, and, for the next fifteen
minutes, they diligently investigated every nook and cranny in the
room—the wardrobe, the washstand, the window sills and ledges,
the seats and backs of the chairs, every square inch of the shabby
carpet. They even tore apart the bed, and made it carefully up
again.
“What the deuce are we looking for?” panted Lawe at last, as,
Alushed and warm, he stood facing the other man.
"Nothing-everything,” grinned Strangely, “although the search
was not as aimless as it might appear. I got his thumb-prints
beautifully on this old razor blade.” He wrapped the small piece
of steel tenderly in his handkerchief as he spoke. “I see the waste-
basket's been emptied. Perhaps Mrs. Lugg did it, or perhaps
Cumberland. Lawe, if you were going to empty a waste-basket,
and didn't want anyone to find the contents, and were in a hurry
-a damnable hurry—what would you do?”
“How do you know he wanted to hide the contents?” Lawe
borrowed a Yankee trick from his companion and asked a ques-
tion in reply.
“I don't know it,” replied Strangely impatiently. “I'm sup
posing it. What would you do?”
“We-ell,” Lawe hesitated. “I think I'd stuff the things in my
pockets and get rid of them later."
“Would you, by heck?” said Strangely, struck.
“But perhaps there wasn't anything in the basket, after all,”
added Lawe.
"Bound to be," answered Strangely. “There's always some-
thing in a waste-basket--especially if you're clearing out and
going some place else-always a bunch of junk to throw away.
Yet here we have a singularly empty basket. And I had some
reason to believe we might find something we wanted in it. He's
cleaned it out, you can bet!”
“There doesn't seem to be anything further here,” he added,
eve we might finns empty baskets to throw


28
THE RAVENELLE RIDDLE
taking his hat off the door-knob, and preparing to leave the room.
"I think we might as well go."
"Are you taking poor Mrs. Lugg's dirty towel with you?” in-
quired Lawe in some surprise as he noted the fringe hanging
out of the other man's coat pocket.
“I am, indeed,” replied Strangely, poking it down out of sight.
“That towel just naturally bothered me. I had to get it, and went
to some pains to do so. Look out-mind that step!” as Lawe
made a backward move toward the door.
But he had spoken too late. Lawe stumbled over the lower
step, and only saved himself from an unpleasant fall by clutching
at the top one.
“Pick yourself up, man, and come on," began Strangely im-
patiently, but paused at Lawe's look of amazement.
“Look, look!” he was whispering excitedly. “Come here-
quick! This upper step gives a bit when you grasp it, and I'll
swear it looks to me as if the nails had been taken out recently-
see, when you look closely, this way—and then put back again!"
Strangely bent quickly down.
“By Jing, you're right,” he said. “Only you're wrong about
them being nails. They're screws. See? And they have been
out very recently. Someone, Cumberland probably, must have
done the job in a hurry and didn't screw them down quite tight
enough when he put them back. That's why the step moved
slightly when you clutched the top. We'd never have noticed
it otherwise, I suppose. Here, wait a minute!"
With a hand that was skilled and deft in all its movements in
spite of its large-boned, ungainly appearance, he extracted a
minute combination screwdriver and corkscrew from an inner
pocket.
“Never travel without it,” explained the typical American,
busily engagir.g himself in drawing out the screws.
“One—two,” he counted as he worked. “Give a guess, now.
Do we, or don't we find anything here? Did he keep something
here and take it away with him? Or did he hide something here
just before he left? Three-is there, or isn't there-four- "


THE GHASTLY FIND
29
“There is!” breathed Lawe. “I'm sure of it!"
"So am I,” agreed Strangely. “I've a hunch. Well, here goes.
Don't lose those screws.”
With both hands he lifted the heavy piece of wood that formed
the top of the step, and the two men peered down into the hollow
thus disclosed. Although a rather disagreeable odor wafted up
ward with the release of the step, it seemed for a moment as if
nothing were there after all. And then Lawe, with a quick ex-
clamation, pounced upon a small darkish object lying well back in
one corner. Instantly, with an oath, he recoiled and dropped it
agai fiere, wholding, alardo, picked
“Here, what is it?" jerked Strangely, putting down the board
he was still holding, alarmed by the other man's action.
Rather gingerly he, too, picked up the little object, and, as he
did so, expelled a sharp breath of astonished horror.
It was a blood-stained human finger!


IV
THE MYSTERIOUS MR. SMITH
SMALL, slender, shapely, indubitably that of a woman, it lay in a
hand that Strangely himself had some ado to keep from shaking.
Geoffrey Lawe was leaning back against the wall, apparently in
the grip of a deadly nausea. The cold perspiration stood out on
his forehead.
“God ” he muttered, “this is awful— "
"Brace up," admonished Strangely, almost as shaken as the
younger man by their ghastly discovery. “Nothing can be ac-
complished by going to pieces. Let's take stock of the thing as
calmly as we can. To my mind, what we have found is un-
doubtedly the middle finger of a woman's hand. Whether left
or right I can't tell just yet, but I imagine the right, as it seems
to be slightly calloused on the under side and there are indications
of an ink stain at the tip. As I say, it is a woman's finger, but
there is no proof that it is Miss Ravenelle's, or that she has been
-done away with. The blood is completely dried and caked, and,
from the condition of the finger itself, I should say that it is
several days old. But as to that, we must rely upon a doctor's
statement. Look here, Lawe. I hate to ask you, but—is there
anything familiar about this? Does it seem-would you recog-
nize it-if it were hers?”
For a moment a shudder was Lawe's only reply. His eyes had
grown bright and feverish, and deep lines seemed suddenly to
have been gashed in his white face. With the utmost force of
will-power, he brought his gaze again to bear upon the hideous
object.
“Her--her hands were not like that,” he said hoarsely at last,
30


THE MYSTERIOUS MR. SMITH
31
clasping his head with both hands as if to help himself concen-
trate. “Her nails were-dainty_shining. This finger-nail is
thick, broken- ”
Then suddenly, trembling, he rose to his feet.
"By Heaven,” he gasped, “Cumberland is behind this. The
finger may not belong to Rilla—I'll swear it doesn't-but it means
that Cumberland is behind a filthy business of some kind. And
we've let him get away! Instead of following him-following
him-making his life a hell — ”.
“Hush, man, for the Lord's sake!” pleaded Strangely. “Do you
want to rouse the house and have every Tom, Dick and Harry
rushing in here to see what's the matter? It's horrible, all right,
but try to keep cool. I see what you mean about Cumberland.
He must be mixed up in some rotten deal, of course. And even
though this may not be proof that Miss Ravenelle is dead-yet
some other poor creature may be. And if he would commit one
crime, he would commit another— " Strangely's voice trailed
into silence, and he thought quickly.
“We haven't really lost him, you know," he continued. “He
headed for Victoria Station, and that probably means the coast.
It should be easy to pick up his trail. But I'll be willing to wager
everything I own against a plugged nickel that Scotland Yard is
on his heels this minute. At any rate, you must manage to keep
your head. Rage does no good.”
The dazed look cleared from Lawe's blue eyes, and he passed
a hand weakly across his forehead.
“You're right,” he said thickly. “Rage does no good. I must
keep my head. Now then—now then. Let's get things straight.
Rilla disappears three days ago. Cumberland makes no attempt
at flight. Now, suddenly, he leaves. Then we find this--thing-
here. If Rilla is not the victim, someone else is, at any rate. He
must have had the body concealed somewhere in this room, but,
realizing the impossibility of longer concealment, he has some-
how managed to take it away with him. He intends to dispose
of it later, of course. When he can do so without suspicion falling
on him. Didn't that maid say something about luggage in his


32
THE RAVENELLE RIDDLE
a to keep a body cory is? It would sy. “Can't
cab? But, somehow, in his haste, he has forgotten to take this!
God!”
"Be reasonable, now!” answered Strangely brusquely. “Can't
you see how impossible such a theory is? It would have been
impossible for him to keep a body here for one minute. There's
absolutely no place where he could have hidden it. The screws
on this other step have not even been disturbed, and we've gone
over the rest of the room with a fine-tooth comb. Even if the
body had been in one of his large suit-cases (which is absurd) he
would have been unable to keep it here for three days without
detection. Besides, there would have been some little sign of it,
some trifling spot or stain that escaped Cumberland's notice. No,
you can make up your mind that there has been no body here.
Consequently, the finger was brought to this room from some-
where outside."
He was talking hurriedly on, giving Lawe a chance to regain
his self-control.
“Therefore, the first question is—Who brought it? Although
we cannot be sure, the logical answer would be Cumberland. The
second question naturally is—Why did he bring it? That I
can't say as yet, any more than I can say whose it is, or where
he got it. Furthermore, we have no real proof that he is a
murderer, at all. We suspect him, yes, but suspicions alone never
convicted anybody. One thing, however, is certain. This cir-
cumstance, taken in connection with his cousin's disappearance,
is enough to put him in a most unpleasant position, if he is really
innocent of any crime!
“The discovery is undoubtedly an important one, but I am
going to ask you not to tell MacDonald about it until tomorrow
morning. There are some other things to be done, and then I
think it is safe to promise that I can tell him much more. I'll
keep the thing for to-night. And you must put it out of your
thoughts as much as possible. Now help me screw this step
down again.”
...So, for what was probably the second time that day, the screws
were readjusted. When the two men had finished their task,


THE MYSTERIOUS MR. SMITH
33
Lawe faced the older man with a shade more color in his face,
but with eyes that still were dilated and unnatural-looking.
He spoke huskily.
"You said a short time ago, that you had good reason to think
he had thrown something in the scrap-basket. Did you think it
was something like this?”
"My Lord, no!” denied Strangely vigorously. “The affair is
assuming far more serious proportions than I had anticipated. I
had been presupposing a simple disappearance. Now, there seems
to be no doubt that someone is dead—whether from natural or
unnatural causes—and that, for some unfathomable reason, a
human ghoul has placed this mutilated finger under the step in
Cumberland's room. No. What I was hoping to find in the
basket had nothing to do with such a ghastly thing. Look "
He pulled the soiled towel out of his pocket, and, as it fell open,
Lawe gave a hoarse cry.
“Blood!”
"No," replied Strangely, “not blood. Although it has some-
what the same appearance. No, it is something else. And the
thing I was looking for, in the waste-basket, might have told me
something I wanted to know about it. I shall take the towel
home and examine it in my little laboratory—did you know I
have a small but rather perfectly equipped laboratory of my own?
And now, come on. It's time we were making our next move."
Together, they descended the stairs, encountering the maid
Dora in the lower hall.
"Here's your door-key, sir,” she said. “Our gentlemen all has
their own keys and comes and goes as they pleases. Mrs. Lugg
asked would I please give it to you. And wot's the name, please,
sir?"
Strangely gave the required information, bid the girl a kindly
good night, and then walked with his companion down the flight
of stone steps that led to Gower Street.
A heavy fog had closed down unexpectedly since their entrance
into Mrs. Lugg's lodging house, but the cold, damp air felt rather


THE MYSTERIOUS MR. SMITH
37
was enough money evidently to exist on. But coincident with
the yacht's last stop at Folkestone—that is to say, some time over
a year ago—Rilla Ravenelle tells Mrs. O'Brien that they have no
more money, and that she, Rilla, must go to work. A few days
ago, however, they see by the paper that the Wall-Flower is
anchored at Folkestone. They send word to Smith (of course,
it's more than likely that they knew him by a different name)
aboard his new yacht, and they make an appointment with him
somewhere, probably to ask about money. Since Ravenelle him-
self is unable to keep the appointment, Rilla goes. The fact that
he let her go shows that he evidently feared nothing from the man
Smith. So the fact of the girl's disappearance must have come as
a frightful shock. I imagine he felt himself to be responsible, and
that accounts for his present state of mind. Well, what do you
think of my theory?”.
“I'm afraid it seems a bit far-fetched to me," objected Lawe, his
eyes tired and strained again. “I would say that your imagination
is carrying you away.”
“Oh, you would!” replied Strangely crisply. “Well, what about
this—the girl's last words to Mrs. O'Brien, 'Tell Father it will be
all right. What would be all right? Plainly something had been
worrying them, and she was going to see if she could set it right.
If it wasn't money, it was something else. And it concerned the
Wall-Flower. I'm sure of it. Look at the date on the newspaper,
for one thing. July 16th, the day before Rilla's disappearance.”
Lawe frowned slightly.
"She said she was going to the cinema with a friend.”
“Mr. Smith' may have been the friend. Though, as I say, I
have no doubt the Ravenelles knew him under a different
name ”
Lawe shook his head stubbornly.
“There's your big obstacle,” he said. "You say the Ravenelles
would read in the paper that Henry Smith, owner of the Wall-
Flower, bad put in at Folkestone. Yet you also say that they
probably knew this man under another name. We also know that
the Wall-Flower is a new yacht, for that notice says his old one


38
THE RAVENELLE RIDDLE
sank some sia different yaho the owneat anchored me to
sank some time ago. Now, if Smith has a different name, and
the yacht is a different yacht, how in the name of peace would the
Ravenelles figure out who the owner was? Surely, the Wall-
Flower isn't the only private yacht that anchored more than once
in Folkestone harbor. As a matter of fact, there's not a bit of
reason, as far as I can see, to link the Ravenelles with that notice
in the paper. Rilla may not even have seen it.”
"It's immaterial to me whether she saw it or not,” retorted
Strangely hotly, “though I'm sure she did. As for reasons, well,
you may be sure I have my reasons for thinking she knew all
about the boat, or I wouldn't say so. And, moreover, I not only
think, but I damn well know, that there was some connection
between the two! Tell me, Mr. Lawe, how do you say the word
Wall-Flower in French?”
Lawe stared at him blankly, taken aback by the sudden ques-
tion.
“I—why, how should I know?” he replied sharply. “Why do
you ask?"
Like a flash Strangely snapped a small pocket dictionary before
the eyes of his companion—the small French dictionary he had
taken from the table in Rilla Ravenelle's room. Hastily, he
whipped through the pages until he had found what he sought, a
page with a lightly under-scored word, near the middle of the
book.
“There!” he said, a note of triumph sounding through his voice.
“Take a look-see, Lawe. The French word for wall-tower, or
rather the French word for a certain species of wall-flower, is-
Ravenelle!"


THE EIGHT O'CLOCK POST
THERE was a brief silence while the eyes of the two men caught
and held. For both of them the situation was fraught with
meaning.
“It's amazing guess-work,” said Lawe finally. “Amazing. You
think, then, that Rilla is on this yacht?”
“That's something else again. What I think is one thing.
Positive evidence is another. But-well-as things stand now,
would it be too much to assume that Miss Ravenelle, with Cum-
berland's connivance, started for the Wall-Flower (or to meet
someone from the Wall-Flower) on the evening of July 17th?
And that she did not reach the yacht at all, or else came to grief
upon it? At least it's a working basis. On the other hand, how-
ever, while we have possible evidence that Rilla Ravenelle started
to keep an appointment, and possible evidence that Ralph Cumber-
land was party to some crime, we have positively no evidence that
Miss Ravenelle was actually the victim, and positively no evidence
that Cumberland was connected in any way with 'Smith' of the
Wall-Flower. But, personally, I think he was!"
“You say you think that Rilla 'with Cumberland's connivance'
may have gone to keep some appointment,” interrupted Lawe,
struggling to keep pace with Strangely's mental leaps. “What
makes you think that?”
“Did you notice anything at all odd when you looked out Rilla
Ravenelle's window to-night-the window at the back of her bed-
room?” inquired Strangely, apparently irrelevantly.
"I noticed a courtyard, and a brick wall, and two other court-
yards on either side of Mrs. O'Brien’s. That's all.”


THE EIGHT O'CLOCK POST
41
"It sounds so,” agreed Lawe, whose head was whirling. When
had Strangely noticed all these things? When had he pieced
them together thus, bit by bit? His attitude had been so neg-
ligent!
"Well, then," proceeded Strangely, "the presumed signal coming
on the evening of her disappearance, coupled with the fact that
I suspect she went to meet Smith or someone from the yacht,
leads me to believe that Cumberland was the go-between for this
meeting. That he arranged the whole thing, and conveyed to
Rilla, by means of signals, that it was time for her to start!”
“Why wouldn't he simply come and tell her that?” inquired
Lawe. “If, as you seem to think, her father knew all about it,
what difference would it make? Why should Cumberland go to
all the elaborate business of signalling?”
“There are various reasons. If, as might have been the case,
he intended to do away with the girl, naturally he would not care
to be seen in her company on the evening of her disappearance.
On the other hand, he may merely have suspected foul play, but
wished to keep his own hands clean and to avoid suspicion. Per-
haps he could not afford to be involved in any investigation which
would bring his own affairs to light. In fact, I am almost sure
such was the case. At any rate, I believe he certainly saw Rilla
Ravenelle after she left Mrs. O'Brien's on the night of July 17th!”
“And we let him get away!” groaned Geoffrey, clenching his
hands.
"Oh, no, we didn't,” replied Strangely lightly. “We had noth-
ing to do with it. And, as I said before, I think you will find that
Inspector MacDonald is thorough, as well as slow. Cumberland
has doubtless been shadowed ever since the case was given into
the hands of Scotland Yard.”
"I wish I felt as sure of it,” muttered Lawe. “God! What a
fool I've been. I should have known from the beginning that
that chap had a part in her disappearance. I should have known!”
“There's no need to reproach yourself,” said Strangely. "You've
certainly left no stone unturned to find the girl.”
But Lawe only eyed him bitterly.


42
THE RAVENELLE RIDDLE
“What is the next step?” he asked.
"First, I'm going back to my laboratory. I can catch a bus from
Shaftesbury Avenue in about five minutes.”
"And then?"
“Well,” drawled Strangely, "I paid for a room, so I might as
well sleep in it. Besides, if Cumberland merely forgot that little
token instead of leaving it there purposely, he's apt to return for
it later on. And it would be just too bad if no one were there to
receive him.”
Lawe's face whitened.
“I am the one to receive him,” he said. “I shall come, too."
"You'll do nothing of the sort. You're too excitable,” replied
the American promptly. “If the fellow did happen to return,
you'd probably do some precipitate thing and upset the whole
apple-cart. Remember, we really have nothing on him yet. I
must do this thing in my own way, Lawe, or not at all. Cumber-
land may not come back. He may have left the finger on purpose.
Or he may not even know it's there! Strange things happen in
these cases. The criminal mind is a warped one, of course. As
for you, you're to go home and sleep."
“I can't sleep unless I tire myself out first. My mind is turning
like a mill-wheel. I'll walk home—it's a goodish way. That may
turn the trick.”
"Whatever you think best. But you must get sufficient rest, for
to-morrow there are two things I want you to do for me. And
then, too-well, I think I should warn you. Since we have dis-
covered that severed finger, it is only too possible that the rest of
the victim's body will come to light somewhere soon. You must
be prepared for that—and for the fact that it may be Miss Rav-
enelle's body!"
Lawe shuddered.
“What are the two things you want me to do?” he asked
drearily.
“I want you to find out if any person except Miss Ravenelle
does typing at home, at Acacia Villas. And I want you to find out
to whom Mrs. O'Brien was mailing a letter when she met Rilla


THE EIGHT O'CLOCK POST
43
at eight p. m. on the evening of July 17th. Don't ask her about
it. Look up the postman.”
"You don't think Mrs. O'Brien had anything to do with Rilla's
disappearance!” cried Lawe in horror. “Why, she worshipped the
girl!"
"I don't think anything. I merely want to know the address
on the letter she mailed in the eight o'clock post.”
“But how?” queried Geoffrey blankly. “You say 'go to the
postman.' No postman is going to remember what letters he took
at one particular pillar box, on one particular round three days
ago. That's fantastic.”
"Heavens, man,” said Strangely, running his long fingers im-
patiently through his hair. “Didn't you ever hear of taking a
chance? It's rather a long one, I grant you, but it seems quite
reasonable to me. Figure it out for yourself. Mrs. O'Brien is not
the letter-writing type. I doubt if she writes two letters a year.
Therefore, when she does, it is more or less of an event. Ac-
cordingly, what does she do in such a case? I'll bet dollars to
doughnuts that, nine times out of ten, she doesn't feel as safe
putting it in the post box as if she handed it to the postman him-
self! I haven't a doubt but what she did exactly that! In fact,
everything goes to show that she did. She knew the exact time,
so evidently she had been watching the clock. If you inquire at
the Central Post, you'll probably find that there is an eight p. m.
mail collection at the post box-or pillar box as you call it-near-
est to Acacia Villas. Also, a postman might involuntarily glance
at the address on a letter that someone places in his hand. It's
quite likely that he would, and at eight p. m. out of doors these
days, it's still light. Naturally, it's a long chance, but perhaps
he'll remember. You can find out the name of the man on that
route and question him diplomatically. It may be totally unim-
portant, but-well, it's another hunch!”. And Strangely smiled
grimly.
“Right,” said Lawe. “And why do you want to know about
the typing?”
“Think back. What did you yourself tell me about Miss


THE EIGHT O'CLOCK POST
this outwn. I was namefacedy. . understand.
it doesn't! You've not only implied that Rilla was dishonest, but
you have implied by your words that someone else in our offices
was engaged in some sort of rotten game. What you have in
mind, I don't know! But I do know that my father and I trust
every man in our whole concern as implicitly as we do ourselves.
Lawe & Son is an old and honorable firm— "
"My heavens,” replied Strangely, more than a bit surprised at
this outburst. “I'll take it back. I'll take anything back. Only
cool down. I was only trying to safeguard your own interests.”
Lawe sank back shamefacedly.
“Of course,” he murmured. “I understand. But it came so
suddenly—your accusation of Rilla. And it isn't possible for me
to doubt her. But go on, if you like. You don't really think
anything wrong is going on in our offices?”
His voice sounded incredulous.
“I'm afraid I do,” said Strangely gravely. “It is more than
likely. For, as I see it, this affair goes much deeper than a simple
disappearance, or even a murder. Each step I take seems to open
up new vistas. See how far we have progressed in only two
hours. There is something behind it all that I have not quite
fathomed yet. But I shall. Just give me time!” His jaw clenched
firmly.
A moment later he knocked out the ashes from his corncob
pipe, against the edge of the counter, and sprang to his feet.
"Well,” he said briskly as they left the coffee-room. “I'll have
to hustle for a bus. You're walking, you say? I guess that's the
most sensible thing you could do. As for me,” whimsically, "I'm
off for a night of chemical debauch and of guilty dalliance in
Mrs. Lugg's red-plush second-floor-front! Drop in on me, at my
own rooms, at two p. m. to-morrow.”
Lawe was regarding him moodily.
“Yes,” he said slowly, "you've come a long way to-night in only
two hours. You've certainly found out a lot, one way and an-
other. But you're no nearer to finding Rilla Ravenelle than be-
fore.”
“Now don't say that, my boy,” admonished Strangely cheerily.


$6
THE RAVENELLE RIDDLE
“Don't forget our discovery in Cumberland's room; our discovery
of the connection between the Ravenelles and the Wall-Flower;
and, last of all, the discovery of some possible trickery in your own
firm. You may not be able to see it now, but it all brings us
closer to Rilla Ravenelle. I can assure you of that. I believe her
disappearance to be merely one incident in a far greater game.
Rilla was a pawn. I think Cumberland is a pawn. Old Ravenelle
may be a pawn, and Smith of the Wall-Flower. Behind them all
is someone else. Before we find Rilla, we must find that some-
one else. And to find him, I think we must go to—well, I'll tell
you to-morrow. But I swear to you, Lawe, that I shall bring you
the answer to this riddle within another forty-eight hours!"
“You really think that?” asked Lawe slowly. “You are very
sure of yourself.”
“I don't think it. I know it. Now, what do you say?"
“I say,” said Lawe with a sudden smile and a lightening of the
cloud on his young face, “I say that I wouldn't give tuppence
ha’penny for the ‘someone else that you're tracking down. Un-
less-unless well, I'll tell you to-morrow!"
A moment later the young man stood alone, watching the tall
form of the American disappearing through the writhing mists.


VI
THE CLUTCHING DEATH
STRANGELY had told him to sleep, but, when finally he sought his
bed, Geoffrey Lawe's mind was in no condition for slumber. His
fevered thoughts raced from one event to another of the past few
days. The search in Cumberland's room repeated itself again
and again, the ghastly severed finger danced before him in the
dark, and his imagination pictured the finding of the rest of the
victim's body sometime in the near future. He shuddered again,
as his mind raced on.
What had Strangely suspected in regard to the dispatch-case?
What had he meant by his implication that something was wrong
in the old and honorable firm of Lawe & Son? Surely, he could
have had nothing definite to go upon. No, it had been just a
guess—and, at any rate, MacDonald would put no stock in a
tale of that'king any rate, Mocoupon. Non? Surely as wrong
Even a hint of scandal in connection with the firm would kill
his father. Lawe knew that. A few years ago, when things had
been going rather badly with the business, the old man had
scarcely slept or eaten for months. Had cut down stringently on
personal expenses in order to help things out. Everything had
been going all right for some time now, but another blow of
any kind would kill him. His whole life was bound up in his
business.
And the yacht—the Wall-Flower—with its eccentric owner.
Was Cumberland on that yacht now? Where was Rilla Raven-
elle? Was she dead-murdered ?
Finally, in desperation, Lawe rose, lighted the bath-room light,
and with shaking hands poured himself out a large dose of the
47


48
THE RAVENELLE RIDDLE
bromide which stood there in the medicine chest. Gradually, as
he lay down again, his mind became calmer. But, just as he was
finally slipping into sleep, another thought brought him bolt up
right.
Why had Strangely been so insistent about the letter that Mrs.
O'Brien had mailed on the evening of July 17th? What did he
think it contained? And whom did he suspect to be the recipi-
ent? Of a sudden, the letter assumed gigantic proportions in
Lawe's mind. He must look into the matter the first thing in the
morning. The-first-thing-in-the-morning-
At last he slept, but not for long.
He awoke long before the faint gray of morning glimmered
through the fog. Though not a soul was yet astir in the house,
he felt that he must get out. No four walls could hold him longer
in his present state of mind.
His eyes were heavy and swollen, his head dull from the
bromide, and he was shivering in the raw, damp air of the foggy
dawn, but, nevertheless, the throbbing in his temples lessened
somewhat as soon as he had left the house. The street lights still
were lighted, for the gray shroud that covered the city made it
more like dusk than dawn. A little before seven he turned his
steps again towards home, where, mindful of the need to con-
serve his strength, he sat down to his usual breakfast of bacon
and eggs.
Lawe, senior, a corpulent and not unhandsome old man typical
of England's prosperous upper middle class, was already seated at
the table. He looked up sharply as his son slid into the place
opposite, and eyed him rather unpleasantly through gold-rimmed
spectacles.
"You were out very late last night,” he said. “Prosperity can't
afford to burn the candle at both ends."
Geoffrey murmured an unintelligible reply as he poked aim-
lessly at his plate of bacon.
“Eh?” queried the old man irascibly. “What d'you say?"
“I said I was walking about.”


THE CLUTCHING DEATH
49
“A fine night for a walk, no doubt. Fog so thick you could cut
it with a knife. Look here, my son!”
“Yes, Father.”
“You're not worrying about that girl, are you? Worthless
baggage-out for all she could get!”
Young Lawe rose to his feet, trembling.
“Take that back, Father. Rilla Ravenelle is as sweet and pure
a girl as my own Mother was!"
“Bosh!" snorted the old man, knitting his bushy white brows.
“Don't come that with me. If you must run with a lass of that
type, run with her—but don't try to whitewash her, let alone
mention her in the same breath with your mother. Her getting
out was the best thing that could have happened to you, you
young fool. You'll find she's gone of her own free will—and
with another man, no doubt!" He sneered disagreeably.
Geoffrey Lawe, watching, paled slowly, paled with rage.
“What do you mean?” he asked. “What reason have you to
make such a statement?”.
"My knowledge of human nature, that's what. I haven't got
where I am without knowing something about it. I could have
got rid of her any time the last three months if I'd made it worth
her while!"
"I don't believe it!”
"And how do you know," continued his father with a meaning
glance, “that I didn't finally make it worth her while to clear
out—when I saw what a silly fool you were making of yourself!”
Geoffrey grasped the back of his chair. The knuckles of his
clenched hand showed white.
"Because I know her," he answered thickly. “Because I love
her, and she loves me.”
“Love—bah,” said his father bitterly. "You'll find out how
much she loves you when "
"When what?"
“When you do. That's all. And take my word for it, my lad,
you'll feel very clever when all these fancy detectives that you're


50
THE RAVENELLE RIDDLE
hiring—with my money-find her happily married to another
man. Bah!”
Unable to finish his breakfast, and fearful of another scene if he
remained, Geoffrey Lawe once more left the house. It was eight
o'clock when he flung down the steps on his way to perform
Strangely's commissions. Allowing forty minutes for crossing
the city, he figured that it would be nearing nine when he reached
the Central Post.
As he hurried toward the nearest bus stop, the newsboys were
crying the morning editions. He could hear their raucous, un-
emotional voices in the distance, but, even before he could dis-
tinguish the words, he braced himself instinctively for that which
he felt he might hear. The nearest boy was within hailing dis-
tance now.
“Murder! Murder!” he was shouting hoarsely. “Orl abaht the
murder on the h’embankment! Findink h’of muterlyted
corrups!"
Dropping a coin into the boy's filthy, outstretched hand, Lawe
snatched a paper, and held it with shaking hands while his eyes
travelled hastily down the page.
MUTILATED BODY MYSTERY
FOG SCREENS MURDERER
A gruesome murder, surpassing in horror anything
of recent date, was discovered on the Thames embank-
ment at an early hour this morning.
Wrapped loosely in an old piece of tarpaulin, and
thrown down upon the embankment at a point not far
from St. James's Park, was found the mutilated trunk
of a young girl eighteen or twenty years of age. The
head and hands are missing.
The victim apparently had met her fate, at the hands
of a brutal assassin, some days before, and, during the
dense fog of last night, the murderer or murderers
found an opportunity to dispose of the body undetected.
According to the statement of medical examiners, the


THE CLUTCHING DEATH
51
girl had been dead at least three days, very possibly
longer, and the direct cause of her death was strangula-
tion.
The victim is slight, daintily made, and thought to
have been not over twenty years of age.
Lawe crumpled the paper spasmodically into his pocket, and
walked blindly on. At the first public telephone booth he passed,
he stepped inside, and called Inspector MacDonald's home.
“Are you there, Mr. MacDonald?” he inquired, as a heavy,
rumbling voice spoke at the other end of the line.
"Inspector MacDonald speaking. Is that Mr. Lawe? I thought
you'd be calling directly you saw the morning papers. Bad news
for you, I'm afraid. It seems as if the body must be that of the
young lady, though positive identification is impossible at present.
We've examined the body at headquarters, and an autopsy will
be performed this morning by our Dr. Gordon. This afternoon
we'll summon witnesses. The inquest's set for ten to-morrow
morning. We'll expect you there to help identify the body. Can
Mr. Strangely come with you?”
Lawe hesitated.
"I haven't seen him yet to-day,” he said at last, clenching his
teeth to keep them from chattering through sheer nervousness.
“Well, get in touch with him if you can,” said MacDonald, “and
tell him to drop in at my office some time this morning. A bright
chap, this Strangely."
There was a pause, Lawe wondering how much the discovery
of the body had changed the situation, and if he had better speak
yet of finding the finger in Cumberland's bed-room. He decided
to wait until later. Better not talk about it over the telephone,
anyhow. One never knew who was listening in.
"By the way," he said finally. “We literally stumbled on some-
thing last night. I'll tell you when I see you later today. And,
Inspector MacDonald, can you give orders at the Central Post to
let me have some necessary information?”
“Certainly, Mr. Lawe. Nothing easier. I'll call them at once.


52
THE RAVENELLE RIDDLE
And I'll see you this afternoon. Good-bye." And the receiver
was clicked up.
When Lawe arrived at the Post Office, MacDonald, true to his
promise, already had telephoned. There was no trouble in getting
all the desired information. He learned that there was, indeed,
an eight p. m. daily collection at the pillar box just beyond Acacia
Villas. The man on that route at present, however, was only a
substitute, because the regular carrier had been given sick leave
two days ago, and was confined to his home with a severe case
of summer influenza. His name was John Watkins, and he lived
at 10 Baron's Court.
Lawe proceeded at once, by tube, to this address. Mrs. Watkins
-a frail, pallid woman-wearily opened the door. She was sorry,
she said, to disappoint the gentleman, but Watkins was too ill
to see anyone at present. In fact, he coughed so bad that the
doctor had forbidden him to talk at all. Could the gentleman
come back in a day or two? There was nothing to be done, so
Lawe reluctantly took his departure.
Anxiety for Mr. Ravenelle's condition was a legitimate excuse
for a call on Mrs. O'Brien, and, while there, Lawe had no difficulty
in eliciting the information that there had not been, for some
time, a typing machine of any description in the house.
He marvelled once more at the clear working of Strangely's
mind. Here, again, the man had hit upon a telling fact. True,
an obvious one, but nevertheless one that ninety-nine persons out
of a hundred would have allowed to pass unobserved. Still, there
was always the hundredth person. This time it had been
Strangely. Would MacDonald, too, have attached such impor-
tance to that chance remark, and to the incident of the brief-case?
Lawe thought not. Also, it seemed difficult to believe that so
slight a clue could be followed up with any success.
These thoughts were shooting at random through Lawe’s head
as he talked to Mrs. O'Brien. After a bit of hesitation, he de.
cided to follow Strangely's exact advice, and to obtain any neces-
sary information about the letter from the carrier, rather than


THE CLUTCHING DEATH
53
from Mrs. O'Brien herself. It was essential that he feel his way
carefully. One false step now might ruin everything.
After he left her, responding as best he could to her voluble
good-byes, there was nothing more to be done until, at two p. m.,
he presented himself at Strangely's door.
Tompkins, Strangely's man-an ex-soldier-informed the caller,
with an impassive face, that his master had not spent the night at
home, though he had come in for a few minutes around ten
o'clock the night before. He had not yet returned. Would Mr.
Lawe step in, please? Tompkins would consult the engagement
book on Mr. Strangely's desk. Yes, there it was. “Lawe calling
here two p. m.” Mr. Lawe had best wait a bit, for Mr. Strangely
was always very careful about his appointments.
Lawe sat down by the little library fire. The moments dragged,
for he was nervous and distraught, but finally, owing probably to
the soothing effect of the warm room, his activities of the morn-
ing, and his sleeplessness of the night before, he gradually re-
laxed and fell into a doze.
Waking some time later, he glanced quickly at the wall-clock,
and was astounded to find that the hands pointed to three-thirty.
He had slept for over an hour. Ringing for the puzzled Tomp-
kins, Lawe informed him that he could wait no longer, and
hastily set out for Mrs. Lugg's lodging house.
As he strode along, he considered the situation. Tompkins had
said that it was utterly unlike his employer to break an engage-
ment.
"Only somethink of gravest importance could ’ave kept ’im,
sir,” the man had said.
Lawe's mind did not care to dwell on the images conjured up
by those words, "the gravest importance.” Strangely's conversa-
tion of the night before recurred to him:
"If Cumberland merely forgot that little token, instead of leav-
ing it there purposely, he's apt to return for it later. And it
would be just too bad if no one were there to receive him!”
Visions of Strangely alone in that room with a desperate man


54
THE RAVENELLE RIDDLE
Street, Dar she recognis te gaspreseizing how here's a
floated through Lawe's mind, and, consciously, he accelerated his
steps.
"God! This is awful,” he muttered.
As he rang the front door bell of Mrs. Lugg's house on Gower
Street, Dora-wide-eyed and frightened—tore open the door. She
recoiled as she recognized him.
"Oh, it's you, sir,” she gasped. "I thought it was the orfficers!”
“The officers!” echoed Lawe, seizing her shoulder with fingers
of iron. “What's been going on here? Where's Mr. Strangely-
the gentleman who rented room 16 last night?”
The girl looked up tearfully.
“That's wot we don't know, sir. The gentleman didn't come to
breakfast, and the bath water outside his door wasn't touched.
But we didn't think nothing of that, sir, for our young gentlemen
has their own keys, and often comes in late and sleeps late of a
morning. But when I was up at eleven to tidy his room, I
knocked and there wasn't no answer. And he didn't even come
down for no lunch. At two o'clock the door was still shut and
locked, and Mrs. Lugg and me,” her voice rose shrilly, “we
pounded and yelled till we was hoarse, and there wasn't no answer
at all. We was afraid to open the door, so we called police head-
quarters. But they're awful long in coming. I thought you was
-oh, there they are. That's them now, sir " and she broke off
at the sound of heavy tramping outside.
Lawe, as in a dream, heard her respond to the officers' queries;
heard her repeat her story reinforced by additional statements
from the hysterical Mrs. Lugg; heard himself introduced as the
young gentleman who had accompanied the new lodger last night;
heard Dora recount how she had let both the gentlemen out last
night and given Mr. Strangely his key; how she nor Mrs. Lugg
hadn't heard no one return last night, but had found the bed-
room door fast locked this morning, so thought the gentleman had
come in very quiet to keep from waking up the other lodgers,
and had gone to bed.
"All right, all right, my girl," said one of the two burly con-


THE CLUTCHING DEATH
55
stables. “That'll keep till you tell it at headquarters. Just show
us the room.”
His heart beating to suffocation, Lawe followed them up the
now familiar stairs and down the hallway, pausing at the oak
door he remembered. He saw the constables force the lock and
open the door, watched frozenly from the threshhold—with Mrs.
Lugg and Dora close behind-heard Dora's scream, heard one of
the constables grunt non-committally over some object on the bed,
felt himself propelled forward.
"Dead, all right,” said the foremost of the officers, rather as if
he enjoyed making the statement. “Will you look now, sir, and
identify the gentleman for us?”
With a dazed movement of his hands across his eyes, Lawe
managed to focus them upon the bed. Then, even as his numbed
brain took in the fact that another form than Strangely's lay before
him, he heard Dora's second piercing scream, and heard her cry:
“My God, gentlemen! That's not Mr. Strangely. That's Mr.
Cumberland!”


VII
STRANGELY DISAPPEARS
It was in a state of absolute mental exhaustion that Lawe finally
reached Superintendent MacDonald's private room at New Scot-
land Yard, and fell, rather than sank, into a chair. The last
hour had been one of the worst he had ever experienced.
His story had been gone over repeatedly by the two constables
at Mrs. Lugg's, and question after question had been fired at
him in rapid succession.
Had he known Mr. Cumberland?
Did he know how Mr. Cumberland had got back in the room?
Had Mr. Strangely expected him to return?
When had he, Lawe, last seen Mr. Strangely?
Where was Mr. Strangely now?
To most of which, Lawe could only answer, “I don't know!"
Then New Scotland Yard had been called and more officers
sent from there. After that, all the stories had been repeated
his own, Dora's, Mrs. Lugg's. More questions were asked, and
the officers had been satisfied only when finally completely as-
sured that this was only a new development of the Ravenelle
case, which was already in the hands of Scotland Yard, and that
Strangely and Lawe actually had been working together with the
consent of Inspector MacDonald.
At last, having come to the conclusion that Lawe was as mysti-
fied by the affair as they were themselves, and seeing that the
shock of first nerving himself to view Strangely's dead body, and
then finding it to be that of Cumberland, had proved almost too
much for the young man, the constables took Lawe's address and
allowed him to depart.
56


STRANGELY DISAPPEARS
57
His first act was to seek out Inspector MacDonald. Into that
gentleman's astounded ears he poured the entire story of the previ-
ous evening, from the time that he and Strangely started together
for Mrs. O'Brien's house, until the finding of Cumberland's body
in the room that he had vacated the night before, apparently for
good.
There seemed no further reason to conceal the finding of the
severed finger in the man's room the evening before. In fact,
there was now every need of making the disclosure, and of ex-
plaining Strangely's suspicions of Cumberland. Also the reason
for the visit to Mrs. Lugg's lodging house and Strangely's object
in renting Cumberland's vacated room.
Inspector MacDonald listened spellbound. At Lawe's reference
to the stained towel, he nodded. At the dramatic discovery of the
finger, he gave an astonished whistle. And, when Geoffrey
reached the point where Strangely had stumbled upon what he
considered to be proof of some connection between the Ravenelles
and the yacht Wall-Flower, he banged his fist fiercely down upon
the desk.
“Mr. Lawe,” he said sternly, “You and Mr. Strangely did very
wrong to keep this information to yourselves. I can see why Mr.
Strangely wished to keep silent-in order to have the pleasure of
trapping the criminal through his own efforts. But, no matter
what he asked you to do, you should have told all this to me at
once. Our men trailed Cumberland halfway across the city last
night on a wild-goose chase. He stopped at one pub after another,
and then they lost him in the fog. In his inebriated condition, the
man probably forgot that he had given up his key, and so went
back to his room. But how did he get in? Allowing for the fog
and all, he would have arrived there about midnight, for the
pubs close at eleven. Mrs. Lugg's door certainly would be locked
by then. Yet he got in, and no one seems to have heard him. Of
course, having lost him in the fog, our men had no idea that he
would do such a thing. Nor could they dream that Mr. Strangely
would rent that room for the night. When Cumberland left the
house, evidently for good, the watch was removed there. But if
room for the could they dres had no ides


58
THE RAVENELLE RIDDLE
Strangely, Wave renewederent tale to terce. Cum
you had come to us at once with the information that Mr.
Strangely was stopping the night in Cumberland's vacated room,
we would have renewed that watch, of course. And there would
have been a slightly different tale to tell!
“Look at the results of your silence. Cumberland, our best
hope of information, is done in (we have felt certain that, sooner
or later, he would lead us to the girl or her body), and no doubt
the Wall-Flower has flown, taking this "Smith', whoever he may
be, with it. Then, the Lord only knows what's become of Mr.
Strangely! It's certain we're working against a very clever force,
and there's no time to lose!”
He grabbed the telephone impatiently.
"The thing's a proper puzzle,” he continued moodily, his foot
tapping impatiently while he waited for his connection. He was
pulling at his close-clipped gray mustache, and his usually genial
face was frowning.
“In view of this latest information of yours," he said, "there's
small doubt that ‘Smith' is one of the ones we want. I agree that
the fact of the word Ravenelle's meaning Wall-Flower, and of
that word's being underscored in Rilla Ravenelle's French diction-
ary, in conjunction with the notice in the paper (also belonging to
her) that a yacht called Wall-Flower has entered Folkestone
harbor, is too connected a chain of incidents to be thrown aside as
mere coincidence. Mr. Strangely is clever, remarkably clever-
but he made a grave mistake in keeping this information away
from me. Of course, young Cumberland was implicated in the
disappearance of the girl. We've been trying to link him up with
it from the start. Now, this affair of the finger in his room shows
that "
“But Mr. MacDonald,” interrupted Lawe doggedly, “it didn't
look to me like Rilla's finger. It wasn't her finger. It must have
belonged to someone else!”
“That's likely, isn't it?” said MacDonald sharply. “Whose else
could it be? Just tell me that. A girl disappears. Her cousin's
room is searched, and a finger is found there a woman's finger,
from all indications. No! There, also, we have too much of a


STRANGELY DISAPPEARS
59
Lawe. Rilla away with her. Or where the crime
coincidence. If the man wasn't dead himself now--murdered-
I'd say he killed the girl. But this way, it looks as if some one
else did the job, planted the finger in Cumberland's room, and
then later got rid of him, too. There's not much doubt that the
body of the girl found on the enbankment is that of Rilla Raven-
elle. We-(Hello, hello, yes, I say—22, 39, 46). As I see it, in
the light of these new developments, the murders were both done
by the same person. For some reason that person wanted Miss
Ravenelle out of the way, lured her to the spot where the crime
was committed, and there did away with her. I'm afraid you've
got to face it, Mr. Lawe. Rilla Ravenelle and the girl on the em-
bankment are one and the same. And there may have been
robbery as well as murder!”
“But Miss Ravenelle was a poor girl," objected Lawe, sure of
his ground now. “There could have been no motive for robbery!”
MacDonald cocked his head knowingly.
“It's not always a thing of money value that's stolen," he
said. “Miss Ravenelle may have had in her possession something
that the murderer was very anxious to get. Think of that finger
in Cumberland's room! What motive does anyone have in cutting
off a finger? Why, to get a ring that fits too tight, that's what!"
Lawe started.
“Now, did Miss Ravenelle ever wear a ring of any kind?” con-
tinued MacDonald.
“She," began Lawe, but broke off as the Inspector rattled the
phone and spoke violently into the transmitter.
“Are you there? Are you there?” he rasped. "Is this Arden, at
Folkestone? Can you tell me if the yacht Wall-Flower—yes,
Wall-Flower, WALL-FLOWER-has weighed anchor?”
A moment's pause while a thin, faint voice could be heard com-
ing over the line in reply.
"All right, all right, that's all I want to know. See if you can
pick her up along the coast. It's important. Yes, most important.
Just as I thought,” he added, hanging up the receiver and turning
to Lawe. “The yacht sailed at day-break. But never mind, Mr.
Lawe,” he hastened to say, as he noted Lawe's pale face, “you
helle may hanxious to get anyone havhat's wha


THE RAVENELLE RIDDLE
thought you were doing all right. Mr. Strangely asked you not to
tell me till to-day. That was a great mistake, but we'll get them
yet. Scotland Yard has a long arm. Just how long, most people
will never know. Our coast agents will do all they can now to
pick up the yacht, and there's plenty for us to do right here. The
Wall-Flower must have had warning from someone who was
pretty well posted about things, right here in London. And it's
our business to find out who that someone was! It seems to me if
we find that out, we're pretty close to finding the murderer of
Rilla Ravenelle and Cumberland, too. Both were killed by
strangulation, Cumberland and the girl on the embankment. The
sameness of method points to one person. That person must have
returned to Cumberland's room to get the finger. About that
time Cumberland himself came rolling in, pretty drunk. This
chap had likely been thinking Cumberland knew far too much
for his own good, anyhow-about the murder of the Ravenelle
girl, for instance. He saw a good way to get rid of Cumberland,
instead of just casting suspicion on him as he had intended at
first. So he finished him up the quickest way possible. Then
he warned the Wall-Flower somehow, and made his own getaway
-perhaps on the yacht.”
“But, Mr. MacDonald,” cried Lawe. "If this is true, where
was Strangely all that time? Where was he? Where is he now?
Why didn't he go back to Cumberland's room just as he had
planned?”
"Perhaps he did go back," replied Inspector MacDonald slowly.
"Perhaps he did. There's always just that chance. Perhaps he
found Cumberland there. Perhaps, in a drunken rage, Cumber-
land attacked Strangely. And perhaps Strangely killed him in
self-defense! You've no idea at all of Mr. Strangely's where-
abouts?”
“None at all!” cried Lawe, who had started from his seat, at
the Inspector's words. “We parted before ten last night. He
asked me to perform two commissions for him the next day. He
said he was going immediately to his laboratory to examine the
stains on the towel he took from Mrs. Lugg's house. Then he
who hadefore ten he next


STRANGELY DISAPPEARS
intended to return to Cumberland's room and spend the night
there. His man, Tompkins, says that he returned to the labo
ratory for a few minutes, but left again. From then on, I know
absolutely nothing about him. Until this afternoon, I thought he
had spent the night in Cumberland's room!"
"This man Tompkins," said MacDonald slowly. “Where did
you see him?"
"At Strangely's own rooms (I thought I told you that) at two
p. m. I waited till three-thirty and then left."
MacDonald was beating a little tattoo with his fingers.
"You say Mr. Strangely didn't seem to think the stain on the
towel was blood?” he asked at last. "What did he think it was?”
“I don't know,” replied Lawe. “But he seemed to have some
very definite idea. He said he'd tell me later."
"I wish we had those things,” continued MacDonald grimly.
“Of course, they may be in his laboratory. And, of course, too,
he may show up before the day is over. This disappearance of
his certainly complicates affairs at this juncture. You say he gave
you some commissions to perform this morning? What were
they? I daresay they may have had something to do with his
telephone message to me last night.”
It was Lawe's turn to look astonished.
"His telephone message last night!” he broke in sharply. “What
do you mean?”
"Just that, Mr. Lawe,” said MacDonald drily. “This morning,
what with viewing the girl's body and all, I forgot to speak of it
when you telephoned to me. At that, it didn't seem to make
much sense. He asked us to set about finding if there was a type-
writing machine at Mrs. O'Brien's, and to get the address on the
letter she mailed the night of Rilla Ravenelle's disappearance.
Did he speak of it to you?”
“Yes,” said Lawe quickly. “Those were the two things he
wanted me to do. As you probably realized, in the light of his
message, that was the reason I wanted you to vouch for me at
the Central Post. But it seems such a small thing to me. I can't
think anything will come of it.”


THE RAVENELLE RIDDLE
"Well, you never can tell. Both requests seemed very odd. If
it were anybody but Mr. Strangely~ "he finished with a shrug.
"What time did he call you?”
“Very shortly after ten last evening. I don't know where he
was when he telephoned, but it should be easy to trace the call.
I daresay he informed me, thinking you were in such an over-
wrought state you might forget. But what beats me, is that he
didn't mention the really important things the yacht, and the
finger, and all that. Well, what was his theory about the type-
writing machine?”
“He seemed to have some odd idea about Miss Ravenelle," ex-
plained Lawe reluctantly. “You see I happened to tell him she
took typing home in her handbag, to do at night. And Strangely
didn't happen to see any typewriter on the premises, so he told me
to find out if there were one. As a matter of fact, there's not.
But it seems a matter of such small importance. As a matter of
fact, I'm really not sure she told me she was taking work home.
I may just have taken it for granted when I saw her bag."
"M-Mm. And what was Strangely's idea?”
“Oh, he had some far-fetched idea that she might have been
carrying home something of value to our firm. I ask you, what
could she have taken home that would injure us in any way?
Our accounts are quite in order, and I can't imagine Rilla being
interested enough in the sales records of a tea and coffee import
business, to carry duplicates home with her at night. There's no
particular excitement in that, you know. Besides, Miss Ravenelle
was quite above suspicion in every way. If she said she was taking
work home (which I'm not absolutely sure she did say) then she
was taking it home, and she had access to some machine we don't
know about. That's all. I can't understand Strangely making
such a point of it, and I told him so at the time. It's so utterly
foolish. He's on a false trail there.” Lawe's tones were decided.
"And what was the information you wanted at the Central
Post?” inquired Inspector MacDonald non-committally.
“Just what I told you—about the address on the letter Mrs.
O'Brien posted on the evening of July 17th—the evening Rilla
Our a she have takething of valueidea that she


THE RAVENELLE RIDDLE
and another, that you had quite a personal interest in the deceas-
that is, in the missing young lady.”
“I did, Mr. MacDonald. I wished—I wish—to make her my
wife.”
“Quite so. And Mr. Lawe, senior-he approved?"
"No," replied Geoffrey formally. “He did not.”
“But there had been no attempt on his part to buy the young
lady off?”
“My heavens, no!” cried Lawe. "It wasn't that kind of an
affair!"
Inspector MacDonald's face remained blank. Perhaps, to his
mind, every affair of the kind was that kind of affair.
“I see,” he said finally. “And now, Mr. Lawe, I interrupted you
some time ago, just as you were about to tell me something. Did
Miss Ravenelle ever wear a ring on the third finger of either
hand?”
Lawe shook his head.
"No," he said firmly. “Never!”


VIII
INQUESTS
as to identify Rilla Ravenelle.. had performed th
INSPECTOR MacDonald's fears concerning Strangely were aug-
mented the next day when the latter had not yet appeared at the
time set for the inquest upon the body of the unfortunate girl
found upon the embankment.
It had been all that Lawe could do to view the remains, and
he staggered slightly as he walked from the mortuary. MacDon-
ald regarded the young man with kindly eyes as they walked
through the curious crowd in the inquest room and took seats
near the front, among those reserved for witnesses.
The room was brought to order promptly at ten a. m., the
magistrate informing the jury rather pompously that their first
duty was to identify the unfortunate victim they had just viewed,
as the missing girl, Rilla Ravenelle.
Dr. Allen, the police doctor who had performed the autopsy,
was the first witness called and duly sworn.
He testified that he had examined the body and had found that
death was due to strangulation. He could say positively that it
was the delicately built body of a young woman of eighteen or
twenty years of age. The skin was fair and of fine texture. In the
body's mutilated condition, it was impossible to determine exactly
whether the victim had been a blond or a brunette. While the
fairness of the skin led him to believe that the girl was blonde,
nevertheless the same extremely white skin sometimes accompanied
a certain black-haired type. The young woman had been dead,
to the best of his knowledge, four or five days. An autopsy had
been performed. No traces of poison were discovered, but traces
of food still remaining in the victim's stomach had been analyzed
65


66
THE RAVENELLE RIDDLE
street, and bercet. He has this, as A
as undigested remnants of pineapple and mushrooms. He had
nothing further to say.
Dr. Shepherd, of 17 Wimpole Street, was then called. He
testified that, some months before, Rilla Ravenelle had come to
him for a physical examination. It was upon the occasion of her
employment by the firm of Lawe & Son, which required a certifi-
cate of health from all employees. Yes, he had known the young
woman by sight before this, as Acacia Villas is not far from
Wimpole Street. He had noticed her a number of times on the
street, and had remarked her unusual beauty. Yes, he had viewed
the remains of the murdered girl in the mortuary. He was un-
able to identify the victim absolutely as Miss Ravenelle, but he
could definitely say that she had been of the same age and build,
and that her skin had been of the same fair, fine texture. Under
close questioning he admitted that the body might well be that
of the missing girl. He was then dismissed, in view of an urgent
case he was obliged to attend.
Mrs. O'Brien, pale and agitated, was then put on the witness
stand merely long enough to testify that on the evening of July
17th-the date of Rilla Ravenelle's disappearance—she had
cooked supper as usual for those of her lodgers who ate at home.
Among the articles of food served at this supper, there had been
pineapple with custard. And, as a little extra treat, (her voice
faltered) she had served mushrooms on toast. (An audible
murmur here, from the listeners.) No, it was not her custom to
serve things of that kind to her lodgers always, but every once in
a while when she saw something extra nice on the market, she
didn't think it did any harm to give them a little treat. That day
the mushrooms had looked so good that she'd taken them home
and given everybody a taste of them at supper. She was sure it
was on July 17th that she had done this? Yes, she was sure of it
-Monday, July 17th, the day Rilla Ravenelle disappeared. Yes,
the missing girl (again her voice faltered) had eaten both the
pineapple sweet and the mushrooms. She had been particularly
fond of both. The witness was then temporarily dismissed, with
the injunction to remain for further questioning later on.


INQUESTS
67
together to the doctor or having seemad known Rilla in Dr. Shen
had talkoen
Ha never'n, Miss phen ask the giri. waited
The next witness was one Ella Franks, assistant in Dr. Shep-
herd's office. She testified that she had known Rilla Ravenelle for
a little over half a year, having seen her for the first time when
she came to the doctor's office for examination. They had talked
together for some time while Miss Ravenelle waited for her turn,
and she had been much attracted to the girl. More or less of a
friendship had sprung up. When asked what she meant by more
or less of a friendship, Miss Franks replied:
"Well, Rilla never was one for getting intimate. We walked
together sometimes, and we went to the cinema twice."
No, she had not seen Rilla on the day of her disappearance,
but she had seen her two days before. How did she remember
the day? Because it was Saturday afternoon and Dr. Shepherd
had let her go early in order to see a dentist—she had a new
plate and it had been troubling her. She had stopped by at Mrs.
O'Brien's lodging house, and had met Rilla in the lower hall.
Rilla's firm didn't work on Saturday afternoons in summer. Rilla
had seemed upset. She looked worried about something, and she
had been crying.
At this point, there was a slight sensation.
"Did you ask her what was the matter?”
“Yes, sir, I did.”
"And what did she tell you?”
"She said someone she loved was unworthy!”
An audible gasp from the room.
"Did she name that person?”
"No, she didn't.”
"Have you, yourself, any idea who it was?”
"No, sir, I haven't. I didn't know who any of her other friends
were. That's the most she ever said to me about her personal
affairs."
“And that is all you know?"
“Yes, sir, that's all.”
The witness was dismissed.
The next person summoned was Basil Ravenelle himself, father
of the missing girl, and the spectators watched with ill-suppressed


68
THE RAVENELLE RIDDLE
curiosity as the old gentleman was helped by two burly constables
into the witness chair. His striking face was pinched and waxen,
and his hand, as he raised it to swear, was so thin as to be almost
transparent.
The witness testified that he and his daughter, Rilla, had lived
for eight years with Mrs. O'Brien. Before living in London, they
had lived in Europe. They had travelled a great deal from one
place to another; he had been stronger then. What had his work
been there? He had been a–translator. He had come to London
thinking there might be some work of the kind for him there.
He spoke several languages fluently. How had they happened
to choose Mrs. O'Brien's lodging house? Well, it was a stormy
night, and cold. He had lost the address of the boarding-house
they were hunting. He had been ill. His strength gave out.
He and his child had been glad enough to take shelter in a place
pointed out to them by a kindly stranger. No, they had never
seen this man before.
"Did you not hesitate to take your young daughter into a house
of which you knew nothing?” he was asked.
“I cannot say that I did. I knew nothing of London. Although
I am English, I had never lived much in England. We were in a
half-frozen state. I was glad of any friendly hand held out. It
seemed quite natural, under the circumstances.”
“And you never saw this man again?”
There was the barest possible hesitation. Then:
"Never," said Basil Ravenelle firmly.
“Your daughter has been employed for some months, Mr.
Ravenelle? Finding that your funds were no longer adequate, it
was necessary for her to work? Is that right?”.
A slight flush rose to the pale brow of the witness.
“Quite right,” he replied colorlessly.
"And before that time, what means of support had you?”
"Is that question not irrelevant?” inquired the cripple with a
certain dignity. “Unessential as concerning the disappearance of
my daughter?"


INQUESTS
"Certainly not,” replied the Magistrate with an air, “else I
should not ask.”
"In that case,” explained the invalid painfully, “I must explain
that I had a few very valuable jewels which had belonged to my
wife. We were not always so impoverished. Circumstances at
last forced me to sell them.”
"And the money derived from those jewels lasted you for all
those years?” The Magistrates tones were incredulous.
“Yes.”
“They must have been very valuable jewels, Mr. Ravenelle!"
“They were,” said Ravenelle calmly.
“You had, then, no monetary aid from any other source?"
“No.”
“Not from translating work, as you had anticipated?”
"No."
“Nor from anything else?”
"No."
“We have been informed that for some time you received money
in letters from Folkestone."
"You have been informed incorrectly.”
The Magistrate looked frustrated, rustled some papers.
"Now, Mr. Ravenelle,” he began briskly once more,” when was
the last time that you saw your daughter?”
The witness grew even paler, if possible. His carven lips
seemed bloodless.
"About 7:45 on the evening of July 17th, last,” he replied at
length, with some difficulty. “She helped me to bed and told
me that she was going out.”
"Did she say where she was going?”
"No."
“Was not this odd?”
"I did not consider it so.”
"Did she say with whom she was going?”
“She did not-I assumed she was going alone.”
“When did you discover her absence?”
the idow, Mr. Rate looked frush.correctly.”


70
THE RAVENELLE RIDDLE
been sou have viewer shook
"You mean when did I discover that she had not returned that
night?”
"Certainly, that is what I mean.” The Magistrate tapped rather
annoyedly with one foot. “When did you learn of her disappear-
ance?”
“About eight the next morning, when she had not come to my
room as usual. I dragged myself to her door. Her bed had not
been slept in.”
"You have viewed the remains in the mortuary, Mr. Ravenelle?”
A slight shudder shook the frail frame.
“Yes.”
“Can you identify them as those of your daughter, Rilla Raven-
elle?”
“I cannot.”
“But they might be hers?”
“They might be-yes."
The Magistrate inspected his notes.
“Your daughter had enemies?”
“None that I know of.”
"Then you believe she may have had some you did not know?"
"I did not mean that. I only meant I knew of none."
“You have no idea who could have desired to put her out of
the way?"
There was a tortured expression in the old man's eyes.
"No." Had there been the barest hesitation before that mono
syllable?
The Magistrate frowned importantly.
“Mr. Ravenelle, have you ever heard of a yacht called the Wall-
Flower?"
The question was fired unexpectedly, but Superintendent Mac-
Donald, who was watching the witness closely, could not see that
he flicked an eyelash.
"No." was the reply.
“Or of a man called Smith who owns her?”
"No."
The witness was then helped down, and Mrs. O'Brien again


INQUESTS
71
took the chair. She still looked agitated and ill at ease, but re-
peated in detail the story of the Ravenelles' arrival at her lodging
house eight years previously, their life during their residence with
her, and, finally, her words with Rilla Ravenelle on the fatal
night.
At this juncture the Magistrate again consulted his voluminous
notes.
"You have said that you had been to the pillar box to post a
letter, Mrs. O'Brien. Now, to whom was that letter written?"
Mrs. O'Brien swallowed hard.
"To the Elite Employment Agency, sir, on Euston Road, asking
them to send me another maid on the morrow. Me maid Martie
was leaving that night. The shiftless good-for-nothing, more
concerned with her looks than— ”.
The Magistrate rapped sharply.
"Ruled out,” he said, "as irrelevant."
Lawe and MacDonald, who had been leaning forward at the
mention of the letter now sank back again in disappointment.
“Now, Mrs. O'Brien,” continued the Magistrate, “Dr. Shepherd
has testified that the autopsy produced traces of pineapple and
mushrooms. You yourself have previously testified that the miss-
ing girl consumed these articles of diet at her supper on the
evening of her disappearance. Is there anything more that you
care to say in this connection?”
"Why-no, sir,” faltered the landlady. "It's the truth I'm after
speakin' when I say she ate them. But then—" she stopped
short, still with a puzzled expression on her round, flushed face.
“But what, Mrs. O'Brien?”
“But we all did that same, sir,” she ended weakly. “I feed
all me people the same.”
MacDonald, listening closely, had a strong sense that this was
not what the woman had started to say. He made a mental note
to question her further on this subject later on.
Mrs. O'Brien was then brought down from the witness stand,
and a long-drawn sigh escaped the tense listeners as Geoffrey
Lawe was next sworn in. They could see that he was laboring
LAWYER of the
Brie utopese e previo diet at


INQUESTS
73
"You say Mr. Strangely thought the finger was the middle one
of the right hand?”
"That's what he said.”
“What led him to think this?”
“It was something about the ligamentary attachments, I be-
lieve. And then he thought he could distinguish an ink-stain at
the tip!"
The Magistrate looked down his nose in an owlish way, to
conceal the fact that he was making nothing of the testimony.
Then:
“You say that Mr. Strangely left you at nine-thirty the night
before last—July 20th that was?”
“Yes."
“He was going to his home?”
“Yes."
“And then to Mrs. Lugg's rooming-house-to the room just
vacated that night by Ralph Cumberland?”
"I understood that he was. That is what he led me to believe.”
“You say “led me to believe. Can you remember Mr. Strangely's
own words in regard to his intentions?”
“I think I can. He said 'I've paid for the room, so I might as
well occupy it. Besides, if Cumberland forgot this little token,
he'll be back for it. And it would be just too bad if no one were
there to receive him'.”
Lawe recited the words automatically in the midst of a tense
silence, so thick that it could have been cut with a knife.
The news of Cumberland's murder was by this time universally
known. Few in the room were unacquainted with the fate of
the young man who had been Rilla Ravenelle's cousin, and, dur-
ing Lawe's words, the newspaper men in the front row were
scribbling furiously.
"You have viewed the remains of the body found on the cm-
bankment, Mr. Lawe?”.
Lawe swayed slightly.
“Yes."


74
THE RAVENELLE RIDDLE
"You can identify them as those of Rilla Ravenelle, the missing
girl?”
“No, I cannot,” the reply fell sharply on the silence. “I do not
believe them to be hers!”
“But you have no definite reason for this conviction?”
"I—I feel that they are not. That is all. They cannot be!"
Lawe left the stand and returned to his seat beside Inspector
MacDonald, in the midst of a deep hush.
Lawe, Senior, was next called and replied in frigid monosyl-
lables to all questions. His broad face, with its deep-set eyes, was
fixed in stubborn lines, and his glance passed straight over the
head of his son.
The missing girl had been employed in his offices?
Yes.
He did not know her well?
No.
Then she did not take his dictation?
No.
He had objected to his son Geoffrey's attentions to this girl?
Yes.
Had his son been aware of this fact?
Yes. (Grimly.)
Yet the young man had persisted in his attentions?
Yes.
There had—perhaps-been discussion about it? In fact, scenes?
Yes.
7th, the
Had the witness seen this girl on Monday, July 17th, the day
of her disappearance? No, he had not. No, he did not know
where she went after she left the offices of Lawe & Son. No, he
had never made an attempt to buy her off. No, no, no, he knew
nothing whatever about her. His son was an ungrateful pup.
(This remark ruled out.) Yes, he had viewed the remains in
the mortuary. Yes, it might very well be those of the girl, Rilla
Ravenelle. No, he couldn't say certainly. He didn't know. He
stalked down from the witness stand to his chair in the front of
the room.
went alleen No, herh on Monda
hatever hattempt to me offices of No, he


INQUESTS
75
The last two witnesses were Ruth Wilson and Elsa Berry,
typists from the firm of Lawe & Son and acquaintances of Rilla
Ravenelle. Their evidence was of no particular importance.
They had known Rilla Ravenelle since she entered the office where
they worked, and they had always been friendly with her. She
was a very lady-like girl-a nice, pleasant manner. Very cheerful-
looking. She always carried a brief-case home at night. Outside
work, they thought. She had said nothing to either of them
about any trouble. But on the day of July 17th she had seemed
a bit distracted like, and she hadn't shown up for work the next
day.
"You mean she was crying or something?”
“Oh, no, sir. Just sort of big-eyed and quiet.”
Both witnesses had viewed the body in the mortuary. Both
feared it was that of Rilla Ravenelle. After a few more per-
functory questions, both witnesses were dismissed, Elsa Berry
sobbing softly, and the evidence was summed up by the Magistrate
for the benefit of the jury. This body of gentlemen needed only
ten minutes for deliberation.
The pineapple-and-mushroom item of evidence had turned the
trick.
The jury begged to inform the court of their conviction that
the mutilated body found on the Thames embankment was that
of the missing Rilla Ravenelle, and that she had died, by strangu-
lation, at the hands of person or persons unknown!
The inquest of Ralph Cumberland, set for the afternoon of the
same day, was uneventful. There was a decided lack of evidence,
and, after the exciting session of the morning, very little of interest
to the spectators. Actual guilt could be fastened on no one,
though among some of the jurors there evidently was a leaning
toward the theory that Peter Strangely had killed Ralph Cumber-
land in self-defense. Here again, however, a snag was struck.
Strangely had indeed mentioned his intention of returning to the
room on Gower Street, but no one could be found who had seen
him either enter or leave after Dora had said good-night to him


76
THE RAVENELLE RIDDLE
about nine p. m., when he left Mrs. Lugg's house accompanied by
Geoffrey Lawe.
Tompkins, Strangely's man-servant, was put on the stand. He
testified briefly that Mr. Strangely had returned home around ten
p. m. the night of July 20th, had remained locked only a few
minutes in his laboratory, and had then sent Tompkins to bed,
saying that he was leaving the house again and would let himself
out.
"You say this occurred at what hour?”.
"He returned about ten, sir. I couldn't be exactly sure what time
he left again, sir. He said not to wait up. I put the door on the
latch and went to bed.”
“But you heard him leave the house?”
"Oh, yes, sir. But I didn't light the light to look at the time.”
“You have had no word from him since?"
“No word, sir."
“Now, Tompkins, you have been with Mr. Strangely how
long?”
“Ten years, sir. Ever since he come to London."
“He was a methodical man? It was not his habit to break
engagements?”
“Oh, no, sir! Mr. Strangely is most prompt and particular,
sir!"
“Yet he broke an engagement with Mr. Lawe?"
“Yes, sir. The engagement was marked on his note-book,
sir."
nkins. That will do the evidence SFinally the
“And he sent no word of explanation?”
"No, sir.”
“Very well, Tompkins. That will do.”
Tompkins was then dismissed and the evidence summed up.
This time the jury needed more deliberation. Finally the
verdict was handed in of murder, through strangulation, by person
or persons unknown.
By nightfall, the papers were informing eager readers, by means
of great scareheads, of three important facts:


INQUESTS
77
1. The body on the embankment was that of Rilla Ravenelle.
2. The murder of Rilla Ravenelle and the murder of Ralph
Cumberland probably were connected with each other.
3. Peter Strangely was still missing.


IX
ALL ABOUT MARTIE
The next morning Inspector MacDonald called Lawe on the tele-
phone at an early hour. Although it was Sunday, he had gone
to his office as usual.
“There's no particular reason to believe that Mrs. O'Brien lied
about that letter to the Elite Employment Agency,” he said, "and
yet I'm not quite satisfied. Mr. Strangely making such a point of
it, and all. He may have had some strong reason for stressing
the point. At any rate, I've a feeling that something is going on
there that we don't know about. You'd be doing me a great
favor if you'd look up Watkins, the postman, again, and then
report to me.”
"Righto,” agreed Lawe, a worried expression appearing in his
eyes. “You think she actually was holding something back?”
"I don't know," admitted MacDonald candidly, “but there's
something queer about it. I'm not satisfied. And Ravenelle him-
self-well, I'll talk of all that when I see you. Four o'clock this
afternoon. Still no word from Mr. Strangely?"
“Still no word.”
"It's damn queer, all right, the whole thing. Well, good-bye,”
and he rang off.
It was more than queer, thought Lawe grimly, as he took the
tube to Baron's Court. In fact, it was a situation that had kept
him lying sleepless most of the night before.
Where was Strangely? Why this unbroken silence on his part?
Was he living? Was he dead? If he were living, what was his
reason for keeping out of sight? It must be a strong one, unless
78


ALL ABOUT MARTIE
79
At Baronitair? There was nie. What had he
he were a prisoner somewhere. What had he learned further
about the affair? There was no answer to any of these questions.
At Baron's Court, Lawe climbed the tube stairway, and walked
rapidly to the home of John Watkins, the postman. To-day the
man was better, and Mrs. Watkins, wreathed in smiles, ushered
Lawe into a plain, untidy bed-room. There he found the sick
man, a dark fever-flush on his thin face, propped up in bed and
breathing heavily.
“I won't keep you a minute, Mr. Watkins,” explained the
visitor pleasantly. “But, as they will tell you at the Central Post,
I have authority to get some information from you. There's a
little case of petty larceny being investigated by the police. Noth-
ing much, but we feel that possibly you can give us a piece of
information which we need. Now then, Mr. Watkins-last Mon-
day night, did a certain Mrs. O'Brien hand you a letter for the
eight p. m. collection near Acacia Villas?”
“Mrs. O'Brien!” cried Watkins in a hoarse whisper. “Why,
she's an honest woman, şir. Surely you don't think she'd steal!"
Lawe bit his lip in annoyance.
“Now, now," he admonished the sick man, “I'm afraid I'll be
thrown out if you excite yourself. No, indeed! We don't suspect
Mrs. O'Brien of any connection whatsoever with the theft. In
fact—in a way-you'd be helping her out if you could tell me
what I want to know.”
The man's face brightened.
"Oh, in that case," he replied interestedly, “I'll be glad to help.
For she's a real nice old body. I wouldn't like to say anything
which might be used against her. Yes, sir, I call the incident to
mind perfect, for she come running just as I was about to close
the box and move on. We stood and chatted for a minute, about
the hard luck she's had, having to dismiss her maid, and so on-
a bit of neighborhood gossip-and then she turned back. But,
begging your pardon, sir—it wasn't one letter she give me that
night. It was two!”
Lawe started. Two! Two letters! Then Strangely was right.
Mrs. O'Brien had held something back. But why? And to


80
THE RAVENELLE RIDDLE
whom was the second letter written? A dim suspicion began to
form at the back of Lawe's mind. A suspicion he had earlier
entertained and then rejected after hearing Mrs. O'Brien's evidence
on the witness stand.
"Two letters," he repeated slowly. “And to whom were they
written? Think well, Mr. Watkins. Think well. Did you
happen to notice the address on either of those letters?"
"I—" began the man, but a violent coughing spell seized him,
and he was obliged to pause while he struggled for breath. “My
breathing ain't none too good since this hit me,” he apologized
painfully when he was able to speak.
“Take your time, Mr. Watkins,” said Lawe, outwardly patient,
inwardly seething.
“Well, it was this way,” panted the man at last. “At eight
o'clock these here days, there's still a goodish bit of daylight left.
In fact, I've knowed it to stay light out of doors on a clear day in
summer till nine-thirty or so. Though that's unusual. Well, Mrs.
O'Brien she give me the letters and we talked a bit about what
servants was these times and so on-employment agencies and
the like. And, after she'd gone, almost involuntary like, I glanced
down to see where she'd wrote to find help. You understand it
ain't usual with me, sir. But the letters was face up, and-well,
I looked first at the one on top- "
"And that was?" prompted Lawe, leaning forward.
“Oh, 'twas to some employment bureau on Euston Road-yes,
that's right-Elite Employment Agency. And then I looked at
the other one, but- "
“Yes, yes?”
“But, just for the minute, sir, I can't remember what it was.”
Then, as Lawe sank back with a gesture of disappointment. “But
I will, sir. My memory's good. Only this here illness has knocked
it outa my mind. You know how it is yourself, sir, sometimes.
Once in a while something'll seem to stamp itself on your mind
for no particular reason. 'Twas that way with the address on that
letter. Yet now I can't think of it. I know it put me in mind of
something when I read it-Temple Bar, that's what-though I
My memorack with a gestin't remember


ALL ABOUT MARTIE
81
can't think why. It's gone, just like that.” He sank back, draw-
ing short, harsh breaths.
"Temple Bar? That's odd,” replied Lawe quickly. “But can
you tell me this much. Was the address in London?”
Watkins nodded his head affirmatively.
“Yes, sir. That I do remember. Both addresses was London.
And the street-I almost had it. Well, never mind. Just rest
easy, sir. It'll come back to me. And, when it does, I'll let you
know."
“Yes, do,” answered Lawe, scribbling rapidly on a piece of
paper. “Just drop a line to this name and address, simply a line
saying that you have remembered-nothing else—and I will come
out here again. And, Mr. Watkins, not a word of this to any-
one else, please. Not even your wife. You understand?”
"Oh, yes, sir, I quite understand," and Watkins smiled with
feeble importance. “Just give the card to my wife, sir, as you go
out. She'll put it away.”
Lawe walked away from the house, his brows knitted in
thought. The name he had left was that of his valet, Simmons,
for his own name had figured rather prominently in the news-
papers of late, as an employer of the missing Rilla Ravenelle.
Lawe did not wish Watkins to suspect that any information he
gave might be used in a sensational murder case. The man might
be frightened off, under such circumstances, refuse to speak. For
the same reason, he had not been frank about the object of his
visit, and professed to be investigating a case of petty larceny. He
knew that persons of the Watkins type are unduly frightened at
the thought of any connection with the law, and also stubbornly
clannish concerning others of their own class—Mrs. O'Brien for
instance. Watkins, aware of the whole situation, was apt to shut
up like a clam. And Lawe was anxious that no such contretemps
should occur at this juncture.
As for Mrs. O'Brien, what possible motive could she have for
holding back any information about the second letter? What was
her object? Lawe would have given a great deal to know.
Suppose Watkins were unable, after all, to remember the ad-


82
THE RAVENELLE RIDDLE
dress. There would be no other way of finding it out, unless Mrs.
O'Brien could be induced to-perhaps it would be best to go to
her directly, now, and have it out. Possibly he could force her
into telling. Many a daring frontal attack had won out when
strategy failed.
With sudden resolve, he deflected his course towards Blooms-
bury and Acacia Villas. There he found Mrs. O'Brien in her
little living-room, bustling busily about with broom and duster.
She greeted him in her usual cheerful fashion, but Lawe brushed
her words brusquely aside.
“Mrs. O'Brien,” he demanded peremptorily, "why did you lie
at the inquest yesterday, in regard to your trip to the pillar box
on the night of Monday, July 17th? Why did you keep some-
thing back?”
The little Irish-woman reddened angrily.
"Lie, is it?" she cried belligerently, standing with arms akimbo.
“There's never a wor-rd but truth that I've told! Pillar box, is it?
Of course, I went to the pillar box. And who should know
better? For it's not every day I'm after writing a letter. To the
Elite Employment Agency, Euston Road—that's where I wrote!
And who shall say I didn't?” she ended defiantly.
“No one,” replied Lawe curtly. “That's all quite true-as far
as you go. Oh, you were wise enough to use a portion of the
truth to bear you out;" he added. “Clever. Very clever. But
that's not all! And you know it's not all, Mrs. O'Brien. How
about the second letter you mailed at the same time?"
Mrs. O'Brien's jaw dropped.
"God bless my soul!” she cried, and heartiest conviction was in
her voice. “I'd clean forgot it, Mr. Lawe! You see, this was the
way of it. It wasn't my letter, at all, at all!”
Lawe stepped suddenly forward, his whole attitude tense with
expectation.
“Not-not your letter? What do you mean?"
“I mean just that, sir. I'd wrote my own letter to the Agency,
and, knowing that the carrier reached the corner pillar box round-
about eight p. m. I'd sat waitin' for him to make his rounds.
abot's not all! Am out;" he adde enough to


ALL ABOUT MARTIE
83
address onhe address on her head angrily with m
When I see him turn the corner, I grabbed up me little old shawl
and was just to the door, when who should call out but Martie
Martie Green, you know, my housemaid, the lass I'd sent packing
-and says she to me in her pert way, 'Well, if you're too good to
keep me here any longer,' she says, 'perhaps you're not too good
to mail my letter, anyway! I was angry, you may believe, but I
took the letter and handed it in with me own, for, true enough,
she was packing her boxes. And I'd clean forgot it until this
moment!”
Although her tone was frank, Lawe leaped to his feet, eyes
flashing.
“You will swear to that, Mrs. O'Brien? Swear you forgot it till
now?”
"That I will, Mr. Lawe!”
“Then,” his voice was hard, “don't tell me you didn't read the
address on this letter. No trifling now. Did you, or did you
not, read the address on this girl Martie's letter?"
The landlady shook her head angrily.
"There's no need to take that tone with me, Mr. Lawe, sir.
And who are you, to order a poor lone widow about? One would
think I'd committed the murder myself to hear you go on! I'm
as anxious as yourself to clear things up, but how was I to know,
pray tell, how annything written by that huzzy would be of im-
portance to annyone but herself? Why, Miss Rilla hadn't even
disappeared then! As a matter of fact,” she ended candidly, "it
did wonder me a bit to know whom the girl would be writing to
at all, so I up and looked at the letter as I passed down the steps
- ” she paused and eyed Lawe keenly.
"And it was ?” asked Lawe excitedly. "It was "
"Ah, there you have me, Mr. Lawe,” answered the woman
reluctantly. "It's sorry I am, to be sure, for I can't tell you!"
"Can't tell me!" The words were rife with suspicion.
"No, sir, I can't tell you. For I couldn't read it meself. I'd
forgotten me specs!” Such an anti-climax. Could the woman
be telling the truth?
"Forgotten your spectacles!" echoed Lawe almost unbelievingly.


84
THE RAVENELLE RIDDLE
“Yes, Mr. Lawe. That's right. And I'm as blind as a bat to
read without them. Yet I can't see two feet in front of me with
them. So I'd took them off to watch for the carrier. And I
couldn't read the address. Well, I'd no mind to go back for them,
since the man was already in sight. And there you are. O:
rather, there you aren't? You'll never know the address on that
letter, unless you find Martie Green!” There was no doubting
the evident sincerity of the woman's words.
Lawe sat down, with a sudden giving of the muscles all over
his body. It had been such a near thing. Just touch and go.
Mrs. O'Brien noted his expression.
"Ah, I know it's a bitter disappointment to you, sir, if so be
it the address could have helped. But how was I to know?
That's the truth, as the good Lord sees me. And I know no
more than that!”
Geoffrey Lawe drew a long breath. He was satisfied at last
that the woman was telling the truth—but how close it had been.
Just a little matter of forgetting a pair of spectacles!
"Never mind, Mrs. O'Brien,” he said more coolly. “As you
say you could not have known that the matter would prove to
be important. And, indeed, it may not be. But Mr. Strangely
had a feeling that the matter should be looked into. And now,
it seems that he was right, in a way. For there were two letters
instead of one. And Martie Green wrote one of them. It is a
possibility, of course—though probably a remote one that this
girl may have known something about Miss Ravenelle's inten-
tions.”
"Martie? Martie know?” faltered Mrs. O'Brien, suddenly
paling
"Well, it might be. And we can't afford to leave anything un-
done. As for my attitude towards you, Mrs. O'Brien,” he ended
charmingly, “I apologize. You see, both Inspector MacDonald
and I felt that you were holding something back. But this ex-
planation completely exonerates you."
The woman, however, did not regain her color at this reassur-
ance.


ALL ABOUT MARTIE
85
"You say the Inspector was after believin' I was holding some-
thing back?"
“So he said. But what you've just told me clears that up."
“That's good, sir,” she replied colorlessly. .
"But this girl, Martie, now," Lawe added rather sharply, sud-
denly struck by another idea. “You don't happen to know where
she intended to go when she left your house?”
"That I don't, Mr. Lawe," said the old woman emphatically,
"and care less. I'm not fearing that one will ever come to grief.
The devil looks after his own!”
“There are certainly a good many of his descendants alive,"
agreed Lawe perfunctorily. Now that his excitement had passed,
he was again looking rather pale and haggard, and was eager to
be gone. The interview had left him with an unpleasant, let-
down feeling.
“You're right, sir,” said Mrs. O'Brien in a low tone. “There's
a many of his descendants alive. And there's one-dead!” As
she spoke she crossed herself.
Lawe started visibly.
“What do you mean, woman,” he questioned sharply, quickly
alert once more. “Why do you say that?”
Mrs. O'Brien paused doubtfully, pleating her crisp white apron
into neat folds.
“I never thought to speak ill of the dead,” she explained hesitat-
ingly at last. “But I mean-Ralph Cumberland, Mr. Lawe! Yes,
him! Bad clear through, he was, I'm thinking. And now, with
what you've said of that letter and all, it brings to mind somewhat
that I'd not spoken on before, nor considered even. But now
I don't know. It might mean a lot!"
His desire to go completely forgotten, Lawe sat eagerly forward
in his chair.
"Tell me about it, Mrs. O'Brien,” his tone brooked no refusal.
"Well, sir, I'll just say this.” Her voice trembled. “When I
see him blarneying old Ravenelle, and jesting about with Miss
Rilla above stairs like a sweet, loving young cousin—and pryin'
about sly-like below stairs, and whisperin' with Martie Green


ALL ABOUT MARTIE
I will say. Martie, for all she kept them so fine, was powerful
strong in her hands!”
There was a grim silence. Lawe's eyes narrowed to pin-points.
This particular point of view had never occurred to him before.
So Martie Green had been "powerful strong in the hands.”
And Ralph Cumberland had died of strangulation? What would
MacDonald make of that?
He rose to his feet.
“Thank you,” he said queerly. "You did quite right to tell me.
It opens up some rather odd ideas that I might be able to use. A
desperate woman, as the whole history of criminal law shows,
will take desperate measures. This Martie,” he added in a harsh
voice, “of course, she knew that Cumberland was fond of Rilla?"
"I don't doubt she knew it well,” replied the woman shrewdly.
"And a girl like her would be proper jealous of her lover, I'm
thinking!”
As Geoffrey hurried to Inspector MacDonald's office his brain
was seething with wild thoughts. A whole new theory to suggest
to MacDonald opened out to him. But how could he fit it in with
the known facts? And, over and above all, interesting as the
theory had proved to be, he could not rid himself of the feeling
that it was developed on the spur of the moment, with the nerv-
ous intention of keeping him away from some other subject. On
the whole, he was most unsatisfied with the interview.
He reviewed it promptly to MacDonald upon his arrival at the
latter's office.
“And you say the old lady advanced this information to you
before or after you'd told her I still thought she was holding some-
thing back?”
“Afterwards,” said Lawe.
“And she gave you all that talk about discharging the girl, too,
after you told her that?”
"Yes. What do you think about it?”
“I think,” said MacDonald slowly, "that she lied. I think she
had some other reason entirely for getting rid of the girl, and that
she's afraid we'll find it out. I don't say she might not have had


88
THE RAVENELLE RIDDLE
some suspicion that Martie was mixed up in Cumberland's
murder. But I think it was mostly bluff.”
“But what are you going to do about it?" asked Lawe.
“I'm going to find Martie Green!” said MacDonald.
But there was no chance to say more. There was a knock at
the door, and the janitor, who was making his Sunday rounds,
stuck in his head.
“A mon to see ye, sir,” he informed MacDonald. “I towlt him
ye'd no be seein' him on the Sabbath unless it was verra impor-
tant. And he tellit me it was.”
“To see me?” questioned the Inspector. “Did he give his
name?”
“He said ye wouldna know his name, sir," returned the other,
"but to say he'd coom in connection with the Ravenelle case!"
“Very well,” said MacDonald grufily. “Bring him in.”
But the man hesitated.
“He said, sir, he was verra particular to see you alone.”
MacDonald stirred impatiently.
“It's extraordinary," he said to Lawe, “how often people insist
on that-won't open their heads unless they've got you alone.
And then, likely enough, the story is just a lot of twaddle that
doesn't mean a thing. But we've got to go through with it all
lest something slip by us. You see how it is, Mr. Lawe? I dare-
say this is nothing important, but would you mind stepping into
the next room? We can talk these new developments over later."
“If you don't mind,” returned Lawe, “I'll just run along. I've
told you all I wanted, and I've a mind to stop at Strangely's rooms
again. He may have returned.”
“I'm afraid not,” answered the Inspector slowly. “Our men
were there only a short time ago. As a matter of fact, they made
another complete examination of the place. But they could find
absolutely no trace of the severed finger or the stained towel, and
no sign at all of Mr. Strangely himself. He may have had a con-
cealed hiding place for important things, but I don't see how even
that could escape my men. Run along, though, if you care to,
Mr. Lawe. We mustn't lose hope of his return, of course. He
this is nothing he can talk these new "I'll just run al
We cportant, bucee how it so throue twaddle


ALL ABOUT MARTIE
might show up at any minute, and have something very vital to
tell us. I'll telephone you later on. Just show Mr. Lawe out the
side door, Alexander,” he added to the janitor, who was still wait-
ing, "and then bring your man in.”


x
MR. PARKER PRATTLES
The man who entered was slight, stooped, elderly, and plainly of
the clerk type. He stood diffidently in the middle of the room,
twiddling his bowler hat in nervous fingers until the Inspector
motioned him to a seat.
At a sign from the latter, he cleared his throat diffidently, and
began to speak.
"I doubt if what I have to say will throw any light on the case,”
he said awkwardly, “but I thought perhaps I'd better tell you my
story and let you make what you can of it.
"My name is Andrew Parker, and I am employed by Lawe &
Son—in fact, I worked in the same office with Miss Ravenelle.”
Then, as MacDonald looked up, his attention caught, “A file clerk,
I am. It was just last Monday—the day the young lady disap-
peared—to be exact—when this happened. I didn't think any-
thing about it at the time, but afterwards I got to wondering,
could it be important?”
“Yes, yes,” interrupted MacDonald, eager to get to the point,
“Please get on, Mr. Parker.”
“Well, 'twas just before closing time, and, being thirsty, I went
out into the hallway to get a drink of water at the tap. Now,
our offices are old, built with rooms opening off on either side of
a long, dark hallway. It's dark because, at the end where the
window ought to be, they've put across a partition and made a
sort of cloak-room for the lady employees. The tap is right at the
end of the hall, in front of this partition. I was going to turn the
water on when I heard voices coming from the other side. The
boards are thin, and, though the people was whispering, their
90


MR. PARKER PRATTLES i
91
voices carried. I couldn't help but hear—at least a word or two."
"And those words struck you as strange, Mr. Parker?”.
“Well, no, sir, in a manner of speaking,” admitted Mr. Parker.
"That is, not at first, they didn't. I shouldn't have thought it was
odd or listened at all (and perhaps you think I shouldn't of), but
that I could tell that one voice belonged to a man—and there's a
rule against men being in the lady's cloak-room. I was curious.”
"I see. Go on.”
“When the lady spoke, it was in whispers, too. But, as I say,
I was curious to know who had broke the rules. So I put my eye
to a crack in the partition, and peeped in. At first all I could see
was a dark shape, direct in front of the crack. But a second later
it moved. And the light fell straight on the lady's face. It was
Miss Ravenelle!”
The Inspector's face tensed. After all, this might not be the
worthless story he had anticipated.
"And then?” he questioned.
"I was surprised,” replied Mr. Parker. “I'd always thought her
such a fine, high-minded young lady, not given to carryings on
like some others I could mention. So I wondered what could
have brought her there with a man. Then, first thing I knew,
she was speaking again.”
“Give me the exact words, if you can," commanded MacDonald,
writing on his ever-present little pad of paper.
“She was whispering real soft like," answered the little man.
“No,' she said, “all that is over.' 'Just this once, Rilla,' said the
man real low, and then his voice got very soft, and I could only
catch a word now and then. 'Not ask you' I heard, and ‘nothing
wrong'. Then she laughed real quiet and contemptuous. “Noth-
ing wrongl she said. “No-nothing wrong, where money is
concerned. As for you— and then there was some more I
couldn't hear. Then he said, real quick, 'I implore you not to
believe that.' Then they talked so low I couldn't hear, until she
said, “That is my father's affair-shall tell Ralph That was
all I could get before I heard them coming, and maybe that's not
quite straight, but it's near enough. I Aattened out quick against


THE RAVENELLE RIDDLE
the wall (it was very dark there, you remember) till Miss Raven-
elle come out and passed me. Then I waited some more, but the
man didn't come out. So, after a bit, I tiptoed to the door and
glanced in. The cloak-room was empty. But I seen what I never
noticed before, for I'd never been in after they made the place
into a lady's room. They had cut another door and a narrow
flight of steps, leading down to the floor below, so that the em-
ployees on that floor could use the room, too. He must of gone
that way."
“So you didn't see who he was?”
"No, sir, I didn't.”
“Nor recognize his voice?”
"No, sir. They was speaking entirely in whispers.”
"Had you any idea who it could be?”
"No, sir, I hadn't. That is to say, not definite. I did think
it might be one of the young gents from downstairs in the adver-
tising rooms, along of what happened later.”
"Oh—something more happened, then!" MacDonald took up
his pencil.
“Yes, sir," replied the man deprecatingly. “I'd never seen that
little fight of steps before, because there's just the advertising de-
partment on the floor below, and so no call for none of us to go
down there. Well, when I went back to my desk, I didn't see
Miss Ravenelle right away, for the boys told me Mr. Lawe's
secretary had been ringing for the files. So I hurried right up to
his private room-old Mr. Lawe, I mean. But when I come back,
I noticed Miss Ravenelle pick up her handbag and get ready to go
home. She opened her bag and pulled out her handkerchief.
That was just as I passed her desk. And, when she pulled it out,
a sheet of paper fell to the floor.”
“You picked it up for her, Mr. Parker?”
"I did that, Mr. MacDonald. Though I thought nothing of
it till I see she had grown white and was trembling like a leaf.
She grabs the paper from me without a word of thanks. It
wasn't like her—such a pleasant, cheerful young lady-but, thinks


94
THE RAVENELLE RIDDLE
nt of the pichonald nodded curta Parker. As you
The little man scratched his ear reflectively,
“Well, now," he said, “they wasn't any of those. They was in
the background-growing. And they looked more like, well-
wall-flowers of some sort!”
“Ah-yes,” said MacDonald reflectively. "Wall-flowers!”
He thought a moment.
“Mr. Parker, can you tell me anything about the personnel of the
advertising department?”
"It's a smallish affair, sir,” answered Parker. "Not many em-
ployees. And there's just two of them as far as I know that makes
the dee-signs. A Mr. Pendleton and a Mr. DuFaur. But I don't
say they'd anything to do with all this. 'Twas just a sort of idea
of mine-account of the picture.”
“I know, I know," MacDonald nodded curtly, “but we'll look
into it. Thank you for your information, Mr. Parker. As you
say, it may not mean much. But again, we may find it most
important. What I don't understand is why you didn't come to
me sooner, or at least tell Mr. Lawe about all this!”
Parker looked confused.
"You know how it is, sir," he said huskily. "I'd been eaves-
dropping, so to speak. It ain't a nice thing to do, and if I'd told,
it might have give the impression that I'm not exactly trustworthy
-a Paul Pry, nebbing into other people's business all the time.
I thought of telling, sir. But I hated to do it. At last I told my
wife, and she advised me to see you, private."
"And quite right," MacDonald commended him, with em-
phasis. “I'll just take your address, Mr. Parker. And you're
quite willing to swear to this story, should the need arise?"
The man hesitated. Finally, he spoke.
“Yes, sir. If it comes to that, I suppose I am. Though I've
been with the firm for fifteen years, sir, and I'd hate to be the
one to mix them up in any scandal.”
"You may spare your feelings, Mr. Parker,” replied the Inspec-
tor kindly. “The firm was brought into—well—if not a scandal,
at least a mystery, when poor little Miss Ravenelle disappeared.
As far as that goes, young Mr. Lawe would be the first to com-
droppaht have srebbing in But I hated private” led him, w
he advised metac Donald comm. Parker. And
aloit. Af all the orthy
you're


MR. PARKER PRATTLES
95
mend you for telling what you know. And I'm sure he would
agree with me that you should have told sooner. He has been
leaving no stone unturned to find Miss Ravenelle, and if anyone
in his employ is involved in her disappearance, he should certainly
know it!"
“They—they're sure the body on the embankment is that of the
young lady, sir?” asked Parker diffidently, and his rather faded
blue eyes filled with easy tears as MacDonald nodded in the af-
firmative.
“We can't think anything else, Mr. Parker. The autopsy was
conclusive.”
“She was a nice, kind young lady, Mr. MacDonald-it's an
awful fate she met. And you think Mr. Lawe will think I did
right to tell what I know?”
“Unquestionably.”
Parker's face brightened.
“That eases my mind, sir," he said. “Though I'm not so sure
what the old gentleman would think, if he knew. But I'll not
worry, Mr. MacDonald, for I think I've done right. Well, it's
a sad world, sir, and if the young lady is out of it so soon, mayhap
it's saved her something worse. Good night, Mr. MacDonald.
Good night, sir!"


XI
TWISTED TRAILS
For a long time after the little man had left, the Inspector sat
sunk in reverie. The maze surrounding this problem seemed to
become more and more intricate. Never before had he had a case,
seemingly so simple and yet so involved. There seemed to be no
lack of clues, and yet not one which really led anywhere. The
apparently simple disappearance of an obscure little typist had led
further and further, until it would end—where?
In his mind, MacDonald ran over the list of people either
directly or indirectly concerned with the girl:
1. Basil Ravenelle, her crippled father.
2. Geoffrey Lawe, in love with the girl.
3. Ralph Cumberland, her murdered cousin.
4. Martie Green, the discharged domestic.
5. Mrs. O'Brien, her landlady.
6. The mysterious owner of the yacht Wall-Flower.
7. The no less mysterious Someone who had, according to Mr.
Parker's recent tale, talked in the cloak-room with Rilla Ravenelle
on the day of her disappearance.
8. Last, but far from least, Peter Strangely. American amateur
detective-possible victim or possible criminal-vanished as if
from the face of the earth!
During the last two hours, additional evidence had come into
MacDonald's hands from two different sources—Mrs. O'Brien and
Mr. Parker. If true, one item at least of this evidence provided a
powerful motive for a double crime. This was the evidence con-
cerning the intimacy of Ralph Cumberland and Martie Green.
96


TWISTED TRAILS
97
But Inspector MacDonald was not at all sure that it was true.
Yet what motive could Mrs. O'Brien have for lying?
When MacDonald had first entered the case, he had suspected
Cumberland at once of engineering the disappearance of the miss-
ing girl, Rilla Ravenelle. Later, when the body of a young girl,
dead by strangulation, had been found upon the embankment,
he had been convinced that the remains were those of Rilla Raven-
elle, and that Ralph Cumberland was her murderer. But, as if to
preclude at least a part of this theory, Cumberland himself had
been murdered—also by strangulation. This had violently upset
all of MacDonald's neat ideas. He had been for some time de-
cidedly at a loss.
But here was information which, if true, promised to bring a
ray of light.
It seemed not at all impossible, if Mrs. O'Brien's words were
true, that Martie Green, in a fit of rage and jealousy (caused by
the admiration of Cumberland for his beautiful cousin, Rilla)
had killed first the object of this jealousy, and later had murdered
Cumberland himself.
So far, all ran smoothly. But at this point MacDonald struck
a snag. How, under these circumstances, could one account for
the presence of the severed finger in Cumberland's room? If the
man had not killed Rilla Ravenelle, severed her finger from her
hand in order to obtain some ring, and then hidden the finger
beneath the step in his bed-room-well, how had it got there?
Had Martie Green murdered Rilla, and concealed the finger in
Cumberland's room? It was not at all possible that she could
have done so without discovery. And, anyway, why should she
do that if her object was not to cast suspicion on her lover, but
to murder him? In such a case, why go to all that trouble?
Yet even if Cumberland himself had killed his cousin, why on
carth had he hidden the finger in his own room instead of getting
rid of it in the river or somewhere? Sentiment? Couldn't bear to
destroy his sweetheart's finger? Bosh! He had destroyed her,
hadn't he?
Perhaps he didn't know it was there? That led back, of course,
finger in Caracascould one
lot killed Rille


98
THE RAVENELLE RIDDLE
to the supposition of someone planting it there? And who could
that someone be except Martie Green? Only—why?
Oh, hell!
MacDonald rubbed his head wearily. He was getting no-
where.
Accordingly, he swung back to his first theory-ie., Cumber-
land had murdered his cousin, Rilla Ravenelle, in a fit of jealous
rage because he thought that she preferred her wealthy young
employer, Geoffrey Lawe, to himself. Then, later on, Cumber-
land himself had been murdered by Martie Green, his clandestine
sweetheart. If these facts were so, then retribution had followed
quickly upon the heels of crime. But MacDonald did not believe
that they were true. Things simply didn't fit in. For one thing,
the similarity in method of the two killings-strangulation in
both cases—pointed to the same murderer each time. And, again,
if Cumberland had killed Rilla Ravenelle himself, why had he
definitely implicated himself in the crime by concealing the sev-
ered finger in his own room?
MacDonald sighed heavily. The case was like a treadmill.
One went on and on, and never got anywhere. Just came back
to the same place.
One thing, however, was indisputable.
Rilla Ravenelle and Ralph Cumberland, dead, could not help
him.
But Martie Green, living, could!
Therefore, find Martie Green! Somewhere in the city of London,
or outside of it, Martie Green was living. And, through her,
he might be able to strike at the heart of the mystery.
Therefore, cherchez la femme!
“Those French chaps are certainly right. Sooner or later we
come to it. Hunt the woman!”
On sudden impulse, MacDonald glanced at his watch, and then
turned to the telephone.
“I hope I'm not disturbing you, Mr. Lawe,” he said when his
party had answered. “But can you meet me at your own offices
in the city at, say, seven-thirty this evening? That will give me


100
THE RAVENELLE RIDDLE
he left his laboratory on the evening of July 20th, around ten
o'clock. I talked again with Mrs. Lugg, the landlady at Cumber-
land's rooming house, and also with the maid Dora. But both
of them still swear that they didn't hear Mr. Strangely return to
the house after renting Cumberland's room that night. They was
most positive about it. But, sir, it seems to me ” he paused
and shuffled his feet uneasily.
“Well?”
“I think, sir, that the maid, Dora, knows something that she
won't tell!”
“What makes you think that, Kelly?”
MacDonald had respect for this awkward, red-headed young
man's ideas, and did not conceal the fact from his subordinate.
Neither did he take the credit for any important discoveries which
the latter happened to unearth. All of which Kelly realized, and
accordingly worked the harder for MacDonald, whom he admired
exceedingly. Now he looked up with a frown on his frank,
freckled young face.
"She's got a shut-down look, Mr. MacDonald, like she was
guarding against letting out too much. I've noticed it from the
first. And yesterday I made sure of it. Besides, sir- "
“Well?”
"It does seem peculiar that a man the size of Mr. Cumberland
could be strangled to death within arm's reach, so to speak, of
other people, and them not hear a noise of some kind! Yet no one
was disturbed at all-or so they say. That's what they swear, sir,
just as they did at the inquest. No noise. No struggle. No
nothing. It's my opinion something's being held back. Then
there's this—if Cumberland had given up his room and handed in
his keys, how did he get back in? Why, it stands to reason that
he must of got in with someone who did have a key! And that
someone might well of been Mr. Strangely!”
MacDonald frowned thoughtfully.
“Yes, I'd thought of that. But Strangely didn't know Cumber-
land. Had never even seen him. He wouldn't be apt to let a
stranger into the house?”
ust of got well of becaughtfully.cangely didn't


TWISTED TRAILS
IOI
"Not even if that stranger said he was a lodger there?”
"Not even then. For Strangely would think that if the man
were a lodger, he'd have a key-would be suspicious of him if he
hadn't, and tell him to ring."
“Maybe so, sir. But he might of met him somewhere and
come back with him.”
"That's scarcely likely, Kelly. In the comparatively short space
of time that must have elapsed between Cumberland's leaving
the house and his subsequent return, how could he have met
Strangely and the two of them become sufficiently friendly to
return together? Remember, Strangely was with Geoffrey Lawe
until nearly ten o'clock.”
"I don't know anything about becoming friendly, sir,” said
Kelly slowly. “But, to my mind, there was enough time for Mr.
Strangely to stumble on Cumberland somewheres in the city, and
follow him back to Mrs. Lugg's.”
“That's hardly likely, after our men lost him in the fog and
were unable to find him again!” replied MacDonald drily. “But
go on.”
“And, as for entering the house together," continued Kelly im-
pressively, “well—maybe they did. But not both afoot!"
MacDonald stared.
“What are you driving at, Kelly. Speak up. What have you
got in that red head of yours now?”
"Just this, Mr. MacDonald. You know yourself, it's very
strange a man of Cumberland's build could be put out of business,
surrounded by people on all sides, and no one hear anything, at
all, at all!”
"You've said that before. I confess I don't consider it so odd,
myself. The man had been drinking heavily. We have that
evidence from our own men who followed him from pub to pub,
before they lost track of him. You yourself, with Beauprey, fol-
lowed him for over an hour. Heaven knows how much he drank
that night. The probabilities are that after becoming intoxicated
he returned to his old rooming house through force of habit.
Somehow he got in. And, when he reached his room, he sank
of him. Yoven knows how ming intoxicalbit.


102
. THE RAVENELLE RIDDLE
on the bed in a drunken stupor, thus making easy work for the
murderer. In that case, there would be no particular noise or
commotion.”
"It may be as you say, sir,” persisted Kelly doggedly, “but I've
got my theory, too. I think,” he paused, emphasizing each word
when he spoke again, “I think that, drunk or not drunk,
Cumberland was killed before ever he entered Mrs. Lugg's house.
I think Peter Strangely carried him in!”


XII
A SEA OF SUSPICIONS
For two hours MacDonald and Lawe had discussed the case,
sitting together in Lawe’s private office. Although Lawe's eyes
were deeply sunk in his head with fatigue, and he had scarcely
eaten for the past few days, nevertheless he threw himself into
the discussion with a reserve force that the detective could not
help but admire.
MacDonald had gone over every phase of the affair, from the
start—the disappearance of Rilla Ravenelle on the evening of
Monday, July 17. Then followed the investigations by Lawe and
Peter Strangely on the night of July 20th, which culminated in the
finding of the mutilated finger in Ralph Cumberland's room;
Strangely's idea that the yacht Wall-Flower was connected in some
way with the Ravenelles; the murder of Ralph Cumberland;
Peter Strangely’s disappearance; the discovery of a woman's un-
recognizable body on the embankment; the inquests, and the con-
clusive evidence offered that this body was that of Rilla Ravenelle;
the investigation of the letter mailed by Mrs. O'Brien, which had
led indirectly to the discovery that Ralph Cumberland and Martie
Green, the discharged maid, had been on terms of intimacy; and,
last of all, the man Parker's evidence concerning the cloak-room
scene, when he had overheard the words of Rilla Ravenelle and
some unidentified man.
This brought them up to the present and to Sergeant Kelly's
theory that Cumberland had been murdered before entering his
lodging-house, and that he had been carried in by Peter Strangely.
"And Kelly thinks that Strangely actually killed Cumberland?”
questioned Lawe wonderingly.
103


104
THE RAVENELLE RIDDLE
“Yes, Kelly thinks so-indubitably," replied the Inspector, lean-
ing back in Lawe's swivel chair, his thumbs thrust into his vest
pockets. “I don't. As a matter of fact, I rather lean to the theory
that Martie Green, Cumberland's secret sweetheart, killed both
Rilla Ravenelle and Cumberland. That, however, would not pre-
clude Strangely from carrying the body of Cumberland back to
his room in the lodging house."
“But why should he?" asked Lawe, running a perplexed hand
through his untidy blond hair.
“Ah, there you're asking something,” sighed MacDonald. “This
whole affair is nothing but 'why’s'. I no sooner have a pretty
solution than some new WHY comes up and spoils it all.”
Lawe's lips were twitching nervously, but it was the only sign
he showed of inward perturbation.
“Mr. MacDonald,” he began, “perhaps you'll think I'm crazy
to keep on holding out hope to myself about Rilla Ravenelle, in
the face of the conclusive evidence produced at the inquest that
the body on the embankment must be hers. But I have never
believed it. Somehow, in spite of everything, I cannot think that
it is!”
MacDonald slowly withdrew his thumbs from his vest pockets,
and regarded the young man as if he were, indeed, considering the
matter of his sanity.
Lawe rushed on.
“There was too close a bond between us. I feel that if she really
were dead, I would know it. I have never felt that body to be
hers. Somewhere Rilla Ravenelle is alive and waiting for us to
find her. And I can't-I can't- " his voice sank to a whisper
—“all this waiting—you don't know—it's terrible. Sometimes I
think I shall go mad!”
MacDonald regarded the young man with a gleam of compas-
sion. There was something about Lawe which inspired a pro-
tective feeling in more rugged characters.
"I wish I could feel the same way about the young lady being
alive,” said the Inspector in a gentle tone which his underlings
would have failed to recognize. “But we can't get around that


106
THE RAVENELLE RIDDLE
better of you. The shock has been great. You're unhinged from
it all, and you can't make up your mind to give in. You had
better face it, once and for all. The murdered girl and Rilla
Ravenelle are one and the same!”
Lawe bowed his head, but did not reply.
“About this man, Parker, now," began the Inspector briskly
after a moment. “What do you think about that?"
“Oh, yes,” replied Lawe, forcing himself to a matter-of-fact
tone, “I was going to ask you what you make of his wild story,
overhearing that conversation, picking up a picture, and so on.
Do you believe it?”
"I don't see why not, Mr. Lawe. The old man seemed ab-
solutely sure of himself. What do you think?”
"I scarcely know what to think,” said Geoffrey uncertainly. “It
seems to me that a fraction of it might be true, but the rest sounds
like pure fabrication."
He looked up suddenly.
“Miss Ravenelle was not the type of girl to go whispering about
in cloak-rooms with men.”
MacDonald wisely refrained from remarking that thirty years
of detective experience had proved to him that no woman, young
or old, is a known quantity to any man. He merely took refuge,
as usual, in facts.
"Parker repeated the conversation to me,” he said.
"Mr. MacDonald,” began Lawe tentatively, “I suppose you
noticed there was nothing very definite in what he said to you,
nothing that he couldn't easily have invented from reading of the
case in the newspapers? You know there isn't a sensational case
in the whole country that someone or other doesn't step into the
limelight with false information."
“Oh, yes, I know that,” replied MacDonald, eyeing the speaker
meditatively. “You're quite right there. It seems, to some
warped minds, the only chance to get a bit of attention for them-
selves—to feel their own importance."
“That's just it,” said Lawe, leaning forward eagerly. “Now,
old Parker has been with us ever since I was a boy, and I never


A SEA OF SUSPICIONS
107
heard him have anything much to say for himself before this.
But he's a queer, crack-brained old duck. It seems a very un-
likely tale to me—the cloak-room and all that. Far too mysteri-
ous to be true. As for the picture, perhaps that part is true.
Rilla was very fond of good pictures. She may even have dropped
one, and Parker may have picked it up. As for her agitation
being caused by such a simple incident, that's ridiculous. You
know yourself, Mr. MacDonald, two of the other office girls testi-
fied that Rilla had been upset all day.”
“Yes, I remember,” said his companion slowly, as if weighing
the words. “But there is just one thing which seems to preclude
that—something which makes me believe that old Parker was
telling the truth!”
“What's that?”
“The fact that Parker described that picture as having wall-
flowers in the background!”
Lawe started.
“Parker said that? Well, even so—it's nothing he couldn't
have invented from reading about the case in the papers.”
MacDonald smiled.
“On the contrary, Mr. Lawe, there has been absolutely nothing
concerning the Wall-Flower in the papers. We have been most
careful to keep it out!”
“I hadn't realized that,” said Lawe slowly. “It's certainly very
odd, in that case. And there may be some truth in his state-
ment. But I certainly place no credence in the cloak-room con-
versation. Do you?”
The Inspector tapped consideringly with his pencil.
"I rather think I do. And there's something else-you remem-
ber what the doctor's assistant testified at the inquest? That she
had met Rilla Ravenelle in the hall of Mrs. O'Brien's house on
the Saturday afternoon before the girl's disappearance? That
Rilla had been crying, and that she said 'someone she loved was
unworthy?”
“Yes, I remember," said Lawe. "Ralph Cumberland must have
been the person she meant, of course. He was her cousin, and
carefulling the Wail.Po. Lawe, there has


A SEA OF SUSPICIONS
109
learned something about him, about his past, that drove her out
to ask Cumberland's advice.”
"She would not have gone to Cumberland. She would have
come to me!”
“Not necessarily. A family affair—she might have felt
ashamed, humiliated by what she had learned."
Lawe shook his head.
"I can't think you're right, Mr. MacDonald. Why, her last
words were 'Tell Father it will be all right. That doesn't sound
as if she were angry, or disillusioned about him.”
"On the contrary, Mr. Lawe, it might very well bear out my
theory. She may have been talking with him, reproaching him.
But, upon leaving the house, her affection gets the better of her,
and she sends back the reassuring words, 'Tell Father it will be
all right. Mind now, I'm not saying this theory is correct—I'm
only saying that we've got to make old Ravenelle talk!
“It may be, Mr. Lawe, that after all, he has had a more active
part in this affair than we realize, and that "
Lawe leaped to his feet, his eyes flashing dangerously.
"If I thought that, ” he began hoarsely.
“Calm yourself, Mr. Lawe. That was merely a supposition on
my part, (I have a habit of thinking out loud, I'm afraid) and
probably an erroneous one. Ravenelle seemed honestly overcome
at his daughter's disappearance. And as for committing the
actual crime—he is far too helpless.”
"He may not be as helpless as we think,” muttered Lawe, his
suspicions now aroused.
“Even so, Mr. Lawe, with his crippled limbs, it would be an
impossibility for him to crawl down three long flights of stairs
and reach the street, without attracting some attention."
“There are such things as accomplices,” said Lawe thickly.
“Well, you may be sure the old man knows more than he will
say, about his daughter's reasons for departure, whatever he may
know about her murder," replied MacDonald, with a satisfied
expression on his face. “But we'll get to the bottom of it before
we're through with him. And now, Mr. Lawe, before we leave,


IIO
THE RAVENELLE RIDDLE
I'd like to get all the information you can give me concerning
your advertising department. That's the real reason that I met
you here to-night. I want to know all about the young gentlemen
employed on the floor below this. Old Parker seemed to think
it was one of them who might have been talking with Miss
Ravenelle in the cloak-room. Because of the stairs leading from
the cloak-room to the other floor. You see, he waited for some
time, and no man came out, so he figured the chap had gone
down the stairs.”
“Oh, old Parker and his story,” replied Lawe with an impatient
gesture. “Of course, he didn't see any man come out–because
there wasn't any man there. I hope you aren't suspecting those
young chaps, down there, of any complicity in this miserable busi-
ness. DuFaur is a Frenchman, an extremely clever and cultivated
man. Pendleton is an Oxonian and a sahib. They are the only
two of the staff who do any of the actual designing or painting.
And both are above suspicion. Neither is the sort to go sneaking
up his employers' back stairs and carry on a clandestine meeting
with some girl in the woman's cloak-room. If you wish, however,
we can go down and look about the offices. Jones, the night
watchman, will be there.”
"Not to-night, I think,” replied the Inspector, “but I'll drop in
sometime when they are there themselves and I can look them
over. Hello! There's the telephone. Must be for me. I left
word for Kelly to call me here if anything new turned up.”
He took down the receiver, and there was a short pause while
the person at the other end of the line gave some piece of in-
formation. Then came a short bark of surprise from MacDonald.
"Well, Mr. Lawe,” he said soberly, laying down the receiver
and turning slowly from the telephone, “after all, mad as your
conviction has seemed until this minute, I am forced to believe
there may be something in it. It is just possible that Rilla Raven-
elle may be alive!"
"What do you mean?” queried Lawe hoarsely, through stiff
lips. His face was pale as death, and his hands clenched until the
knuckles showed white.


A SEA OF SUSPICIONS
III
"Because,” explained MacDonald, enjoying to the full the
dramatic effect of his statement, “a ring belonging to Martie
Green was found not fifty paces from the spot on the embankment
where the mutilated body was discovered!” He put out a steady-
ing hand as Lawe swayed on his feet.
“But that might mean," whispered the latter, "that might only
mean that Martie Green was the murderess—just as you have
thought!”
"No ," said MacDonald. “No—I don't think so. It might,
of course, if it weren't for just one thing!”
“And what-is that one thing?" inquired Lawe through white
lips.
"It's this,” replied MacDonald firmly. “Someone had cut off
that finger to get a ring! Now, a ring turns up. And it is a
ring which seems to have belonged not to Rilla Ravenelle—but
to Martie Green!”
"I—had forgotten that,” said Lawe with difficulty. “Then you
mean that there is a ray of hope-after all? That the body may
not belong to Rilla, in spite of evidence to the contrary? That it
may belong to Martie Green? Is that what you mean? For
God's sake, don't keep me longer in suspense!”
“I don't want you to get too hopeful, Mr. Lawe,” replied the
Inspector, “but I see no harm in telling you that it was Kelly who
just telephoned, and he seems to think it looks that way right
now. I confess, it never occurred to me till this minute that
Martie Green might have been the one who was murdered. What
a tangle, what a tangle!”
"But the relief-the relief of knowing- "
“Now mind, Mr. Lawe,” said MacDonald sternly. “You don't
know! It's only a new angle to the case. Kelly only said it looked
right now as if the body might be that of either girl, but he leaned
slightly to the theory of its being Martie Green on account of
the severed finger and the ring. It fits in so well. And he
brought to mind the fact that Martie might well have eaten pine-
apple and mushrooms on the night of July 17th, for Mrs. O'Brien
said everyone in the house had the same thing, and this girl didn't


II2
THE RAVENELLE RIDDLE
leave the place until after supper. So the autopsy need not have
been as conclusive as we thought.”
“But now that there's a chance, you won't give up? You'll go
on hunting for Rilla? Just tell me that. That's all I want to
know," begged Lawe.
"To be sure we will,” said MacDonald soothingly. “We'll not
leave a stone unturned to unravel the mystery. And I must say,
Mr. Lawe, the case is taking on a stranger aspect all the time.
What an affair!”
He rubbed his hands together in a rather gratified way.
"It's not often we get into anything like this. Whose was the
body on the embankment-Rilla Ravenelle's or Martie Green's?
Oh, a very pretty question!”
Both men were silent for a few moments, and then MacDonald
heaved a tired sigh.
"It's been a long day,” he said wearily. “I'll be moving on now.
But will you meet me at my office the first thing in the morning,
Mr. Lawe? Can you get away?”.
“Yes," replied Lawe tersely. “I'll see you at nine."
When he reached home half an hour later, he found a note from
Baron's Court. It was from Watkins, the postman, and addressed
-according to Lawe's instructions-to Simmons, the valet. The
message was very short, and it had come by hand.
“Can you call, Mr. Simmons?” it ran. "I have remembered the
name!”


XIII
DEATH STALKS AGAIN
The clock was just striking nine when Geoffrey Lawe knocked
at the door of Inspector MacDonald's office, at Scotland Yard, the
following morning. The Inspector was pleased to observe that
his visitor looked more rested and at ease than he had for some
days past.
“Well, Mr. MacDonald,” was the young man's cheerful greet-
ing, "I'm hoping we shall get a good bit farther this morning.
To begin with, when I reached home last night, I found a note
from Watkins, the postman, asking me to drop around this morn-
ing—that he had remembered the address on the second letter
that Mrs. O'Brien gave him to mail.”
MacDonald looked mystified.
“The second letter? What do you mean?”
Lawe stared.
“Naturally. The second letter,” he repeated. Then he gave
his knee a resounding slap. "By Jove, in the face of all those
other developments yesterday—Mrs. O'Brien's suspicions about
Cumberland, and Martie Green, and so on, I completely forgot to
tell you about the letter. As a matter of fact, there's no harm
done, as the chap couldn't remember the address on it until now,
anyhow. Yes, he told me that Mrs. O'Brien had given him two
letters to mail-not one. So I went directly to her yesterday
morning and asked her about it. And she had just told me,
when she went on to expatiate on the Cumberland-Green business.
And, in the excitement of thinking I'd stumbled on a new solu-
tion of the murders, I forgot all about the deuced letter. You see,
according to Watkins, Mrs. O'Brien mailed not one letter that
113


114
THE RAVENELLE RIDDLE
night, but two. And, according to Mrs. O'Brien, the first letter
was one she had written to the Elite Employment Agency, just
as she testified. But the second one was given to her to mail by
-Martie Green!”
"By Martie Green!" MacDonald sat bolt upright.
“Yes. She said the girl was busy packing her bag, and asked
Yes. Il the letter. "red frowning not have forfant, I'd say,
The Inspector riveted frowning eyes upon the other man.
"Indeed, Mr. Lawe, you should not have forgotten to tell me
that. Why, that's most important. More important, I'd say, than
what we learned about Cumberland and the girl. For the person
who received that letter knows a lot about Martie Green, no doubt,
that we'd like to know ourselves. May even know what she in-
tended to do after leaving Mrs. O'Brien's service. May even have
had something to do with her murder—if that really is Martie
Green's body that we found. Why, Mr. Lawe, how you ever
came to ”
came to held up his handacDonald. I've hand out anything ealized
“Just a minute, Mr. MacDonald. I've not finished. Naturally,
I'd not have forgotten if I'd been able to find out anything more.
Don't think I didn't attach importance to the point! I realized
just what it could mean—although Kelly had not yet found the
ring, and you had no idea yet that the girl might be dead. Just
listen to my story. The first time I went to see John Watkins,
as you know, I was unable to interview him on account of his
illness. Yesterday morning I went again. This time I was able
to see the man. He gave me the surprising information about
the existence of a second letter, but he was unable to remember
the address. He had noted it, at the time, he says, but had for-
gotten it.”
“Forgotten it!"
“Yes. But the wonder is not that he forgot it. It's more curious
that he read it, at all! At any rate, he said the name on this
letter had impressed him at the time, and that he was sure it
would come back to him. I left my address and told him to
communicate with me directly he remembered—not to write the


DEATH STALKS AGAIN
115
name, as one can't be too careful, but to drop me a line saying he
had remembered. Last night this note arrived. Simmons said
it came by messenger.”
Lawe handed the letter to the Inspector, who read it carefully
over and over.
“But it is addressed to a Mr. Simmons,” he ejaculated at last in
surprise.
Lawe smiled.
“My valet, if you remember," he said. "He's been in the family
for years. I thought it a bit safer to employ his name instead of
my own, as our firm has figured rather prominently in the case
of Miss Ravenelle, and I was afraid of scaring the man off. Fear
of the law, you know, is very potent.”
MacDonald pursed his lips.
“Of course, in a sinister affair of this kind, every precaution is
needful. Still—your man didn't open this?'
“Certainly not. I told him I was expecting a note from Baron's
Court, addressed in his name. So, naturally, he handed it directly
to me.”
“Well, well, Mr. Lawe,” said MacDonald, shaking his head.
“We certainly live in a world of surprises. Who ever would have
thought when Mr. Strangely advised tracing that first letter, that
we would find a second? And that second written by Martie
Green, too? Why, we didn't even know there was a Martie
Green! By the way, what did Mrs. O'Brien say about the letter?
Had she read the address?”
Lawe gave a grim little smile.
“She had certainly tried to in the immemorial way of mistress
and maid. But luck was against her. She had forgotten her
spectacles, and to quote her, she's as 'blind as a bat without them'!”
"And you cautioned Watkins, of course, not to speak of the
matter to anyone? Impressed him firmly with the necessity for
silence?"
"I cautioned him not to tell even his wife,” said Lawe.
"Just so. Just so," answered MacDonald rubbing his hands in
satisfaction. “Well, I'm most anxious to learn the outcome. It
Share on the
Masebena'da bulbing bit hands in


116
THE RAVENELLE RIDDLE
should surely lead us somewhere. Wait till I get my hat and
we'll go over there together.”
They were just leaving the room when Sergeant Kelly rushed
in. His face was red with excitement, and his carroty hair stood
almost upright as was its habit in moments of stress.
“I was hoping I'd catch you, sir,” he said to MacDonald.
“There's just been an emergency call over the phone. Another
murder!”
“Good Lord!” cried MacDonald. “What next? Has all London
gone mad on murders? I've an appointment, Kelly—something
to do with the Ravenelle case—and I can't go. But take any two
men you like, and look the ground over yourself. Get all the
details you can, and see that the body's not disturbed until I can
get there. What's the address?”
"It's out Earl's Court way, sir. Number 10, Baron's Court.
The constable who called up says the woman's in a state of rare
excitement. He can't get much out of her. Shem ” but Kelly
broke off at the sight of Lawe's face.
“My God, Inspector!" Lawe cried. “That's John Watkins'
address!”
“What? Not Watkins, the postman-the chap we were going
to see?” was the thundering reply.
“Yes-yes. That's Watkins' address. 10 Baron's Court."
"Is it an apartment house? Does more than one family live
there?” The Inspector's tones were seething with suppressed ex-
citement.
“No, it's just an ordinary house, a small one, like all the houses
on Baron's Court. Do you think — ”.
"Time to think when we get there!" snapped the Inspector.
He broke into a run, down the hallway, calling out instructions
as he went.
"You—Kelly! A taxi-cab. Quick! Don't wait to pick up any
more men. Just jump in with Mr. Lawe and myself!"
“We're up against someone who stops at nothing," he added
briefly, once they were in the cab and rolling in the direction of
Hammersmith.


DEATH STALKS AGAIN
117
"If Watkins is dead,” replied Lawe tensely, “then it means ”
"It means, Mr. Lawe, that we'll never know the address on that
letter! Someone is suppressing the evidence. And that someone
must have inside information. He must know pretty positively
every step we are taking. As far as I know, only you and I and
Mr. Strangely have attached any importance to the fact of Mrs.
O'Brien mailing a letter on the night that Rilla Ravenelle dis-
appeared—and not one of us could tell that it would turn out to
have been written by Martie Green! Yet this man Watkins-or
so we'll presume—is murdered just on the eve of telling us the
address on that letter! Someone has been spying—and spying
most effectually.”
"Watkins may have spoken of it himself, in spite of all my
warnings,” suggested Lawe.
"And don't forget," contributed MacDonald significantly, “there
is your valet, the man Simmons!”
"Why, yes," agreed Lawe, “but I'd sooner suspect myself than
poor old Simmons. He's been with the family since before I was
born. He was devoted to both my father and my mother, and I
honestly believe he thinks the sun rises and sets on me. Very often
he looks after me even yet as though I were still a child,” this
last with a reluctant smile.
“Just the same, I think we'd best have a go at him," muttered
young Kelly, who had not been present when Lawe told MacDon-
ald of the receipt of the message from John Watkins, but who was
beginning to put two and two together with native sagacity.
“Wait till you see him," returned Lawe, with the nearest ap-
proach to a real grin than had been seen on his face for many
days. “I don't think even you Scotland Yarders could have the
heart to suspect old Simmy of anything but saying his prayers.
As a matter of fact, he's getting to be an awful nuisance. Just
patters about under foot. But we keep him on, anyhow. He's
been very faithful. By the way, Sergeant Kelly, I am more anx-
ious than I can say. Have you heard anything yet of Peter
Strangely? I feel more or less responsible, in a way, since I got
him into the case.”
proachait till you see and two from John


DEATH STALKS AGAIN
119
without quite grasping the cause, was riding gleefully about on
his velocipede.
"We didn't touch nothing, as you find for yourself, sir,” said
the constable to MacDonald as they entered the house. “The poor
chap's wife is fair off her head with shock at present, but a neigh-
bor lady is looking after her above stairs. Right through here,
please.”


XIV
MURDER ON WHEELS
believe,"
outstretched oft, thick-set,
The room they now entered was the same that Lawe had seen the
previous day, and was unchanged so far as he could determine,
save for the grim burden which the old-fashioned bedstead now
held. As they crossed the threshold, a small group of people,
standing by the further wall, separated and came towards them.
"Inspector MacDonald, I believe,” said the foremost of this
group, a short, thick-set, round-faced man who advanced with
outstretched hand. “I am Doctor Stutt, and I have been in at-
tendance for one week upon the victim of this crime.”
"Ah, yes, Doctor," MacDonald acknowledged the greeting.
“Now, can you tell me as briefly as possible just how the body
came to be discovered—and who discovered it?”
"I myself discovered it,” was the surprising response, and then,
in answer to the Inspector's questioning glance, “As you know,
Mr. Watkins had been seriously ill with a bout of summer in-
fluenza. His lungs were greatly congested, and he suffered a
great deal of pain. In fact, he was often so restless from this pain
that he was unable to fall asleep until very late. A mild sedative
seemed to do him no good, and I dared not administer a power-
ful one on account of the tricky condition of his heart. But Mrs.
Watkins had had occasion to notice that, when she came in each
morning at two o'clock to give him a cup of broth, he almost
invariably fell into an exhausted slumber soon afterwards. Ac-
cordingly, I gave strict orders that he was to have his sleep out.
On no account was there to be any noise in the house in the early
morning, and my patient was not to be awakened until I made my
usual call at nine-thirty. We followed this program for two days
and I dared y late.
Watkins had count of the
120


MURDER ON WHEELS
121
with admirable results, and Mr. Watkins would no doubt have
been about again in a few more days, had not this terrible event
occurred.
“This morning, as soon as I arrived, Mrs. Watkins and I came
together to her husband's room. To our intense surprise, the
door was locked on the inside. We knocked and called, but there
was no response. Greatly alarmed, I ran out and around the
house, followed by Mrs. Watkins. I knew that the window was
open, as I had given orders that the sick man must sleep with
plenty of air at night. An airless sleeping-room is suicide.”
"And an airy one is murder—in this case," commented Mac-
Donald drily.
The doctor eyed him indignantly, his chubby face assuming a
ruffled expression.
"I was acting for the best,” he said. “In recommending air at
night, naturally I was not taking into account the criminal tend-
encies of the London populace. Since you have requested an
account of the finding of the body, I shall now continue. The
window is about six feet from the ground, as the lot slopes down
on this side of the house; and I am a short man. But I espied
a ladder just over the dividing wall which is between Watkins'
little garden and the one next door. I hopped over and got it,
brought it back, and climbed in through the window. The minute
my eyes rested upon poor Watkins, I realized that he was gone-
and by foul play. You see, Mr. MacDonald, the poor chap was
strangled "
“Strangled!”
“Strangled!”
“Strangled!”
He was interrupted by three separate exclamations from
MacDonald, Lawe, and Detective Sergeant Kelly. MacDonald,
for the first time, moved over to the bed and bent closely over the
body.
"But he shows none of the signs of strangulation,” he observed
in some surprise. “No distended eyes, no congestion of the face.
How do you account for that?”
You see, atkins, I fellihe windows and go


122
THE RAVENELLE RIDDLE
The little doctor polished his eye-glasses diligently with his
pocket-handkerchief before he spoke.
"I told you he was strangled,” he said at last, “although what
really killed him was his weak heart. Watkins died of sheer
fright before the murderer had completed his work! I told you,
you will remember, that my patient had a very tricky heart. If
you will turn down the collar of the man's night-shirt, Inspector
MacDonald, you will see the faint bruises made by the would be
strangler!"
MacDonald had already done so, and was gazing with deep pity
at the brutal marks on the victim's wasted throat.
“I suppose,” he said straightening, “that the killer wore gloves.
What about it, Kelly? Have you found any prints?"
“None so far, sir.”
"And I don't think you'll find any,” broke in Doctor Stutt with
rather a shame-faced smile, "for I am in the way of being rather
an amateur detective myself, and I noticed at once the absence of
finger-prints any place in the room. As you say, the strangler
must have worn gloves. He evidently entered the room and
locked the door on the inside before beginning his work. In my
opinion Watkins had been dead for about six or seven hours when
we found him. He was certainly alive at two a. m. when his
wife fed him his broth.”
MacDonald and Kelly turned again to the dead body. It was
as Doctor Stutt had said. Though Watkins had evidently died
of fright, the cause of that fright had been strangulation, and the
marks of violent hands were unmistakable on his neck. His eyes,
wide open, were still staring as if in fright, and an expression of
startled horror was on his thin, drawn face. What had those eyes
seen as they gazed for the last time upon earthly things? In-
spector MacDonald would have given a good bit to know.
In all particulars, the details of the murder seemed to tally with
those in the murder of Ralph Cumberland. The bruises on the
throat, though much fainter, were almost identical in shape, and
MacDonald had small doubt that they had been made by the same
hands.


MURDER ON WHEELS
123
Kelly, who had brought the necessary apparatus with him, was
preparing to photograph the marks.
“The same lack of anything to go on,” he complained. “There's
not much doubt that the last two murders, at least, were com-
mitted by the same person, but ”
“The last two murders!” ejaculated little Doctor Stutt excitedly.
“What do you mean? Have there been more murders of this
kindat do you mean erst ejaculated little
windows careful of late. Wone of a plied Maci
"I am not at liberty to speak plainly,” replied MacDonald, “but
I believe this to have been only one of a series which have been
perplexing us greatly of late. Whoever performed the deeds has
been just as careful this time as formerly. Of course he got in
the window-doubtless with the same ladder that you used later
on, Doctor," MacDonald was now leaning out over the window-
sill, being careful, however, not to brush against it. “I suppose
those are your foot-prints out there?”
Doctor Stutt nodded, joining him.
“Yes, they are. Mine and Mrs. Watkins'. Even in my excite-
ment, being somewhat of a detective turn of mind as I said, I
noticed that there was not the print of any other feet than ours.
It seemed very queer to me, for the loam is very soft just now.
Hey, hey, Johnnie!” He broke off suddenly and called to the
snub-nosed child who had ridden directly under the window on
his velocipede. “You'll spoil any tracks down there with your
velocipede!”
The boy grinned impudently, but rode away, and the doctor
turned irritably to Inspector MacDonald.
“It would do my heart good to trounce that lad,” he said. “The
worst spoiled brat in London. His parents both were over forty
when he was born-an only child. I cautioned him before, for
I could see he'd ridden over the ground earlier this morning."
"Oh, let the little chap be,” replied MacDonald. “There's a big
chunk of trouble coming for him later on. And I don't think the
velocipede marks have spoiled anything. As far as I can see, the
only marks there are your own prints and a few, evidently made
by Mrs. Watkins, following you at a distance. Although we'll


124
THE RAVENELLE RIDDLE
have to examine them to make sure. And these finger-prints on
the window-sill? They're yours, too, of course.”
"They're certainly not the murderer's,” said Kelly grimly. “He's
too clever for that. Though I took them, of course.'
“Oh, they're mine," said the doctor. “I made them climbing
in.”
"However, we'd best check up on it. Here, Kelly, take the
doctor's prints."
“Yes, sir."
"I suppose they're not for your rogue’s gallery,” said the little
physician genially.
"Hardly,” replied MacDonald. “But if, by any slightest chance,
we should discover one among them which does not tally with
yours, then we can reasonably assume that it is that of the killer.
But I agree with Kelly. We won't find one. Shall we make our
outdoor inspection now?”.
A constable was called in to remain with the body, after the
injunction not to move it until after the police doctor had arrived
to make his examination. Then MacDonald, with his followers,
walked out into the small garden. But, even at closer range, the
soft loam showed only the prints of the doctor's dapper little foot,
followed closely by that of Mrs. Watkins'. These were intersected
in places by the criss-cross markings of the child's velocipede
wheels. Even with the microscope, Kelly and MacDonald were
unable to find anything of further interest.
"It's uncanny,” remarked Lawe, who had been watching all the
proceedings silently. "The chap couldn't have flown!”
“Of course not!” said the little doctor rather crossly. “But I
still think that Johnnie's tires must have spoiled some good clues.”
"I believe not,” replied MacDonald thoughtfully. “I'm sure
there were no other foot-prints here. And as for flying, Mr. Lawe
-well, I'm beginning to think almost anything of this murderer!
He got in, and he got out. For he's not here now. And yet
there's not a mark anywhere to show how he did it. The bed-
room door was locked on the inside, so he must have got in and
out through the window. Yet I feel sure that we shall find none
anny.mything of firescope, Keling the chiedere interse


MURDER ON WHEELS
125
of his prints among those on the sill. And where are his foot-
prints? You can see for yourself that this loam is extremely soft.
It beats me how he avoided making any!”
“Look, Mr. MacDonald! Look!” cried Sergeant Kelly sud-
denly, stooping down. “What's this little round hole in the
ground, as if someone had poked a round, pointed stick into it?”
“Just that, probably," answered MacDonald, joining him and
bending over. “I daresay it's some of Mr. Johnnie's work. He
had a stick in his hand.”
“Oh, I say, here's another!” cried Doctor Stutt, who, in turn,
had staried to peer about. “Just four or five feet from the first
hole-in this direction.” He moved toward the front of the house.
"And here's one,” cried Kelly triumphantly. “Over here,
farther on. In a direct line with the others. They're very small.
Scarcely noticeable. But do you suppose they could mean some-
thing, Inspector?"
“Look here, Johnnie, my lad,” called MacDonald suddenly to
the boy who wa; now at the gate, having dismounted from his
velocipede, and was entertaining a crowd of curious onlookers.
“Bring us that stick you have in your hand!"
The little fellow, pleased at being the center of the stage, came
running eagerly up.
"You've been poking holes with that?” queried the Inspector.
Johnnie grinned slyly.
“Mebber I have,” he murmured.
"Let's see now," prompted young Kelly, reaching for the stick.
“Let's see if it fits these nice holes. Sure and it does, Inspector.
Look here. Just the size!"
“That's right,” agreed MacDonald. “But, Johnnie, didn't Doc-
tor Stutt tell you not to mark up the yard this morning?"
"Yessir,” shrilled Johnnie, suddenly finding his tongue, "and
so I didn't, neither. Not once I didn't, till I rode over when you
was lookin' outer the window!"
“Oh, I say, now. What a whopper!” accused MacDonald
severely.


126
THE RAVENELLE RIDDLE
“No, I didn't! No, I didn't! No, I didn't!” cried Johnnie stub
bornly.
“Well, then. When did you make the marks? Last night?”
“Mebber," replied the child, indifferent once more. “But I
don't think so. I think I just finded the stick in my yard today.
Only I forget. Yesterday's a long time ago.”
"So it is, my lad. So it is. A deal has happened since yester-
day.” MacDonald's hand stole into his pocket and brought out
sixpence. “Take this now, and run along."
The boy needed no second admonition. With a quick dart, he
was off around the corner of the house. As his spindling legs
twinkled out of sight, MacDonald turned to the others.
"If Johnnie didn't make those marks, then who did?” he in-
quired.
“Why, Johnnie did, of course,” said Lawe quickly.
“Of course," agreed the doctor. "He's a proper terror. You
can't believe a word he says.”
But Sergeant Kelly was in a deep study.
“The marks were made by that stick, certainly,” he said at last.
“And there's no other marks here in the yard except Doctor
Stutt's and Mrs. Watkins' and them made by the kid's velocipede
wheels. But I'm not satisfied. I keep feeling we must of over-
looked something. Or maybe haven't thought of every possibility.
As Mr. Lawe says, the murderer couldn't fly in and out. And
yet-and yet- ".
"And yet-he might ride? Is that it, Kelly?” questioned Mac-
Donald, watching with enjoyment the three astonished faces be-
fore him.
"No, I see you don't understand," he continued. “Yet it is
quite apparent to me from the signs on the ground, that a small
woman-or even a small man-might have stood on the back of
Johnnie's velocipede, steered with one hand on the handle-bars,
and propelled the machine in the direction he wanted by digging
sharply down into the ground with that stick-to give impetus.
The same method, in a lesser degree of course, that is used in


MURDER ON WHEELS
127
punting on the river. Eh, Kelly? How's that for a possibility?
What do you say, Mr. Lawe?”
"It's—staggering, if true,” said Lawe, finding his voice.
Sergeant Kelly slapped his thigh resoundingly.
"I believe my soul you've got it, sir," he crowed admiringly.
“I do that. Except for one thing. A small woman or a light man,
as you say, might get on that velocipede. But-how about a tall,
heavy-boned man?”
MacDonald knit his brows frowningly.
“A tall, heavy-boned man? What's that got to do with it?” he
asked. “Oh, I see. Still clinging to your old idea about Mr.
Strangely, are you?”
Lawe spoke up harshly.
"Absurd!” he said.
“All right,” replied Kelly quietly. “We shall know some time.
Now, Mr. MacDonald, shall I see if our doctor has come from
headquarters, and, if he has, order the body removed? And shall
I have the velocipede locked up for further examination?”
“Yes, to both questions, Kelly," answered MacDonald, watch-
ing the red-headed young sergeant walk back into the grief-
stricken little house with Doctor Stutt. And then he added, rather
irritably, as he and Lawe turned toward the waiting taxi-cab.
"Of course, this doesn't altogether knock our last theory on the
head. But if Martie Green committed the other murders, and if
this is the handiwork of the same killer, then Martie Green isn't
dead. And the mutilated body on the embankment can't be hers.
Yet I'm almost convinced that it is. How shall we reconcile that,
tell me! A corpse can't commit murder. At least, I've never yet
heard of one doing so!"
“And I, too, feel sure that that body is hers!” agreed Lawe.
“Then, too,” added MacDonald, still brusquely, “even if she
were still living, and had killed this man, how the deuce would
she have known we were on the trail of the letter she wrote, any-
how? No one knew of it but you and I—and Strangely. And
Strangely," he added suddenly, with emphasis.
“But surely, Mr. MacDonald, you don't agree with Kelly,"


128
THE RAVENELLE RIDDLE
Lawe was beginning, when that gentleman himself caught up to
them on a run, his outspread hand extended before him.
“Here,” he panted. “Look at this, Inspector. That kid,
Johnnie, just hauled it out and said he'd picked it up out in front
of the house a little while ago!"
All three men eyed the object, thus presented, curiously as it lay
on the palm of Kelly's big hand. Then Lawe gave a short, sharp
exclamation. He held out an unsteady hand.
“What's the matter?" inquired MacDonald, startled.
Lawe opened his lips to speak, but no sound came.
"Speak, man,” urged MacDonald excitedly. “Tell us-have
you ever seen this before? To whom does it belong?”
"That-is-Peter Strangely's corncob pipe!” replied Lawe
hoarsely. “Look, Mr. MacDonald. There is the initial 'S' carved
on one side!"


XV
A STARTLING DEVELOPMENT
That afternoon Inspector MacDonald was not surprised to re-
ceive a telephone call from old Simmons, Lawe’s valet, to the
effect that Lawe was confined to his bed with a heavy cold and
high fever. In fact, Simmons informed him, Mr. Lawe's physician
said the young gentleman must have been wandering about for
a week with a temperature which should have kept him in bed.
But Mr. Lawe was that anxious, the valet continued, that he
couldn't rest nor take his nourishment, what with worrying and
all. When he'd been able to keep around, he'd occupied his mind
so to speak with investigations and trying to find the young lady.
But now, what with fussing about poor Miss Ravenelle and
wondering what had become of Mr. Strangely, he was quite be-
side himself, he was. And he'd requested most particular that
Mr. MacDonald please send someone around to the house, to keep
him notified about all the latest developments.
MacDonald quickly consented, mentally remarking that Sim-
mons seemed extremely well informed as to the details of the
case. As he hung up the receiver, the Inspector thought of
Geoffrey Lawe's face as he had last seen it the night before
feverish, hollow-eyed, strained, and yes, weak. There was some-
thing pathetically young about this very weakness. The boy had
been laboring under a fearful strain. His sweetheart vanished-
perhaps the victim of murder; a harsh and unsympathetic father
with whom to contend; no one, with the exception of the old
servant Simmons, to whom he could turn for comfort or under-
standing.
MacDonald was under no illusion as to the relationship of the
129


130
THE RAVENELLE RIDDLE
frommust have givmise, under themperamental, in The son
2. Well, the Wa Ravenelle. umstances, whesive; One
Lawes, père and fils. It was his business to know things, and
there was little concerning the prominent families in the city, of
which he was ignorant. Indeed, most of these families would
have been unpleasantly surprised at the depth of this knowledge.
He knew, for instance, the cause of the suicide of Geoffrey Lawe's
mother. He knew that the father, a stern, self-made man, had not
given the boy a sympathy and love which might have led to
better understanding between the two. Lawe, senior, was not in-
tentionally hard, but his was a cold, austere nature. The son was
like his mother-hot-headed, temperamental, impulsive. One
could not but surmise, under the circumstances, what adoration
he must have given Rilla Ravenelle. Yet she had been taken
from him. Well, the world was a queer place, thought Mac-
Donald, sighing.
It was a full day for the Inspector, but eight o'clock found him
by Lawe's bedside, a sheaf of papers in his hand and a thought-
ful expression on his ruddy face. His visit, it must be admitted,
was not wholly altruistic. He was most desirous of observing the
valet, Simmons, while the latter was unconscious of being
watched.
“Now, Mr. Lawe,” he greeted his host briskly, taking an arm-
chair by the bed. “You're sure that this discussion will not excite
you unduly? You have your physician's permission to talk
things over?”
Lawe nodded.
“Yes," he replied in a husky voice. "I feel rather rotten, but
the doctor saw I couldn't go on this way. The suspense was only
making me worse.”
"Well, then,” said MacDonald, “I have several things that may,
in fact are sure to, interest you. First, the Wall-Flower has been
located some miles off the southwest coast of France. Apparently
she is making for Spain. She makes no attempt to disregard our
wireless messages, now that we've managed to pick her up. Says
she is merely on a pleasure cruise and states her willingness to put
in at the nearest port if we wish, though it's plain she is very
angry at the demand.”
"Well, then,” said
steet vou. First, the ware Apparently


A STARTLING DEVELOPMENT
131
"What do you make of it?” croaked Lawe, leaning back against
the pillows. His disordered fair hair, cheeks brilliant with fever,
and heavy eyes all gave him the appearance of a tired, sick child.
"I think there's something queer about it,” returned the In-
spector promptly. "I think the yacht is simply having us on-
that she has something up her sleeve, and is wasting all the time
she can in an exchange of messages, in order to get farther away.
So far she has offered no explanation for her abrupt departure.
Our men have orders to overtake her if possible, and to stop her
at any cost before she reaches Spanish waters. If she has nothing
to conceal, she will submit gracefully to a search. Otherwise,
she'll do her best to outwit us and break away. It's my own
opinion she'll do the latter. At any rate, we'll soon see now."
“Have you any idea that Rilla Ravenelle might be aboard her?”
was the eager query from the invalid.
"It is quite possible,” was the grim reply. “Either she-or her
body. Always supposing, of course, that the body on the em-
bankment was not hers, after all. If the girl is alive, where can
she be now, if not on the Wall-Flower? We have gone over
London with a fine-tooth comb, and all our outside operatives
have had her description since the beginning of the affair. There-
fore, I am inclined to believe that Mr. Strangely may have been
right in his assumption that Rilla Ravenelle, with or without the
knowledge of her father, left home on the evening of July 17th,
to keep an appointment with someone from the yacht.
“Certainly the similarity between the word wall-flower and the
meaning of the name Ravenelle is too striking, under the circum-
stances, to be merely chance. Added to that is the fact that the
first known appearance of the Ravenelles in London was in com-
pany with a sea-going man-or a presumable sea-going man. (Of
course, all deduction is primarily based on assumption.) Also, we
believe that, in spite of Ravenelle's vehement denial, he did re-
ceive quarterly remittances from Folkestone until a little over
a year ago. This is the port where the Wall-Flower put in on this
trip. I have made inquiries and find that Captain Smith's old
yacht-the Dragon-Fly, which came to grief on the rocks some
er description since that Mr. Strangelyh or without the
imilarity emelle is tool to that i


132
THE RAVENELLE RIDDLE
time agowas also a not infrequent visitor at the same port. Yet
when, a little more than a year ago, Captain Smith sailed from
Folkestone for a presumable cruise around the world, the letters
from Folkestone to the Ravenelles ceased. Now Captain Smith,
with his new yacht Wall-Flower, once more drops anchor at Folke-
stone. And Rilla Ravenelle disappears! Surely, it is permissible
to assume some connection here. Yes, I think we may take it that,
even if the girl is not found aboard the yacht, the yacht's owner
will know something of her whereabouts on the evening of July
17th. I have had this conviction ever since you first told me of the
existence of the Wall-Flower. The devilish job is to pick her up.”
"I can only pray that you are right,” said the sick man in low
tones. “This terrible suspense has broken me.”
"My next point, if I'm not tiring you,” continued MacDonald
after a pause in which Simmons silently entered, drew the heavy
window hangings and snapped on a shaded lamp by the bedside,
“is the following one. A witness has come forward-a Miss
Prescote, to be exact—also a lodger at Mrs. O'Brien's. She testi-
fies that she heard a violent quarrel on the Saturday before Rilla
Ravenelle disappeared. This quarrel was between old Ravenelle
and his nephew, Ralph Cumberland-ah, I thought that would
make you sit up and take notice!” as Lawe jerked himself bolt
upright.
“This Miss Prescote says that Ravenelle swore violently at
Cumberland, called him a number of apparently unmentionable
names, and finally forbade him the house!”
Lawe started once more, and the Inspector smiled quietly, quite
satisfied with the result of his little surprise.
"Quite so," he said drily. “Would you care to hear the report?”
At Lawe's assenting nod, he rapidly thumbed through the
papers until he found the one he wanted. “Part of it is im-
material,” he explained quickly. “This bit is all that concerns
us.” He deared his throat and commenced to read:
"— and knew that Mr. Ravenelle must have a visitor. I
certainly did not mean to listen, but there are great gaps around
the water pipes which run up through the rooms, and I had
little suo bu care tombed this it is in


A STARTLING DEVELOPMENT 133
often been unable to keep from hearing Mr. Ravenelle or his
daughter speaking. Mr. Ravenelle, in spite of his weak physique,
has the voice of a much more powerful man. This day, only a
few faint murmurs drifted down at first, and I paid no attention.
The speakers were conversing in very guarded tones. But all at
once the old gentleman's voice rose almost to a shout, and he
called his visitor such terrible names that I was horrified. Then
he cried out, “Don't deny it! It is all clear to me now! As if we
had not had enough to bear. Now then, you get out of
here before I kill you. If I ever see your face again, crippled
though I am, so help me Heaven, I'll squeeze the life out of your
body with my own two hands!" When the woman, Prescote,
was examined as to whether or not those had been Mr. Ravenelle's
exact words, she said no, she thought not. But that they were
substantially the same. When questioned as to whether she had
heard him address the visitor by name, she said no. But that
when the door of the Ravenelle apartment opened and shut, she
was overcome by curiosity. So she looked out her own door-
and saw Ralph Cumberland run down the stairs!”
"My God!” said Lawe faintly, leaning back on his pillow with
Mo Godinud lawe faintly lesnina hack on his
closed eyes. “What next? Do you think it's true? Is this woman
reliable?”
“I should imagine so. She is a quiet, conscientious type.”
“But why didn't she come forward before?" asked Lawe fever-
ishly. "I confess I don't understand these people who wait until
the case has been running on for days, and then come forward
with valuable evidence.”
“She was away on her holidays,” explained MacDonald. “One
of those shilling-a-week savings clubs that they have all over the
country. They spend a week once a year on the continent. The
woman didn't see an English paper while she was gone. But
when she returned last night and heard of the Ravenelle case,
she was much excited, and came to me to-day at Scotland Yard to
tell me what she knew.”
“That means, then,” cried Lawe in agitation, as the full purport
of MacDonald's news came to him, "that Cumberland's visits to


134
THE RAVENELLE RIDDLE
the Ravenelles did not cease two weeks before Rilla's disappear-
ance-as he swore they did—but that he actually was in the house
two days before her disappearance!"
"Exactly,” agreed MacDonald. “And upon that very day, old
Ravenelle was heard to threaten his nephew's life for some reason;
for something which he evidently considered a wrong done to
himself or his daughter."
“But what are you going to do about it?" demanded Lawe ex-
citedly.
"What have we done, you mean?” replied MacDonald darkly.
"Cripple or no cripple, Basil Ravenelle has already been arrested
on the charge of murdering his nephew, Ralph Cumberland!”
“My God! My God!” cried Lawe again. “This is terrible. It
can't be true. Are you quite sure of what you are doing, Mr.
MacDonald? Remember-people often threaten the lives of
other people, without meaning it. And the man is practically
helpless! It's reasonably certain, as we know, that all the murders
were done by the same man. And Mr. Ravenelle could not be
that man! Even supposing he could have murdered Ralph Cum-
berland (and I don't see how), he couldn't have murdered John
Watkins, the postman. Or Martie Green, if that body on the
embankment is hers. Besides, what motive could he have for
wanting to kill Martie Green?”
MacDonald smiled.
“The same motive he had for killing Cumberland, I daresay.
We know that there was a degree of intimacy, or some shared
secret, between Cumberland and the girl.”
"Well, even so, a cripple like Mr. Ravenelle could never have
dragged that body from Acacia Villas to the embankment, far
less committed this last murder. Think, Mr. MacDonald, he
would have been obliged to do the impossible. Do you mean to
say that he could crawl all the way to Baron's Court, ride on a
child's velocipede, climb a ladder, get in through a window,
murder a man, and then crawl home again—without being de-
tected?”
"No, I don't!” snapped MacDonald. “Though stranger things


A STARTLING DEVELOPMENT
135
have happened, to my own knowledge. But two new facts in
regard to Ravenelle have just come to light. (You see, Mr. Lawe,
Scotland Yard has not been so idle as you seem to think.) First,
Mr. Ravenelle, during a period of ill-health years ago evidently
before the accident which crippled him for life-cruised before
the mast for two years, as a common seaman. At the end of this
time he had recovered his health. We know this statement to be
true, because we discovered among his possessions a diary which
refers briefly to the fact. And he himself, upon being questioned,
admitted it.
“Now, as you know, one of the duties of a sailor is to learn to
climb a rope hand over hand, with practically no use of the feet,
although the knees come into play to some extent. Now, Mr.
Ravenelle is crippled only below the knees, and he is exceptionally
strong in his hands!” The Inspector paused significantly before
he continued. “The second fact is even more startling. You
remember the tracks in Watkins' yard, of course—the tracks
which I attributed to someone standing on the back rung of a
child's velocipede and propelling himself with a stick?"
Lawe stared.
“Yes. Of course."
“Well, Mr. Lawe,” said MacDonald impressively. “Our search
to-day revealed the fact not only that there is packed away in the
small shed in the back court of Acacia Villas one of those small
wheeled vehicles commonly used by cripples and propelled by
small pointed sticks—not only was the presence of this machine
revealed,” his voice rose triumphantly, “but it had been used no
later than yesterday, and on moist soil. There are still traces of
damp earth on the wheels!”


XVI
DORA TALKS
“It's—UNBELIEVABLE,” faltered the younger man. “I am dazed.
But why didn't someone examine this shed before, and see the
machine?"
"Someone did,” replied MacDonald. “Sergeant Kelly, of
course. All the premises were thoroughly examined, naturally, at
the time of the Ravenelle girl's disappearance. It would be only
too easy to hide a dead body in such a place. During the first
investigation, Kelly noticed the vehicle standing behind some
other things in the small shed. Mrs. O'Brien told him that
Ravenelle had been in the habit of using it occasionally, up until
a couple of years ago, when he grew too weak. Naturally, Kelly
attached no importance to the matter at the time. But to-day,
after our investigations at Baron's Court, and their peculiar result,
he began to think back (remarkable chap, Kelly) with the result
that he put two and two together. A second investigation was
made, and there we are! Why Ravenelle was so careless about
the dirt on the wheels when he was so deuced careful about
finger-marks, I can't think. Perhaps because the shed had been
examined once, and he thought it would not be examined again.
At any rate, after all his precautions, he slipped up on that one
little point. They always do!”
"I can't believe it. It's impossible," muttered Lawe.
"I shouldn't have told you. It's been too much for you,” said
MacDonald regretfully. He noticed the sick man's glittering
eyes, his distraught expression.
“You must release Ravenelle. The arrest is absurd,” persisted
136


138
THE RAVENELLE RIDDLE
chapse of men dresse own and him. At wait and would then is het a
Lawe caught his breath sharply, his eyes twin points of blue
flame. Inspector MacDonald continued.
“Having, as I say, suspected Dora of holding something back,
Sergeant Kelly went to her to-day and pinned her down-fright-
ened her into tears by threatening her immediate arrest. After
that, under close questioning, she admitted that a stranger came
to the house on the afternoon of the tragedy, asking for Mr.
Cumberland. When told that he was not there, this man then
said that he was a friend of Cumberland's and that he would
wait for the latter in his room. Dora said it was not at all unusual
for chaps to run in on Cumberland in this way—he always had
a number of men calling-and this visitor impressed her as being
quite all right-dressed in a quiet, respectable way and so on.
He gave her half a crown and ran on up the stairs. She went on
with her work and forgot him. About half an hour later he
came down again. Said he couldn't wait any longer, but to tell
Cumberland that Mr. John Bell had called and would come again.
When Cumberland arrived and Dora delivered the message,
Cumberland merely said, John Bell! Who the hell is he?
Never heard of him. But Dora noticed that Cumberland had
been drinking heavily and didn't believe he was quite responsible
for what he said.”
The Inspector paused for breath.
“When Kelly asked the girl if she had ever seen this man Bell
before, she said no. But there was just enough hesitation in her
manner to make Kelly wonder. He jumped on her, threatened
her with jail, and she burst into tears—admitting that she was
holding something back, but that she had a good reason for not
telling all she knew. And she was sure it didn't amount to any-
thing, and so on, and so on. But Kelly wouldn't let her crawl
out of it. He told her that her only hope was in making a breast.
So then the girl got sullen and said,” here MacDonald read from
his papers, “'Well, I tolt you I never saw the man before. And
so I didn't, neither. But I never said I hadn't seen him after!'
Then, apparently, she became terrified and grew so hysterical that
Kelly had to stop interrogating her. But, before he left the house,


DORA TALKS
139
he made her swear that she would tell him all she knew about
the affair when he came back in the morning.
"The girl agreed, but said that what she had to tell involved
another person. She couldn't speak before she had notified that
person. But, after that, she'd tell all she knew, s'elp her. So that's
the way matters stand now. Kelly made certain that the person
she wanted to notify was not connected in any way with Ralph
Cumberland's mysterious caller, John Bell—the girl gave her
oath to that. But of course she's under surveillance every moment
from now on. She doesn't know it, but she'll be followed if she
leaves the house to-night. And we expect her to make her state-
ment early to-morrow morning.”
The Inspector gave a triumphant smile, but Lawe did not re-
spond. He was lying back against the pillows, all his faculties
concentrated in an effort to absorb as much of this tale as possible.
"Now then,” continued MacDonald, with a note of admiration
in his voice. “Kelly's a keen lad. Since his interview with Dora,
he's done a bit of investigating. Looking into the girl's personal
affairs, he finds that she has been 'walking out with a young chap
named Bert Brown, who has rather a light-fingered reputation,
and who has actually been had up for suspected theft. He gave
a water-proof alibi, however, and nothing could be proved against
him. Well, here's the point. On the morning of the day that
the murder of Cumberland was discovered, Mrs. Lugg, his land-
lady, also discovered that some of her silver was gone—also some
pieces of old-fashioned jewelry in heavy gold settings—things
which she treasured very highly. But, in the excitement which
followed immediately after that, she forgot to notify the police
until much later. And even then no particular importance was
attached to the fact, as it doesn't come in our department. But
Kelly stumbled on it by chance during his investigations.
“So, at the present moment, he has come to the conclusion that
Dora, the maid, (in league with Bert Brown) opened the front
door on the night of Cumberland's murder, left it on the latch,
went with him to collect the silver, and did not lock the door
amed Bert Brow
been had up to sguld be proved again


140
THE RAVENELLE RIDDLE
into speaking, w we will find out
again until Bert Brown had left the house. Under cover of the
heavy fog he could make an easy getaway.
“Now, bear this in mind. If this hypothesis is true, the door
was left unlocked, with no one about, for a period which is in-
definite-at least half an hour I would say during which time
the murderer could very easily have entered the house. Indeed,
Cumberland himself probably returned during this period, if our
assumption is correct, and the murderer very likely was close on
his heels. Kelly believes that, upon returning to lock the door
after Brown's departure, Dora saw something which she has
deliberately kept back, lest her evidence call for an explanation of
what the door was doing unlocked at that hour. Besides, it is
quite likely that if she saw the murderer, the murderer likewise
saw her. And she has probably gone about in fear of her life
ever since!
"That's the way things rest. At last, the girl has been goaded
into speaking, and I think that when she tells her story com-
pletely to-morrow, we will find ourselves in possession of facts
which may lead to the apprehension of Ravenelle's accomplice.
Things seem to be reaching a head and clearing up amazingly.”
The Inspector leaned back with a pleased expression on his
broad, shrewd face.
“The strides you have made completely daze me,” said Lawe
rather listlessly. His excitement had worn him out, and he was
lying back, pale and motionless. “How I wish I were up and
about! As you say, things seem to be coming to a head. And
you cannot realize the agony it is to have to lie here, with the
thought that Rilla Ravenelle may be needing me while I am still
powerless to go to her. She is never out of my mind. She—and
Strangely. Mr. MacDonald, candidly, what do you make of find-
ing that corncob pipe at Baron's Court this morning?”
MacDonald thoughtfully stroked his gray mustache.
"I'll admit, Mr. Lawe,” he said, "that Inspector Kelly makes out
a very pretty case for Strangely as the murderer of Cumberland.
And he will have it that the pipe-bowl shows him to have been
implicated in the murder of Watkins, too. In fact, odd as it may
of Ravenelle's
how I wish I were
you cannot you say, things seem


142
THE RAVENELLE RIDDLE
would have given the matter another thought. No—the suppres-
sion of that evidence was right in Mr. Strangely's hands, without
resorting to murder. All he needed to do was keep quiet about
it! No, Mr. Lawe. You may rest assured that he was as anxious
as you or I to learn the address on that letter. And finding that
pipe-bowl only shows that he himself was following that same
trail which he had requested us to follow!
"I am confident that all this time he has been engaged upon
some series of investigations in his own odd way, and that he is
doubtless reaching the goal just as we are now-but from another
angle. Things are closing in about the criminal. Whether he is
Basil Ravenelle, or the mysterious John Bell, or someone else en-
tirely, his hours of freedom are numbered once the maid, Dora,
speaks! It has been,” he added, “one of the most perplexing
cases in my whole experience—suspicion swinging almost hourly
from one person to another. Think back:
"First-Cumberland was suspected of killing Rilla Ravenelle.
“Second-Peter Strangely was suspected of killing Cumberland.
“Third-Martie Green was suspected of killing both Rilla
Ravenelle and Ralph Cumberland.
“Fourth-We were at a deadlock because Martie Green herself
appears to have been murdered.
"Fifth-There is a chance of Rilla Ravenelle's not having been
murdered at all, though where she is God only knows.
“Sixth—The mysterious visitor to Cumberland, under the name
--real or assumed-of John Bell, is now sought by us as being
(in conjunction with Basil Ravenelle) the murderer of Ralph
Cumberland, Martie Green, and John Watkins; and as having
connived at the disappearance of Rilla Ravenelle! As our friend
Mr. Strangely would say—“Believe me, some case!'”
Lawe laughed, but he was looking very badly, so badly that
MacDonald soon after took his departure with a cheery good
night and the sound counsel for the patient to try to get a good
night's sleep.
On the way out, he spoke to Simmons, who was about to open
the door for him.
The mysterious vice she is God only not having been


DORA TALKS
143
"Simmons," he said, “I understand Mr. Lawe received a letter,
yesterday—a letter which you gave to him when he returned
home. It was addressed to you.”
The old man returned MacDonald's searching look impassively.
“Yes, sir,” he replied. “Mr. Geoffrey 'ad told me it was coming.
I expected it.”
“Well, now, Simmons," the Inspector's tones had grown chill,
“I suppose that letter had not been tampered with before its
arrival?”
"Oh, no, sir. Leastways, the flap was sealed down tight when
it come.”
“Ah, you observed the flap! And the letter was not tampered
with after its arrival, Simmons?”
For the first time the old valet's look expressed surprise.
“Why, 'oo would tamper with it, sir?” he inquired. “There's
only me to ’andle every bit of Mr. Geoffrey's mail.”
Then, as the import of the question apparently entered his
mind, a tremulous flush rose to the old man's withered cheek,
and bis veiny hands shook.
“I see, sir. You suspect me of doing so. Mr. MacDonald, I've
known Mr. Geoffrey since 'e was born, sir. And I was in his
father's service fifteen years before that. His poor mother relied
most of all on me, during 'er last illness. I'm not apt to pry into
Mr. Geoffrey's affairs, sir!"
There was nothing more to be said, but MacDonald walked
out of the door, unsatisfied. There was something almost suspi-
cious, something a bit too theatrical, too studied, about the old
man's denial of the implied accusation. And, after all, he had
not really answered the question!
As MacDonald descended the stone steps he encountered Lawe,
Senior, mounting them. The latter's heavy face darkened as he
recognized the Inspector.
“Ah,” he said harshly, “I perceive that my son, not content with
dragging my name into the scandalous disappearance of a-typist,
has now turned my house into a detective bureau. You will
oblige me, sir, by not repeating this unwelcome visit!"
He bowed stiffly and passed on up the steps.


XVII
LAWE ACTS FOR HIMSELF
The cand thinkin. Geoffrey d get yours
For a long time after MacDonald left the house, Lawe lay weakly
back, eyes half-closed. Simmons, coming in to place some fresh
coals on the fire, stepped softly lest he disturb the sick man. Some
charred pieces of coal fell through the grating into the fireplace,
and the embers hissed loudly. But the motionless figure on the
bed did not stir.
An hour later, coming back again with some broth, the man
woke his master, who had fallen into a light, restless sleep, and
placed the tray before him.
“I feel rather rotten, Simmie,” said the young man languidly,
sipping his broth. “The day has been a thousand years long. I've
been lying here thinking and thinking what to do.”
“The best thing for you to do, Mr. Geoffrey,” counseled the old
man sensibly, “is to stay right in your bed and get yourself over
this spell. Small use you'd be to Miss Ravenelle in this shape.”
“I daresay you're right,” agreed Lawe, setting the empty cup
down. “But I feel nervous, nervous as a cat. There's a tension in
the air. Don't you feel it? Do you remember how Dosie, my
old nurse, used to say people were 'fey'? Well, I'm fey to-night.
I feel that something is going to happen!”
“Oh, Mr. Geoffrey, don't say that!” cried the old man, begin-
ning to tremble violently. “As if enough awful things 'adn't of
'appened these last ten days. It's only a storm brewing. That's
w'at you feel!”
Geoffrey laughed. The feverish expression slipped out of his
eyes, and he looked more like himself.
"You're right,” he said. “I'm just ill and low in my mind.
144


146
THE RAVENELLE RIDDLE
ping, and that there was no time to be lost. Whatever were done
must be done quickly. He would get up-he would go
But, even as his thoughts took definite form, his muscles grew
laxer and laxer. With steady insistence sleep was rushing over
him. He was powerless to stop it. His mind worked more and
more slowly. He endeavored to grasp his last thought, to catch it
before it was gone. He had been planning to—what had he been
planning? Oh, yes—he had been going to get up-he had been
going to get—with a sudden loosening of all his faculties, he lost
consciousness. His relaxed body slid lower in the bed. He was
asleep. ...
Lawe awoke with a start in a house that was as quiet as a
tomb. But, even as he lay wide-eyed in the sultry, pressing dark-
ness, the clock on the chimney-piece tinkled once, twice and kept
steadily on, and he raised himself unsteadily on one elbow.
Twelve o'clock!
Twelve o'clock! That should mean something to him. What
was it? Lord, how his head ached. And his mouth was dry as
dust. Strange how he had fallen asleep so suddenly, all at once.
Just as he had been planning something. What had that been?
Those hammers in his head beat until he could scarcely think.
Zwing, zwing, bang. It was as if-why, almost as if he had
been-drugged!
His mind was clearing now. Drugged! That was it. That
was how he felt. But why? Who could have done it? And
what was it that he had been going to do, just as sleep pounced
upon him so viciously?
Ah, yes—ah, yes—he remembered! He had been going to get
up. There had been some great need for haste. Well, he would
get up now. His eyes felt blurred, and his knees shook, but he
dragged himself from the bed and staggered across the room.
There he took his clothes from their hangers and struggled into
his trousers. He moved with caution lest he rouse his father on
the floor above. Simmons and the other servants would be sound
asleep long before this in their quarters at the top of the house.
He felt a bit stronger now. The mist was clearing slightly
HP long beses Simoked with


LAWE ACTS FOR HIMSELF
147
from his drugged mind. Why was he getting up? But of
course! He remembered now. It was about Dora. Dora. Un-
less something intervened, she would be dead before morning,
strangled by those same hands that had choked life from the girl
on the embankment, and had then killed Ralph Cumberland and
John Watkins.
Yes, that was it. That was why he was getting up. He must
be quick, though. Going into the bath-room, he hurriedly threw
cold water on his head. It braced him, and he finished dressing
without the terrible trembling that had hindered him before.
But his head still hurt, and his thoughts were jumbled.
One thing was clear, however. Haste! Haste! There was no
time to lose. The assassin soon would be creeping-creeping-up
the steps—ah! what was that? He jumped at the slight, almost
imperceptible sound of a door clicking shut somewhere below
stairs.
Lurching to the window, which gave upon the square, he
peered out. There was not much light, but, by straining his
eyes, he could distinguish a furtive figure descending the outer
steps. At the bottom of the short flight, it paused for a moment,
then crossed the square, keeping well within the shadow of the
looming church opposite, St. Mary Boltons. Once past the church,
with a quick, stealthy pace, the figure slid rapidly on toward the
entrance gate which led to Cromwell Road.
With a startled exclamation smothered on his lips, Lawe drew
back. His mind grew instantly clear and keen.
Simmons!
What was he doing, abroad at midnight? And where was he
going?
A vague suspicion flashed into Lawe's mind. With a quick
movement he crossed the room. This time his knees were quite
steady. He felt dowered, even, with a strength that was almost
uncanny, so suddenly had it come. Once or twice before, in mo
ments of great mental exaltation, he had had the same feeling.
Hurriedly, he jerked open the drawer where his revolver was
always kept.


148
THE RAVENELLE RIDDLE
Gone! God, it was gone. Had Simmons taken it? He would
not be armed, then.
But never mind. Never mind. At any cost, Simmons must be
stopped!
With great, light bounds he descended the massive stair-case.
Then, shivering from the plunge into the raw, storm-laden air, he
pulled a cap well down over his eyes, and ran out into the dark
night.
stop hithe
ring to do we ov


PART TWO


XVIII
STRANGELY PLAYS A LONE HAND
WHEN Peter Strangely parted from Geoffrey Lawe at nine-thirty
on the evening of July 20th, he had no real intention of returning
to the room he had just rented from Mrs. Lugg. His plans were
laid, and it remained merely to carry them out.
It had always been his experience that he worked most satis-
factorily alone, and, to do this, he felt that it was necessary to
disappear, for the moment, completely and absolutely. To ac-
complish such a thing he must deceive even those most interested,
for he never knew when a chance word, a careless phrase might
betray him to some cunning and invisible enemy-perhaps even
jeopardize his life. Especially did Strangely feel that caution was
needed in this particular case. He had felt from the first that he
was starting out to combat one of the darkest and most evil forces
it had ever been his lot to encounter, and that the disappearance
of Rilla Ravenelle was only one step in a desperate game of some
kind.
When he left Geoffrey Lawe he hastened at once through the
foggy streets, by bus, to Cromwell Road and his laboratory, where
he made a swift but thorough examination of the severed finger
and the stained towel found in Cumberland's room.
The stains were easily verified as exactly what he had thought
them to be-water-color stains, most of them a peculiar shade of
red strongly resembling blood. As the towel was still damp
when he and Lawe had entered Cumberland's room, the natural
inference was that Cumberland had, for some reason, been em-
ployed with water-color paints immediately before his departure.
Painting a picture, perhaps.
151


152
THE RAVENELLE RIDDLE
Yet how absurd the idea seemed! Why should a man, evi-
dently making hurried preparations for fight, stop in the midst of
those preparations in order to paint a picture? Absurd, certainly.
And when Strangely had examined the waste-paper basket for
possible tell-tale scraps of paper containing some sign of water-
color paint, there had been none there. The basket had been
neatly emptied.
So much for the stains. Strangely could link them with the
case in no reasonable way. And yet he realized that most criminal
cases were full of just such seemingly unreasonable things. He
could not but feel that the stained towel would yet assume impor-
tance in the unravelling of the affair.
The result of the finger examination was startling. Upon close
inspection, the ligamentary attachments proved it to be the third
digit, not of a right hand, but of a left hand. Strangely, with his
first cursory glance in Cumberland's room, had believed it to be
a portion of the right hand, because of the muscular development,
as well as the large ink mark at the tip, still very noticeable even
under the dried blood. But, to his surprise, he now found it to
be the middle finger from the left hand of one either ambi-
dextrous or left-handed. Therefore, since neither Lawe nor Mrs.
O'Brien had spoken of Rilla Ravenelle as a left-handed person,
until Strangely had definitely ascertained the fact, he could not
but assume that there was, indeed—as Lawe had maintained-a
reasonable doubt as to the digit having been severed from the
hand of the missing girl.
The whole affair of the finger was a most perplexing one. It
taxed Strangely's imagination to believe that Cumberland himself
had laid it in its peculiar hiding place. It seemed far more logical
to assume that someone else, perhaps a jealous confederate, per-
haps a more bitter enemy, had placed it there to cast suspicion
upon the man. But, if so, how could this person have entered
Cumberland's room and performed the act without exciting sus-
picion? And why-of all things-should he have gone to the
pains of putting it in such an extraordinary hiding-place? Why


STRANGELY PLAYS A LONE HAND 153
someonight explain be anything, lanatic
not a more obvious one? It was a fearful muddle, certainly. The
more one pondered over it, the more involved it became.
One thing alone seemed reasonably clear. Whoever had cut
the finger from the victim's hand, must have done so with the
idea of obtaining some ring—a ring which must have fitted so
tightly that it was impossible to secure it in any other way. Had
it been a ring of great value, or a simple wedding ring with the
name of the murdered woman-perhaps even the name of the
murderer-inside? Strangely did not know. At any rate, there
must have been something about this particular trinket which
someone considered incriminating, and which, if it ever turned
up, might explain a great deal. Strangely could not believe that
it would prove to be anything as easy as a simple theft. There
was some far more sinister explanation.
After he had thoroughly examined the two objects—the towel
and the finger-he sat down with his corncob pipe, a pencil, and a
pad of paper, and with incredible swiftness set down, in his own
peculiar short-hand, the list of facts that he had gathered during
the evening. Some were important, some unimportant (at least
for the moment). These latter he put temporarily aside while he
juggled mentally with the former, dividing them into two dis-
tinct lists. The first was as follows:
1. The Ravenelles had been brought to Mrs. O'Brien's eight
years before by a “sea-going” man.
2. There had been letters periodically, generally mailed from
Folkestone. Over a year ago, the letters had ceased, and, with
them apparently, the Ravenelles' source of income.
3. Captain Smith of the yacht Wall-Flower had not been in
the port of Folkestone for a corresponding period of time, al-
though he had put in there frequently before that.
4. Rilla Ravenelle had kept a newspaper, dated the day of her
disappearance—July 17th-and containing an account of the pres-
ence of the yacht Wall-Flower at Folkestone Harbor.
5. Moreover, most startling of all, ravenelle was the rather
infrequently used word for a certain type of wall-flower.
From these data a most apparent connection was obtained be-


154
THE RAVENELLE RIDDLE
tween the Ravenelles and the Wall-Flower. It seemed not only a
possibility, but a probability that when the girl left her home on
the evening of July 17th, it was with the intention of seeking an
interview with someone belonging to the yacht—perhaps the cap
tain himself. One could only guess at the object of this interview.
If, as Mrs. O'Brien thought, the discontinued letters from Folke-
stone had contained remittances, then might it not be that Cap-
tain Smith had sent those remittances? And that Rilla Ravenelle
was going to see him with the intention of asking him to con-
tinue them? Everything pointed to this belief. Still, Strangely
was not sure.
His second list was more in the nature of observations, leading
to deductions:
1. Rilla Ravenelle habitually carried a sort of brief case in which
(or so she had told Geoffrey Lawe) she took home work to type
at night.
2. There was no typing machine in the girl's room, or, as a
matter of fact, in the whole house.
3. Therefore, Rilla Ravenelle carried home something other
than night work, something which she evidently did not wish
Geoffrey Lawe to know about, for she had lied.
4. It could not have been bank-notes. Such a theft inevitably
would have been discovered.
5. Therefore it must have been something in the nature of in-
formation concerning the activities of the Coffee, Tea and To
bacco Import Firm of Lawe & Son—something which would be
of value to someone outside the firm.
6. Granting this, to whom would Rilla Ravenelle have been
carrying such information? In other words, who were her closest
associates?
7. They were her father, Basil Ravenelle, and her cousin, Ralph
Cumberland.
8. Cumberland was a frequent visitor at the home of the
Ravenelles.
9. Assuming then, that Rilla Ravenelle was carrying informa-


156
THE RAVENELLE RIDDLE
bilities concerning the girl's actions on leaving home. And he
saw no reason to change the theory which he had already pro
pounded to Lawe. He believed that she had left her room at
eight p. m. on the evening of July 17th, upon a signal from Ralph
Cumberland, in order to keep an appointment with someone from
the Wall-Flower.
Strangely's first objective, then, must be Folkestone.
But, before he started, he telephoned to Inspector MacDonald,
asking him to try to trace the letter mailed by Mrs. O'Brien on
the evening that Rilla Ravenelle last was seen. Somehow, he
could not get that letter out of his mind, and he was much afraid
that Lawe, in his present overwrought condition, would forget all
about it.
As he had told his man, Tompkins, not to wait up, there was
no one to see Strangely as he plunged out into the fog again.
But, in any case, no one would have recognized him.
one was he pluns, not t.


XIX
ABOARD THE “WALL-FLOWER”
It was as an unpleasant, roughly-garbed water-front rat that
Strangely travelled third-class the seventy miles to Folkestone.
His ragged cap was well down over his keen eyes, and he had
changed his usual alert carriage for a stooped and shambling gait.
For, although he had been only a few hours on the case, and was
reasonably sure that no one was yet aware of his connection with
it, nevertheless he was taking no chances.
When the train pulled into Folkestone shortly after midnight,
the fog was lifting sufficiently for him to make his way along the
docks rather faster than he had been able to traverse the streets of
London two hours before. He was afraid that the Wall-Flower
might have slipped away under the curtain of fog, but he could
not yet tell, since the mist was still rolling and swirling about
him, and was far too thick to allow anyone to see for any distance
ahead. But suddenly, close at hand, a small group of people
loomed up, and Strangely slouched toward them.
Two men and a small boat. Strangely strained his eyes, but
by the light of the flickering lantern standing nearby, he could
make out no name on the boat. By their dress, the men were
sailors—and by their faces, tough customers. They were busy
loading crates of provisions into the boat, and Strangely had an
immediate feeling that they were a part of the Wall-Flower crew,
hustling through the business of provisioning on account of un-
expected departure.
As they spied the newcomer through the mist, one of thema
great, hulking fellow—hailed him.
“'Ere, Bill,” he roared. “Lend a 'and!”
157


158
THE RAVENELLE RIDDLE
“Wot's up?" inquired Strangely stupidly, with as much of a
cockney accent as he could manage.
The man laughed hoarsely.
“Wot's up?” he said to his companion, a small, red-eyed man.
“ 'E arsks wot's up. The wind's up, that's wot! 'Ere, lend a
'and, do. We're short a man, along o' Ed on shore leave, and
the Cap'n's in a rare ryge, that 'e is. 'Elp us, and you'll be well
pyde!”
Strangely hung back. It would not do to appear too eager.
Moreover, he was not yet sure of the vessel to which the sailors
belonged.
“'Ow do I know it?” he whined suspiciously. “'An wot ship
is ut, sailin' so quick, 'twixt dark and dawn?”
“None o' that, naow,” said the second man, lurching forward
in a threatening way. “We 'as our reasons—and good and suffi-
cient, likewise—for them as knows. 'em. We're a pleasure
crawft, we are!”
At this point the first man broke into a loud guffaw.
“Called the Wall-Flower, if it's aught to yew," he said. “And
remember—them as sails quick pays ’igh most gen'rally. Am I
raght, Alf?” to the second man.
“Ay, raght,” growled Alf. “And swings ’igh, too, sometimes!"
The big man shot him a swift look, and turned to Strangely
once more. He seemed to be the keener of the two and in charge
of the loading.
"Well, naow—will or won't? There's a guinea wytin' if you
’elps us load 'em afore an hour!”
"A guinea's a guinea,” said Strangely craftily. “Am I sure
h’I'll get ut?”
“S’elp me,” replied the man. “'E's no miser, wotever else 'e
m'y be. So look sharp there!”
Thus it was that Strangely boarded the Wall-Flower.
For over an hour he worked, loading the back-breaking boxes
that Alf and his burly companion tossed so easily. His muscles
screeched with pain at the unaccustomed labor, and his lungs
were beginning to strain. But one good thing had come of the


ABOARD THE “WALL-FLOWER”
159
work. There was not a spot as big as a postage stamp, except the
Captain's cabin, anywhere on the yacht that he had not seen. And
he knew that Rilla Ravenelle could not be hidden there, unless
her poor dead body was even then packed away in one of the
boxes which he himself had helped to stow away. But that he
did not believe.
His mind began to work on other possibilities. One of the
crew—“Ed," the other two had called him—was on shore leave.
That was an ordinary occurrence, of course. But, in this case,
might not his leave be connected with the missing girl? Might
he not have been entrusted with a message for her? It was not
impossible.
But, if so, why was the yacht sailing so quickly, before this
man's return? Here Strangely felt himself on solid ground at last.
There could be only one interpretation of such sudden sailing-a
warning of some kind!
The Wall-Flower had lain in harbor some days, her provisions
lying on the docks, ready to be carried out. But there evidently
had been no effort to load them on the yacht, save in a desultory
manner, until the present moment. Now the sudden, enforced
haste—at a late hour-showed that unexpected word must have
been received, word that made an immediate departure impera-
tive. They were not even waiting for the return of the man, Ed.
Such actions all pointed to alarm of some kind.
But what could it be? If Rilla Ravenelle were not aboard the
vessel—and of that Strangely was by now convinced—what could
have alarmed the master of the yacht? Well, thought Strangely,
he must find out.
The next time he passed the Captain's cabin, he allowed his
companions to advance a few paces in front of him. Then with
agility he slipped through the partially open doorway.
The cabin, as he had noted from glances surreptitiously cast
while passing, was luxuriously furnished and quite open. No
cupboards, no closet-space at all, with the exception of the ordi-
nary ship's wardrobe, which was standing with the door wide
open, and was innocently hung with the Captain's clothing.


160
THE RAVENELLE RIDDLE
Nothing anywhere that Strangely could consider helpful—un-
less it was to be found among the small pile of papers on the Cap-
tain's heavy table. Strangely dared not look further now, as
another second's absence on his part would rouse the ship they
would all be upon him with hue and cry. But, with one deft
movement, his long bony hand had closed upon that pile of papers,
and stuffed them down the front of his dirty jersey.
None too soon! Even as he ran out into the companionway, his
friends were howling for him. On deck the Captain himself was
waiting. The load just packed away had been the last one, and
the master of the yacht was now ready to pay the new recruit off.
Strangely had not, until this moment, seen the man face to face;
always before he had been on the far side of the deck, shouting
orders to a Mongolian servant of some sort. Now, however,
Strangely gave Captain Smith one good look, and was not overly
pleased with what he saw.
A big man, powerful and strong, with heavy, aquiline features
and a hard, evil look. A man who would stop at nothing--a man
who very likely had stopped at nothing, and-well, not exactly
Strangely's idea of a pleasure-seeking, amateur yachtsman! He
had been peering over the rail into the fog, but turned abruptly
as the new worker came up. Strangely touched one finger to his
frayed cap in what he hoped was the properly reluctant salute of
the independent hireling, and felt the other man's cold black eyes
cutting through him like a saw through a piece of rotten wood.
It almost seemed that he would be able to discern those purloined
papers through the concealing mesh of Strangely's jersey.
“See here,” he said in a deep, gruff, but rather pleasant voice,
as he handed over a pound note and a shilling. “I'm a man
short, as you know. I suppose you're not wanting to sign up in
his place for the voyage?”
“W'ere to, sir?” Strangely inquired, to gain time, for this possi-
bility had not occurred to him. "I've me poor old mother to
support, and then, too, I've not much of a notion to be voyagin'
far."
“I know all about those poor old mothers to support,” said


XX
THE CABIN ON THE ROCKS
AFTER about half an hour's steady swim, hampered by heavy
clothing and boots which he had been unable to remove, he felt
shifting sand beneath his cautiously lowered foot, and half stag-
gered, half dragged himself out upon a beach which he judged
to be some way from Folkestone. As soon as he was able he got
to his feet, and started along the beach. It was difficult walking,
over the damp sand with the weight of his dripping clothing still
upon him, and the fog was so dense that several times the waves
had lapped his feet before he realized that he was skirting too
closely the water's edge. In which direction Folkestone actually
lay, he had no idea. But, from the length of time he had been
swimming, he knew that he must have followed a more or less
diagonal line to shore.
At last he stumbled upon some rocks, and, beyond them, was
able to feel a faint pathway leading up between two cliffs, rather
in the nature of rough steps. By much scrambling he managed
to reach the top, and finally found himself on what he judged to
be a stretch of downs running straight along, and at some dis-
tance above, the sea level.
He pursued his way with the greatest caution, knowing well
the uneven outline of cliffs such as these, with their tendency to
crumble, and fearing in the fog to approach too nearly the pre-
cipitous incline. At the same time he hesitated to walk inland
beyond the swish-swish of the waves, lest he lose himself there,
and wander indefinitely on the downs before the mists lifted
enough for him to see his way. Fogs such as this one had been
known to endure for days. And in Strangely, coming as he did
162


THE CABIN ON THE ROCKS
163
from a part of the country where even rain was a prayed-for
rarity, English fogs never had lost their power to inspire a sort of
childlike and shamefaced distaste. In London, with a friendly
constable on every corner, he had become accustomed to plunge
carelessly about through twisting gray mists or sooty black palls.
But, jogging precariously along the edge of a crumbling cliff some
feet above sea-level and bordering a wide stretch of downs, he felt
himself—with a slight sinking of the heart—to be in a not-too-
enviable position.
He had hoped, by walking long enough, to find some sign of
human habitation, but he had almost despaired of this, when at
last, directly in front of him_almost near enough for his hand
to reach out and touch-there loomed up surprisingly enough a
tiny hut. A faint, misty gleam emanated from what evidently
was a window, and a thicker patch of gray on the gray of the
fog seemed to be smoke issuing from a small chimney. The place
was inhabited.
Finding the door, he knocked boldly, and it was opened im-
mediately by a tiny, shrivelled old woman who gave one startled
glance at the soaking apparition upon her threshhold, and then
broke into a perfect torrent of excited twitterings.
The poor man! Soaked to the skin-run down in the fog, no
doubt, by one of them fast motor boats. A good, honest sailboat
wasn't safe no more, that it wasn't, what with the water all full
of these new-fangled craft. Well, the young man must come in
and make himself to home-dry out while she warmed some
porridge for him. What a blessing he'd stumbled on the hut.
Two miles out of Folkestone, he was, and must of been walking
away from the town instead of towards it. And if he hadn't
come on her hut right there, he might of walked another good
mile without meeting no one.
She rattled on continuously as she spread his coat out over one
chair by the fire, and drew up another where he could seat him-
self and try to dry out the remainder of his garments. His heavy,
water-soaked shoes she placed in a little warming oven over the
top of the stove.


164
THE RAVENELLE RIDDLE
In a few seconds more a steaming dish of porridge was placed
before him, and it seemed to Strangely, as he fell to with a rare
good will, that never before had he tasted food so delicious. He
swallowed it in gulps, to a running accompaniment of conversa-
tion.
The little old woman-Mrs. Baker was her name—beamed as
the dish was emptied. She confided to Strangely in the most naive
manner possible that she hated these picky eaters. A real man
had a man's appetite, and he wasn't a man without it. Baker had
been a great one for his victuals. A fisherman he'd been, and,
when he'd gone, she'd no more ’ave lived in Folkestone or in
Lunnon. Not she! By the sea she'd lived, and by the sea she'd
die. So she'd got her a little hut, and she had her husband's old
smack, and Willie and Freddie Inger took it out for her. Good
lads they was, and went half on the profits. The Ingers owned
the next hut a mile further on. Afraid, here alone? Certainly
not. She might be afraid in Lunnon, but not here. And she'd
prospered. She was content. Folkestone was a great place for
sea-food, what with the tourists in summer, and boats going and
coming. Most everybody seemed to like good, fresh fish. Willie
was taking a catch in this morning. That's why she was up at
this hour. When he'd knocked she'd thought it was Willie,
though Willie most gen'rally whistled. And now, she wondered,
would the young man care to drive into Folkestone with him?
“Not that I'm thinking to hurry you,” she apologized, fearful
lest her hospitality be doubted. “Visitors is that scarce I'm glad
to have them stay, and that's the truth. But it's foggy and a
baddish walk to town—though the mists do lift a bit now and
then—and Willie's a social lad. He'd be glad of the comp’ny."
Strangely accepted with alacrity, exhausted though he was, for
his first thought now was to reach London as quickly as possible.
He had already spread the little packet of papers, purloined from
the Wall-Flower, out in front of the stove, together with the
pound note that Smith had given him, and they were rapidly
drying. But they had scarcely been improved by their unfortunate
submersion. Some, indeed, were now hopelessly illegible, others


THE CABIN ON THE ROCKS
165
were not so badly damaged, but, on looking through them,
Strangely could find only one which seemed to be of interest—a
telegram sent from London at 10:10 p. m. and evidently in code
-but it, too, had suffered badly from its wetting. Only one
thing, indeed, among the papers had kept at all dry. This was a
little oil-skin case which, upon examination, yielded up a small
water-color painting. Strangely's heart beat slightly faster at the
sight, but for the moment he laid it aside in favor of the telegram.
Upon examination of the latter, Strangely felt sure that it had
something to do with the sudden departure of the Wall-Flower,
and he was convinced that if he could but manage to solve the
cipher in which it was sent, he might learn something of real
value. He turned the paper over and over in his mind-a hodge-
podge of words and numbers that appeared to be totally unrelated
to any cipher he had previously encountered. Some of the letters
were obliterated now, but it was fairly easy to supply them:
“Twelve flow-rs sq-r- star six port thir-een -ive two
st-r -ne por- five -tar even -ort nine X”
Supplying the missing letters, the message was no more in-
telligible:
“Twelve flowers, square, star six, port thirteen, five,
two, star one (or nine), port five, star seven, port
nine. X”
Only one thing was clear at present. “X” must stand for a
signature. Find “X” and it would mean at least a partial solu-
tion of the riddle, Strangely felt confident. The message had
been sent from Euston Station, and he determined to stop at the
office there and make inquiries as soon as he reached London.
His mind flew on. "Twelve flowers.” What on earth could
that mean? And to what did square refer? If only he could find
the key!
Mrs. Baker's voice, still chirping on, broke in upon his medita-
tions.
“Yes, I've time a-plenty, but few enough callers. Queer I'd


166
THE RAVENELLE RIDDLE
have none for a month of Sundays and then three all in one week,
less than a week to be sure. And I'd not ’ave 'ad them other
two, but that the young lady turned her ankle-an awful wrench
it was—and she stopped in to see had I aught to bind it firm
with.”
Strangely jumped. The young lady! Had she really said the
young lady?
"What's that? What d’you say?” he broke in, jerked most
effectually from his ponderings. “A young lady was here, in your
cottage? When was this?”
He realized that he was forgetting to play a part, but, in his
eagerness, he had ceased to care. At any rate, Mrs. Baker was
such a simple soul, it would not seem odd to her that clothes and
voice did not match. He picked her rightly as one of those gentle,
unsophisticated creatures to whom fine feathers alone spell fine
birds—and vice versa. In fact, her very next words, proved this
assumption to be correct.
“Yes, indeed,” she replied, delighted to have drawn fire from
her silent guest. “A sweet, pretty young lady and a sailor man.
They'd been for a walk on the cliffs, but the poor young dear's
ankle gave out_swole terrible, it was—so they stopped here to
see could I bind it up for her. Between us, we fixed it with a
strip of my old flannel petticoat, and then they went on. Staying
at Folkestone, they was, at the Lion and the Crown."
“Tell me, Mrs. Baker,” demanded Strangely eagerly. “What
did this young lady look like?”
“Like one of them ladies in the cinema,” answered Mrs. Baker
promptly. “Black hair, she had-curly—and red cheeks, and a
neat, pretty little figger. She wore an elegant light blue silk frock.
She'd been out in service, she said, but was going to get married.
To the young sailor man, I took it, though she didn't say. He
was smoking outside whilst we fixed the foot, and after a bit he
called out was we done? She still limped, poor lamb, but her
ankle was braced, and she hobbled off leaning on his arm.”
All Strangely's excitement had died out, leaving only a feeling
of cold disappointment. From Mrs. Baker's words, he had leaped


THE CABIN ON THE ROCKS
167
not unnaturally to the conclusion that the visitors had been Rilla
Ravenelle and the missing sailor “Ed.” But it was clearly other-
wise. Just a couple from Folkestone, out for a Sunday afternoon
walk on the downs.
“A real handsome gentleman he was,” continued the garrulous
little woman. “Reminded me a bit of Baker about the eyes, he
did, or mebbe it was the chin. Powerful built he was, and eyes
as black as an Injun man— "
Once more Strangely started. The words seemed almost an
echo of others he had heard only a short time before. What was
it that Mrs. O'Brien had said in her description of Ralph Cumber-
land?
“Powerful built, he was, with hair as black as a Japanee!"
A mere coincidence? Perhaps. But was it?
Cumberland could easily have been here within the week, could
have made a visit to the Wall-Flower. In fact, it was more than
likely that he had done just that. But, if so, plainly it had not
been in the company of Rilla Ravenelle.
Who, then, was the dark-eyed, dark-haired, red-cheeked beauty
who had been his companion the Sunday before?
From the old lady's innocent description, Strangely gathered
that the girl had been rather flashy in appearance. She had said
she was "in service, but that she was "going to be married.”
Still, all that might have been said as a blind, in case Mrs. Baker
should talk. Strangely grinned to himself. In case Mrs. Baker
should talk! She would certainly be a poor one to guard a secret.
No doubt the girl had been telling the truth. She was probably
a bar-maid or a waitress at The Lion and the Crown, where the
man was putting up. And very likely she was leaving to be mar-
ried, just as she said. It should be easy enough to find out. And
she had not actually said that she was to marry the man who
accompanied her. Mrs. Baker had only drawn that conclusion.
If the man were indeed Cumberland, then beyond all doubt a
connection had been established between him and the yacht. His
visit might have been connected with the fate of Rilla Ravenelle,
or it might not. It might-


168
THE RAVENELLE RIDDLE
Suddenly Strangely leaped to his feet, a great light breaking
over him. Mrs. Baker gave a startled squawk, but he paid no
heed. One part of the puzzle had dropped into his hand!
Captain Smith, of the Wall-Flower, was the recipient of what-
ever it was that Rilla Ravenelle had taken in her hand-bag from
the offices of Lawe & Son! And Cumberland was the go-between
for the girl and the mysterious master of the yacht! It was he
who provided a means of cummunication between the other two.
Smith, Cumberland, Rilla Ravenelle! They were definitely
linked now in the accomplishment of some nefarious enterprise!
And, behind these three, stood—who?
Find that out, thought Strangely, and he would find the grue-
some force behind the mystery; he would find the sender of the
telegram signed “X”; and he would find the reason for the dis-
appearance of Rilla Ravenelle herself!
In the meantime, if the girl were not on board the Wall-Flower,
where was she?
Once again a stunning thought shot into his head.
Perhaps that telegram, in cipher, had been sent by Rilla Raven-
elle herself! Perhaps she was, after all, a free agent. Perhaps
she had never left London at all!
But why, then, had she left her home? Perhaps—perhaps-
Strangely's eyes narrowed to slits as he sought to concentrate on
the problem. Could it be? Yes, it was possible—just barely
possible.
Perhaps, for some unfathomable reason, the girl's disappearance
was all a blind. Perhaps—perhaps—Rilla Ravenelle had never
left home at all!


XXI
THE GIRL FROM LONDON
A SHORT time later, at two-thirty a. m. to be exact, dried and
warm once more, Strangely set forth in a small, dilapidated and
highly uncomfortable motor-car. The back seat had been taken
out, and the whole back of the car was filled with fish-kings of
the race, he judged from the odor. Nevertheless, he was con-
tented enough as the equipage coughed and gurgled its way along
the uneven road at a snail's pace, owing to the fog. While Willie
Inger blew the horn with raucous insistency, Strangely was men-
tally juggling the loose pieces of the puzzle.
Further questioning of his hostess had elicited nothing more in
the way of useful information. She had merely repeated her
story. The young lady and the sailor man had come six days ago
-Sunday afternoon, that was—and they had stopped just long
enough to bind up the young lady's ankle. She had said she was
in service, but was leaving to get married. Mrs. Baker had
bound the girl's ankle with part of an old family petticoat. The
two visitors had not called each other by name at all, or, if they
had, Mrs. Baker had been too excited to remember. The man
had seemed impatient. They left immediately after the ankle was
bound.
Mrs. Baker had urged Strangely hospitably to come again, and,
just at the last, had pressed a small meat pie upon him. He
would need it, she said. No, indeed, no money. Certainly not.
It had been a pleasure. Then she stood bowing and smiling in
the diminutive, fog-filled doorway as Willie Inger-a huge, over-
grown calf of a boy—drove Strangely away.
“You drive early to town,” remarked the latter at last, wonder-
169


170
THE RAVENELLE RIDDLE
ing if, by chance, his companion would prove another source of
information.
"Aye,” drawled the lad in reply. “'Tis a goodish bit, two
mile, and I knowed I'd not make time this trip, 'count of the fog.
Them as takes goods to 't' markets is mostly fixed in 'eir stalls
by three. Time to sleep, after that. T' folk ’gins coomin' at five
of a Sat’day. By ten, we'm likely enough sold out ’n home.” He
lapsed again into silence.
“Did you see Mrs. Baker's visitors last Sunday?" Strangely
went on conversationally.
“Mrs. Baker's visitors?" echoed Willie, with a totally unexpected
burst of enthusiasm, and almost losing his drawl. “I did that.
Do yew know 'em?"
“I'm not sure. I thought, from what Mrs. Baker said, that the
man might be an old sailor friend of mine," Strangely answered
with what he tried to make an engaging frankness.
All subtlety, however, was lost on Willie, who was merely
anxious to talk of the visitors.
“Oh-him," he answered contemptuously. "T chap in sailor
togs? He's naught—no more a sailor nor me, for all he was so
got up. I've see him in ’ese parts afore. But her, now "
Willie pursed his lips and rolled his calf-eyes in ecstasy.
It was not the girl, however, who interested Strangely, although
he was at a loss to place her.
“You've seen this chap before, you say?" he probed.
“'At's right,” replied Willie, reluctant to leave the subject of the
fascinating young woman who evidently had made a conquest of
his susceptible heart. “Onct or twice afore. Onct alone, and
t'other time together wi' a sailor man, a real one, who'd coom
ashore in a boat. They was talkin' a bit, an' then they bo’ steps in
'n rows out. I took it ’ey was from some ship in tharbor.”
“And you never saw him again?”
“Never till Sunday past. Wi' t young lady. She were a
pitcher, sure enough. From Lunnon, she were.” .
"How do you know that?” asked Strangely sharply.
Willie was nothing loath to talk now that he was on his own


THE GIRL FROM LONDON
171
subject, though he conscientiously kept up the tooting of his dis-
mal horn.
"Well, yew see, Muster, 'twas thisaway. T young lady, or so I
takes it, had hurt her foot proper bad. I see t'two on 'em coomin'
out of Mrs. Baker's hut, and goin' down t' road, her limpin' dret-
ful like. I had t' car. 'Twas cleaned for Sunday, for I was drivin’
to Folkestone to see my young lady. So says I, 'ere's room for
one. Can I take t' young lady a way? He didn't like it-not
him—but wot could he say? So in she gets. 'N off we goes.
She were a one, she were!”
"She must have been. What all did she tell you?”
A slow painful blush, perceptible even in the dusk of the car,
spread over the lad's face.
Oh-ho, thought Strangely, did she, indeed?
“And what would her young man think of that?” he ques-
tioned aloud.
“Oh-him," contemptuously. “Soft—he is.”
Eyeing Willie in a speculative way, as well as he could for the
engulfing gloom, Strangely saw that in a raw, uncouth way the
youth was really handsome, with a brute strength which might
appeal to a certain type of woman.
“And what was the young lady's name?” he inquired as casually
as possible.
But Willie was not of a suspicious nature. He had no wish save
to unburden his bursting heart.
"Martie,” said Willie, dwelling lovingly on the syllables. "Mar-
tie. That's all. Just ask for Mar-tie, she says. She give me her
address.”
He fumbled awkwardly in the pocket of his coat with one hand,
and finally produced a small, fishy scrap of paper which he held
gingerly between two huge, clumsy fingers. This he handed to
Strangely without taking his gaze from the misty path cast by
the headlights on the road before them.
“D'yew know this place?” he inquired diffidently.
Strangely took the paper, but it was impossible to read by the


172
THE RAVENELLE RIDDLE
dim light of the car alone, so he struck a match and peered by its
flickering flame at the black sprawling letters.
The next instant his heart had skipped a beat.
The address was 19 Acacias Villa.
Rilla Ravenelle's address!


XXII
STRANGELY GETS A JOLT
THOUGH Strangely's visit to Folkestone had brought no direct
knowledge as to the present whereabouts of the girl he sought,
nevertheless he felt that he had stumbled upon several important
things. Stumbled, he reflected, was the right word, for assuredly
it had been due to no particular acumen on his part. A swim
through a foggy sea had landed him on the beach some distance
from Folkestone, and a few minute's walk had brought him, un-
wittingly, to one of the only two cottages within a mile or so of
his landing-place.
But, even so, had not Mrs. Baker been loquacious, and had he
not chanced to question the bovine Willie, the address of the girl
from London would not now be in his possession.
Yes, a great deal had been chance. But that was the way things
worked out in the world. And, after all, there had been an
irresistible call to Folkestone. Everything had pointed that way.
Now, as he stepped off the train at Victoria Station, Strangely's
one idea was to find some quiet spot where, for an hour or two,
he could sit and strive to patch together the varied bits of in-
formation which he had accumulated.
What quiet place could he find? Not his own rooms, for he
wished to avoid them altogether while in his present dress. But
it occurred to him that here, perhaps, was a use for the room he
had rented from Mrs. Lugg-Cumberland's former room. Tech-
nically it was his, for the night at least, and he would be glad of
another opportunity to go over it again at his leisure, and to
examine once more the odd hiding-place of the severed finger.
The key to the front door and the key to the bed-room still were
173


174
THE RAVENELLE RIDDLE
he had pleir until six oclownlocked. The Femembered changed his
in his pocket-he had transferred them when he changed his
clothing earlier in the evening—but he remembered now that he
had left the latter door unlocked. The household surely would
not be astir until six o'clock this gloomy morning, so he felt that
he had plenty of time for his project.
Taking the tube, he was soon at his destination. The house on
Gower Street loomed gray and blank through the mists, the heavy
ashen light lending it an almost sinister air. Strangely had no
difficulty in opening the door. Indeed, as he inserted his key in
the lock, it swung silently back as if very recently oiled. As he
moved cautiously past the alcove in the lower hall, where he knew
the maid Dora to have her camp-bed, the sound of stertorous
breathing assured him that the girl lay in an exhausted slumber.
Her hours were long and hard. At six she would be up once
more, to stay on her feet almost constantly until ten or eleven at
night.
Strangely crept quietly toward the dark stairway, which it was
impossible to distinguish in the gloom. He had almost passed it
by when his groping hand encountered the carved newel-post at
the base. Using it as a guide to the rail, he moved quickly up the
stairs to the room he had left only a few hours before in company
with Geoffrey Lawe. The door here yielded as easily to his touch
as had the front door, and he groped his way in the darkness,
taking care not to stumble over the "two steps down” which the
landlady had mentioned, and which had given forth such a sin-
ister revelation later on.
The gloom was Stygian. With a smothered ejaculation,
Strangely fumbled in his pocket for the matches he had taken
from Mrs. Baker's cottage, and, after softly closing the door, felt
his way to the place where he remembered the gas-jet to project
from the wall. The same sickly, greenish light flared up, and,
for the first time since his entry, he turned about and faced the
room. Then he stepped suddenly back, his hand instinctively
seeking his hip-pocket.
But there was no move from the unexpected occupant of the
room!


STRANGELY GETS A JOLT
175
pubedside. No moveis cheek was now, black hair.
figidity of the d might be ind his first thor air
agently ovuly tall and back home
This occupant lay, fully clothed, upon the bed, his face half-
buried in the pillows, as if he had thrown himself down for a few
minutes of rest. But there was something about the pose of the
body, its unnatural stillness, a something in the very air of the
room perhaps, which shouted aloud to the new-comer that all was
not well. His pulses tingling with excitement, Strangely walked
cautiously to the bedside. No move. No stir. From his present
vantage-point, a portion of the man's cheek was now visible, con-
gested and purplish in color beneath a crop of thick, black hair.
Strangely put a tentative hand upon the man's arms. The air
was reeking with the odor of stale liquor, and his first thought
was that the occupant of the bed might be in a drunken stupor.
But the absolute rigidity of the body said otherwise.
This man was dead-had been dead for some time.
Mastering his horror, Strangely grasped the dead man by the
shoulders, and turned him gently over on his back. It was no
easy task, for the fellow was unusually tall and heavily built, as
well as a dead weight. The face that stared back up at the
American from black, bulging eyes in a discolored, swollen setting
had once been comely in the extreme, albeit a trifle weak about
the mouth and chin.
The features, regular even in violent death—for violent death
it had been-retained traces of a statuesque beauty, and the thick
black hair, worn a trifle long, spread out in wavy profusion
against the pillow. The man's linen was spotless, his clothes and
shoes faultlessly cut, and his hands well cared for, though they
seemed . trifle stained about the finger-tips. Strangely bent more
closely over and examined those tips. Then he straightened
with a grim smile of triumph on his lips. Paint!
So he, Strangely, had been correct about the stains on that
towel!
For there was no doubt that the man lying before him was
Ralph Cumberland. From repeated descriptions, Strangely was
sure of it. And those stains on Cumberland's hands could have
been left by nothing other than water-color paints!
What Cumberland was doing here, in the room he had left-


176
THE RAVENELLE RIDDLE
at close yes had was plain
bag and baggage-only a few hours before, it was difficult to
conjecture. When Strangely had said to Geoffrey Lawe that
Cumberland might return, he had been jesting. There was no
real idea in his mind that such a thing would occur. Yet Cum-
berland had returned—had made a last fatal visit to this room.
Why?
The cause of his death was plain enough. The swollen face
and protuberant eyes had told Strangely the whole story. Yet
now, seen at closer range, there was confirmatory evidence in the
cruel bruises visible on that strong, young throat.
This man had been murdered—strangled to death in his sleep!
With quick, certain movements-exercising great care to touch
nothing on which he could leave finger-prints-Strangely grimly
went through the victim's pockets. He knew that within a few
hours the alarm would be given, and that the police would arrive.
If he could find anything here that would be of use to him in the
solving of this apparently hopeless muddle, it must be taken now.
There was nothing much-a handkerchief, a watch, a pen-knife,
some papers of no importance, two receipted bills, and one small
piece of cardboard. This bit of cardboard, after a quick scrutiny,
Strangely appropriated. The rest of the contents of the dead
man's pockets he returned to their former places with hurried
though meticulous care.
It was a thousand times more imperative now than before that
he leave this house before he had been seen. The presence of a
murdered man-and that man Cumberland!—in the room that
Strangely had just that evening rented, might prove rather awk-
ward to explain at this juncture. At any rate, even if satisfac-
torily explained, it would mean the end of his invisibility. He
would, perforce, be obliged to reveal his identity to the police,
thus putting an end to further secret investigation. Notoo
much was at stake. He must get out of the place, and that
speedily. But first, just one more look about.
As far as he could determine, there had been no marks on the
body save those of strangulation upon the throat. Now, a quick
investigation of the room itself revealed nothing further there.


THE SOLVING OF THE CIPHER 179
were now drifting out as quickly as they had drifted in. But, to
make assurance doubly sure, Strangely laid his dirty cap on the
table in such a way that it shielded the small piece of paper from
possible prying eyes. Then, putting down the emptied coffee
cup, he set himself to work.
"Flowers, square, star six, port thirteen, five, two,
star one (or nine), port five, star seven, port nine, X”
Flowers, Strangely decided, might possibly be the name of the
sender of the telegram. But, if so, why sign the message “X”?
On the other hand, Flowers might be Captain Smith's real name,
even his given name, though the latter assumption sounded too
fantastic. Well, decided Strangely, that must be passed up for
the moment. Now to get on.
The body of the message, it seemed to him, looked like a mass
of directions, with port and star (evidently the abbreviation for
starboard) to indicate the left and right sides of something—very
fitting expressions to be used when the recipient of the directions
was a nautical man. And these directions signified, perhaps, the
course the yacht was to pursue. Or did it? One did not use the
terms port and starboard to determine the course of a ship. One
used the points of the compass. Still, imagining the former
assumption to be the actual case, and also assuming the sender of
the message to be someone unfamiliar with nautical terms and
the mechanism of ships (someone who knew, in fact, only a few
expressions such as port and starboard), then might not he-or
she-have made use of those words rather than right or left? The
theory seemed plausible. But what a peculiar, zig-zag course the
directions would make if followed!
Could there be no other solution? There must be!
Perhaps, thought Strangely, if he went through the small pile
of papers once more—those papers taken from Captain Smith's
table-he might find some essential clue which he had over-
looked in his first hasty examination. But there was nothing
there, it seemed, which offered any particular aid. A few bills
from the local firms at Folkestone, an itemized expense account,


THE SOLVING OF THE CIPHER
181
A certain tiny red blossom peered out with startling insistence
and regularity from different points on the paper-dotting the
wall in the background, nestling in the girl's nosegay, flaunted
brightly from the man's button-hole. One had even dropped to
the ground at their feet.
Surely—Strangely argued to himself with mounting excitement
-it was not beyond the bounds of possibility to imagine that the
relative positions of these oddly placed flowers might mean some-
thing-might be intended to convey some message to the recipient
of the picture?
To Strangely's mind, the subject of the picture was immaterial;
the real importance centered in the placement of the flowers. To
back his idea up there was the name of the yacht itself—the
Wall-Flower and the fact that the word ravenelle, in French,
meant wall-flower. Moreover, ravenelle was not the usual, com-
monplace type of wall-flower known to most people (the blossom
known as giroflé and generally yellow in color). It was, on the
contrary, a smaller, radish-red species of bloom. The flowers in
this picture were certainly a radish-red-and they were very palpa-
bly intended for wall-flowers!
Eagerly, Strangely counted the number of flowers in the picture.
Fifteen.
Then he counted the numbers given in the telegram, but sank
back disappointed. There were only twelve. The two things
did not check up. If the telegram were the key to the reading of
the flowers in the pictures, as he had been suspecting, there should
have been fifteen flowers and fifteen corresponding numbers. But
there were fifteen of one and twelve of the other. What a wash-
out!
But, after a moment's consideration, hope revived.
Suppose only suppose that he had here before him two
separate messages.
Suppose that someone—Ralph Cumberland, for instance—had
been in the habit of conveying information by the medium of
water-color paintings. There was the towel, and also Cumber-
land's stained finger-tips, to bear this theory out. Certainly it
of the Ponding numere should


182
THE RAVENELLE RIDDLE
“Why,
what then would formed of the chan
would be an especially innocent-looking way of sending secret
messages. Nothing at all suspicious about a little water-color
picture. Nothing to make anyone wonder, if it should happen
to fall into other hands than those intended to receive it. No one
could guess that the flowers carried a message, and therefore it
would be utterly meaningless to the casual observer. Clever plan,
all right.
Suppose then that all this were so. Suppose, in addition, that
Captain Smith had received information in this way very recently
-a message containing orders of some sort, for instance. And
suppose that someone (Cumberland again?) found it imperative
to change these orders at short notice-at such short notice that
there was no time to mail or convey a second picture to the
yacht. Yet Smith must be informed of the change in plan im-
mediately. What then would be the next best thing to do?
“Why,” thought Strangely, "the fellow would hurry to the
nearest telegraph office-Euston Station, in this case, for it's
marked on the message—and he'd draft out a telegram which con-
veyed to Captain Smith the order in which the flowers would be
placed, were it possible to send a picture. What a long chance!”
A long chance, indeed. And yet Strangely felt that a desperate
person would take it as the only hope in sight. And he'd have
to trust to Captain Smith's intelligence to guess the meaning of
such an unexpected move.
With this conviction in mind, Strangely set to work once more.
To begin with, the words port and starboard at once sug-
gested a right and left side to the puzzle. The American detective
had had some little experience with ciphers, but he worked for
fully three quarters of an hour (and was obliged to invest in an-
other cup of coffee to pacify the proprietor of the restaurant)
before he finally found himself on the right track.
He knew, of course, that there must be some automatic method
of placing the flowers at certain given points. Although rather
skillfully blended in, there was a set look about their positions
that was very noticeable to the observant eye.
Suppose, now, that the picture before him were divided into


THE SOLVING OF THE CIPHER
183
well—say twenty-six equal spaces (one for every letter of the
alphabet) would each flower then fall into a space?
This would necessitate drawing thirteen horizontal lines with
one perpendicular one down the middle. Or vice versa. Thus
forming twenty-six oblong spaces. Strangely took one of the
almost transparently thin paper napkins from the pile on the
restaurant table, and, laying it over the brightly colored painting
so closely that the picture itself still showed through, he lightly
traced the necessary lines. First horizontally. Then perpendicu-
larly.
Neither way was successful. Some of the flowers, to be sure, fell
into their allotted spaces, but others fell directly upon lines. Sev-
eral were together in the same space. No luck. Still that tele-
gram said square, didn't it? Not oblong.
Strangely stubbornly started in again. The word square must
be significant.
Suppose he combined the horizontal and vertical ideas, making
thirteen horizontal lines and thirteen vertical. That would form
one hundred and sixty-nine squares. Now, then. Would that
work? Taking another napkin, he set about it. But no. Still no
luck.
But he would not give up.


184
THE RAVENELLE RIDDLE
"I'm on the right track. I know it. I've a hunch," he thought
fiercely. “It's got to work out somehow!"
What other possible combination could there be?
Well, there were certainly twenty-six letters in the alphabet.
Suppose that he drew twenty-six horizontal lines and twenty-six
vertical lines, thus making a total of six hundred and seventy-six
minute squares. What then? With greatest care he notched
twenty-six evenly spaced dots across the top and down one side.
Then, using the back of a table knife as a ruler, he lightly sketched
in the lines.
This time, when he had finished his work, he nearly gave a
whoop of triumph. Through the thin tissue of the paper napkin,
the little red flowers of the picture gleamed subduedly forth-
each one resting in a separate space!
So he was right! The flowers did mean something! If he
could now discover which letters of the alphabet corresponded
with which particular squares on the paper before him, he would
be able to decipher the message!
His hands shaking slightly from repressed excitement, Strangely
tried various letter combinations. First he lettered the sides. No
results.
Then he lettered the top. The result was an unintelligible
jargon.
At last, in desperation, he remembered what had momentarily
slipped his mind. The directions port and starboard.
With one deft stroke, he made blacker the middle line of the
page—the thirteenth line from each side.
He then placed the alphabet in normal order across the top of
the paper.
The sides he numbered, because the directions in the telegram
had contained numerals. He believed it highly probable that
brevity was a consideration, and that the messages had never con-
tained more than twenty-six letters in all.
He decided, in attempting to read the cipher, that he should
begin with the middle line, and read toward the sides. Thus, on
i stroke, he madech side.
ross the top of


THE SOLVING OF THE CIPHER
185
the starboard side, the first letter would be ni On the port side it
would be m. And so on.
The numbers, on the sides, he intended to indicate the spaces
into which each flower would fall. Thus the first flower would
fall somewhere in the first row of spaces, the second flower in the
second row of spaces, the third flower in the third row, and so
on for the whole twenty-six spaces.
It remained now only to see if the theory would work.
PORT
STARBOARD
abcdefghijklmnopqrstuvwxyz

723456787072
ܪܘ ܢܠܚܟܟ
NNNNNNNONS
Counting carefully from the center line to the outer edge in
every case, Strangely saw, with rising excitement, that he had
found the key which would enable him to interpret the message.


XXIV
CONCERNING JOHN BELL
As STRANGELY turned off Tottenham Court Road into the crowded
thoroughfare that leads to Euston Station and the cable office from
which the mysterious telegram had been sent, he heard the morn-
ing editions of the newspapers being called. With a feeling of
foreboding he stopped and bought one, almost-had he but
known it-at the exact moment that Geoffrey Lawe was purchas-
ing one on the opposite side of the city. Strangely glanced hur-
riedly at the headlines. He was anxious to see whether or not
the body of any dead woman had yet come to light. For, since
the discovery of the severed finger in Cumberland's room the
night before, he anticipated the finding of the rest of the body.
It was as he had expected. The paper gave a full (and most
unpleasant) account of the discovery of a delicately built, but
headless and handless, feminine body on the embankment near
St. James's Park.
With the intention of visiting the remains at the morgue later
in the day, Strangely now hastened to perform the next step in
his investigations. This step was to trace the telegram sent to
Captain Smith from the Euston Station office.
A drowsy looking operator was leaning on the desk as the detec-
tive entered.
“Message to send?" this individual inquired rather suspiciously,
as he looked the unprepossessing intruder up and down.
Strangely's get-up, repulsive to start with, had not been improved
by its recent immersion in salt water. Stained and wrinkled, his
shrunken clothing hung ludicrously close to his spare frame, and
a sleepless night had left gray marks of fatigue upon his thin face.
cu.
192


CONCERNING JOHN BELL
193
set must have her yawn, and lool tapped his morner
At the operator's question, Strangely jerked nervously at his
hideous cap, his correct course of action suddenly opening out
before his eyes.
With purposely awkward fingers he held out the blurred and
crumpled telegram to the inquisitive clerk.
"I've been sent from Folkestone to find out wot this ’ere means,"
he explained painstakingly. “'Twor brung at midnight, or close
on, an' the Cap'n's in a proper ryge. Says someun's ’avin' 'im
on. So 'e sends me h’up-see?-to find h’out wot does't mean,
and 'oo sent ut. See?”
The young man received the mangled bit of paper languidly,
inspected it at his leisure, delicately tapped his mouth, which was
opening on another yawn, and looked at Strangely.
"It must have had a bath,” he suggested curiously.
Strangely laughed huskily.
“You're sharp—you are,” he said with apparent admiration.
“So't did. That's right. 'E wor fair orf 'is ’ead and throwed ut
owerboard. But then 'e gort it h’out immedjut, wiv a 'ook.” He
pointed to a tear which might well have been caused by the
mythical hook.
“'Someun's been pl’yin' a — trick on me, Atkins', sez 'e.
'You tyke this h’up to Lunnon,' 'e sez, 'to this ’ere stytion w'ere ut
wor sent from, and see 'oo 'twor as 'ad the gall to send ut! So
tyke a look now, do, Muster. Can you say 'oo sent ut?”
"Not me,” disclaimed the languid young man. “I wasn't here
last night. My night off. On a beano,” he added parenthetically.
“But it might be the other chap who took it. He's just come in.
I say, Charley!”
“What's up?" and a curly redhead, crowned by a bowler, ap-
peared over a partition at the back of the office.
"Chap wants to know who left this message to be sent last
night. Were you on at 10:10? His captain, that it's addressed
to, is set to have a fit wondering who's pulled his leg. And he's
sent this bloke up to find out. Any harm in telling him?”.
“What message?” inquired the redhead. "Oh-that. A rum
one, to be sure. Yes, I took it. I thought it was in code. The
"What's up
-tition at the back to this message to its addressed


194
THE RAVENELLE RIDDLE
chap left his name, I think. And, if that's the case, there's no
harm in telling. Though,” with a sudden access of dignity, “it's
against the rules, and perhaps we'd best not do it.”
With an air of great cunning, Strangely clinked a couple of
coins in his pocket.
“My master's that anxious to know,” he said tentatively, “that
'e'd be willing to p'y a bit, could 'e ’ave the nyme. 'Atkins,' 'e
sez ”
“We've heard all that,” interrupted the languid one, suddenly
roused to life. “I say—do you think he would rise to a ten
shilling note?”
"Five,” replied Strangely ponderously. "No more nor five."
“He's holding out on us,” said Charley with a grin. “Ten
shillings or nothing. What? Breaking rules is risky. And I
daresay you're up to no good,” he added with as stern a look at
Strangely as his roguish eye could achieve. “There's something
deuced queer about it all.”
“S’elp me, no!” cried Strangely quickly, anxious now lest the
information elude him just when it seemed sure. “My Cap'n sez,
sez 'e ”
“Ten bob!” completed young languid.
“Ten bob,” capitulated Strangely, pulling out a dirty note.
When it had exchanged hands with proper solemnity, Charley
disappeared again behind the partition where he apparently ran
through the previous evening's files, for he came back with a slip
of paper in his hands.
"Here we are,” he said with satisfaction. “Ten-ten pip emma.
And signed John Bell. That's who, you can tell your bloomin'
Captain—John Bell. Address 6 Portman Square. A swell, what?
Know him?"
Strangely removed the dingy cap and scratched his ear.
"Per’aps yes, per’aps no,” he replied slyly. “Now wot might 'e
look like?"
"He might look like the elephant in Regent's Park," answered
Charley with a cheerful guffaw in which the languid gentleman


CONCERNING JOHN BELL
195
joined. “But I didn't notice particular. So, no doubt, he didn't!
Now you go along. You've got what you want, my man.”
"'E warn't a sea-farin' chap, now?” persisted Strangely.
“I'd have noticed that. No-seems to me he was darkish and
small and dressed quiet. Or maybe he was fair. I d’know.
What do you think I am, my good chap? A blinkin' C.I.D.?
I've told you all I know. So hop it!”.
Strangely hopped it. The visit had been disappointing. He
had learned little better than nothing. A description of the sender
of the telegram had been what he was really angling for, and that
had not been forthcoming. The name of the sender signified
little, since it was almost certain to be assumed.
Still there could be no harm in looking up No. 6 Portman
Square just to see what he would find there. It was a good sub-
stantial address, at any rate. After a jolting ride on a crowded
bus, where he again jammed his cap well down over his eyes, he
alighted at Baker Street, and turned his steps toward Portman
Square.
The result was not a little surprising. At his ring, the door
was opened promptly by a bright-faced maid in starched blue
uniform with crisp cap and apron.
“Mr. John Bell?” she repeated with a rather pert glance at the
visitor's disreputable apparel. “Yes, he's in. I'll call him. Step
in through here. And mind you walk careful, now. You should
have come by the servants' entrance,” she added sotto voce, with a
severe glance. Then louder, “I'll call him.”
Strangely followed her into a small, cosy living-room filled with
heavy substantial furniture and crowded with knick-knacks of
several generations past. There he stood waiting while the saucy
maid disappeared fleetly through another doorway.
“Mr. Bell, sir," he could hear her calling. “A person to see
you.”
“What sort of a person?” boomed a loud, irritated voice, and
Strangely was not at all surprised to see that the owner fitted the
voice.
He stamped into the room—a heavy, red-faced, choleric looking


196
THE RAVENELLE RIDDLE
man of the country-squire type—followed by a meek, mouselike
little woman with a kindly face and tender blue eyes under untidy,
graying hair.
"Well, well, what can I do for you, my good fellow?” puffed
Bell. “On my word, you take your time. And my breakfast
coolin' on the table at the moment. Come, come. Speak up!
Speak up!"
Strangely endeavored to follow instructions but was unable to
wedge in a word.
"If it's money you want, I've no time for beggars,” panted his
host unsympathetically, lowering himself with difficulty into a
chair two sizes too small for him, “though you're welcome to
food if you're hungry. I've been hungry myself. Well, man,
where's your tongue? Don't stand there like an image. Speak
up, I say!”
Strangely spoke hurriedly this time, before his interrogator
could begin again.
“ 'Tis just this, sir,” he began, fumbling his cap with the sem-
blance of uneasiness, “along of that telegram you sent last
night "
"Telegram, telegram,” boomed Mr. Bell, bouncing painfully to
his feet. “Who says I sent a telegram? You're mad, man,
Jenny, Jenny! Did I send a telegram last night?”
The little, bright-eyed woman looked up tranquilly.
"Of course not, Uncle. You know you didn't. You didn't stir
out of the house nor even talk on the phone the whole evening
long. The man has made a mistake. Is he sure it was sent by a
John Bell?”
Strangely nodded his head in well-simulated, slow-witted stub-
bornness.
“That it wor. John Bell—6 Portman Square,” he replied re-
ferring to the slip of paper in his hands. “Happen I've myde a
blunder if other Bells is in the 'ouse. But if yon gentleman's the
only Bell, then there's aught mysterious about it!"
There was an inarticulate roar of rage from the old gentleman,
and his niece soothingly patted his arm.


CONCERNING JOHN BELL
197
with a severe torta Mr. Bell sent thell. How our.
"Oh, yes, there must be a mistake, Mr.--"
“Bill Atkins, at your service, lydy."
“Mr. Atkins," she continued. “My uncle was confined to the
house last night with a severe touch of gout. We sat in this room
till late, and I read aloud. So, if a Mr. Bell sent the message you
hold in your hand, it was plainly not this Mr. Bell. How our
address came to be given you, I cannot imagine. But there has
certainly been a mistake I hope not a serious one."
Strangely eyed the gentle little creature as if convinced against
his better judgment.
"Orl right, lydy. If you s'y 'tis so, 'tis so. But abaht this 'ere
message now, I'm in difficulty, and that's the truth. Well, I begs
your pardon, and I'll bid you good-d'y."
But Mr. Bell suddenly came to life once more.
“Preposterous!” he shouted. “Don't let him go, Jenny. An
evil-looking chap
(“Thank you, Mr. Bell,” thought Strangely.)
“—and he's only trying to get an idea of the house, in order to
rob us, burgle us! Send for an officer-at once!”
“Now, Uncle,” soothed Miss Jenny in her calm little voice,
"you've been reading too many detective tales again. This young
man is quite all right, I'm sure. But you'd better go now, Mr.
Atkins."
She followed Strangely out into the hallway.
“It's not a question of money, is it?" she interrogated shyly.
"You don't look—any too prosperous, and I assure you that my
uncle is much harsher sounding than acting. If an odd job or
two for a few shillings would do any good ?"
"No, Miss, I've a fair bit in me pocket,” replied Strangely,
touching his cap respectfully to the kindly soul, as he descended
the front steps. “But thank you kindly, Miss."
It seemed impossible to connect these two people in any way
with an opium-smuggling plot—a plot that somewhere compassed,
pero here compasses
in its details, the murder and mutilation of a young woman, and
the subsequent brutal murder of a young man. No, if Strangely
knew anything at all of human nature, he knew that those simple


202
THE RAVENELLE RIDDLE
but had been gone almost a week now. Why—Why? The girl
at Folkestone had said that she was “in service.” That could
have been with Mrs. O'Brien, of course. He had suspected this
from the moment that he had been given the slip of paper by
Willie. And the butcher's boy had now confirmed the suspicion.
Not only had he confirmed it, but he had gone farther by stating
that the girl had departed nearly a week ago and that a “Frenchie”
had come to take her place.
Martie Green, then, must have left here immediately upon her
return from Folkestone. Yet she had not expected to leave so
soon. That was proven by the fact that she had given Willie
Inger her address at Acacia Villas, and had asked him to come
and see her.
Strangely thought quickly. When he and Lawe had visited Mrs.
O'Brien last night, the boarding-house-keeper had spoken of a
maid, hadn't she? A discharged domestic-oh, that was it, of
course! That was the answer. Just what were Mrs. O'Brien's
words? She had been discussing Mr. Ravenelle's food:
“For I fixed it with my own two hands, along of being without
help the day. I'd sent off the lazy good-for-nothing I'd had. Too
free with herself, she was.”
So that was the explanation. Martie Green had been telling
the truth. She had actually been in service. And she had been
discharged, by Mrs. O'Brien, upon her return from Folkestone.
What was the immediate cause of the dismissal? Impudence?
Incompetence? Surely not, for Mrs. O'Brien must have had
impudence and incompetence often before from a girl of this type.
At any rate she was gone, and with her, no doubt, a valuable
fund of information. For had not Martie Green been Ralph
Cumberland's companion at Folkestone on the very day before
Rilla Ravenelle's disappearance?
A sudden thought struck Strangely so forcibly that it was al-
most like a physical blow. He had, upon discovering that the
body on the embankment was that of a left-handed person, de-
cided that it could not be that of Rilla Ravenelle. Indeed, he had
formed an entire alternate theory concerning her. But now he
Rilla Ravenelthought struck. He had, upoteft-handed
most like a Pembankment was of Rilla Raver


XXVI
STRANGELY ACQUIRES A PAL
THESE thoughts darted through his head with lightning-like
rapidity, and he had barely had time to formulate them when the
butcher's boy emerged from the basement stairway, empty basket
on his arm.
"Wot, still 'ere?" cried the youth, thumbing his nose. “You're
wystin' yer time.”
“It's my time,” growled Strangely surlily. “But come, me lad.
I'm a good enough chap for all I'm so rough dressed. We'll 'ave
a glass o' stout at the nearest pub, and you'll tell me wot you
knows of Martie.”
“My eye!” cried the boy, winking that feature rapidly, “I'm
a tee-totaler, I am! Myke it two, and I'll come!”
A moment later they were seated in the barroom of the Duke
of York Tavern, on either side of a small table. It was a place of
none too savory clientele, if one could judge from appearances.
Strangely caught sight of himself in a wall-mirror, and realized
with artistic pleasure that he could hold his own in appearance
with the worst.
His initial disguise was now greatly heightened by a quite
perceptible beard, and he had not been improved by a sleepless
and adventurous night. Unpleasant to start with, his clothes
were now shrunk and wrinkled from their immersion in salt
water. Altogether, one could not have hoped to meet a more
repulsive person in a day's travel.
“Well?” asked the boy as he sipped his stout.
“I want you to tell me all you can of Martie Green,” Strangely
rejoined in a low tone and suddenly dropping out of character.
204


STRANGELY ACQUIRES A PAL 2017
parcelona y ave demo often to My and efficiency of all. Anmizing, of
hat, the suit, the expression of the face, the manner of brushing
the hair, the walk, the air-all changed, toned down, and the
work was done. But it took a clever, a damnably clever, man to
do it. First, to realize that a change, or rather a minimizing, of
personality was the most complete disguise of all. And, second,
to effect that disguise absolutely and efficiently.
“Did this man go often to Mrs. O'Brien’s?" inquired Strangely.
“ 'E m'y ’ave done, sir. I only see 'im the once. Martie 'ad a
parcel of gents runnink there. Myde the old lydy roar. This
’ere John Bell—'e wor only one of a crowd. If I'd not knowed
'oo 'e wor, along of seein' 'im in Martie's flat, I'd not of noticed
’im. Just one of a crowd 'e wor!”
Just one of a crowd!
Significant words, and in them, Strangely could not doubt, lay
the secret of the man's success. Clever, clever.
“So you yourself never happened to see him at Mrs. O'Brien's
before that?”
“No, sir, though 'e might ’ave been, for orl of that. Only
Martie'd not been there long 'erself. And some'ow, I'm thinkink
’e didn't know where she wor till that d'y."
“What makes you think that?” Strangely seized upon this
bit of news.
"Just 'is look, Muster.”
“But you think she's gone back to 'im?"
“I don't s'y that, Muster. For I don't think 'e warnted 'er.
Fair sick of 'er, 'e looked. No, sir, I think she only thort she wor
goink back to ’im. 'E's puttin' ’er orf, thinks I to meself. Sly, 'e
looked, that's wot!”
“What do you mean by sly?”
The lad was at the bottom of his second glass of stout by this
time.
“Oh, naught,” he replied foamily. “Only I figgered, when
she'd gorn, that she'd left Mrs. O'Brien's along of thinkink she'd
gort 'im again. And that 'e weren't gort. See?”.
Strangely saw.
It was indeed a graphic picture that the shock-headed youth's


208
THE RAVENELLE RIDDLE
words called up to the imagination—the unexpected meeting of
"John Bell” and his discarded sweetheart, her efforts to effect a
reconciliation, and his evasive manner in reply.
But what had happened after that? Had Bell, learning of her
present love affair, became suddenly and illogically jealous and
threatened to disclose the girl's past life to Cumberland? Had
he then sought Cumberland out, quarreled with him, and later
returned to murder him? One could only conjecture.
It was certainly one theory. However, with the entry of John
Bell into Martie Green's life, Strangely now saw a number of
Possibilities Martie Green's life. However, w
Perhaps John Bell had not threatened to tell Cumberland of
Martie's past life. Perhaps Martie herself had volunteered to give
Cumberland up. Then perhaps she and Bell together had killed
Cumberland.
The motive? Well, that was not clearly established yet. And
the theory itself, while disposing neatly of several knotty problems,
left no explanation for the presence of the severed finger which
Strangely and Lawe had discovered only a few hours previously
under the step in Cumberland's room.
Mentally, Strangely took out his facts once more and rearranged
them, this way, that way. But always something seemed lacking
in the result. Until -
With a bang that sent the unsteady table flying, and brought
the alarmed butcher's boy leaping to his feet, Strangely brought
down his clenched fist.
“Never mind, boy,” he apologized. “Just keep your shirt on
till I think this out!”
For the first time the affair of Martie Green was opening out to
him, seemingly without a hitch. Fact after fact, lying dormant till
now, suddenly waked and ranged itself side by side with its neigh-
bor, with a new theory to reinforce them.
This man, (call him John Bell, since he was so fond of the
name) after having abandoned Martie Green, comes across her
again in the company of another man. This other man is Ralph
Cumberland. At the unexpected sight of Martie with Cumber-


STRANGELY ACQUIRES A PAL
209
land, Bell is much exercised. In a dog-in-the-manger frame of
mind, he follows them to Mrs. O'Brien's, and waits till Cumber-
land departs. Then he enters the house, corrals Martie Green in
the hallway, and quarrels with her. She attempts to placate him,
but he leaves in a rage.
The next day Martie goes to Folkestone with Cumberland. On
her return, Mrs. O'Brien, for some reason, discharges her. With
no place to go (and very likely a refusal of aid from Cumberland)
Martie now sits down and writes Bell a letter. That would ac-
count for the ink-stained finger.
So strongly did the detective feel the truth of this that he could
almost see the letter. In it she very likely says that she is now
fully determined to return to Bell. She may even have made some
threat in event of his refusal.
This letter she posts. Or perhaps she gives it to Mrs. O'Brien
to post. The landlady had certainly mentioned posting a letter.
What more natural than that Martie Green, seeing her start for
the pillar box, should give her her own letter, too?
Strangely lighted the clay pipe he had affected ever since don-
ning his disguise, and thought further:
After the letter is posted, Martie suddenly decides not to wait
until Bell receives it, but to hunt him up that very night. This
she does. They quarrel, this time violently. And (the words
spelled themselves out in white lights in Strangely's mind) he
kills her!
Therefore, the body on the embankment was not that of Rilla
Ravenelle.
It was that of Martie Green!
And, to bear out the fact that the murder had been committed
on the night of the girl's dismissal, there was proof in the fact
that she had not yet taken time to remove the ink-stain from her
finger!
Guess-work, of course, but Strangely felt positive that his deduc-
tions were correct. For the first time he was satisfied with a line
of reasoning.


212
THE RAVENELLE RIDDLE
"I found it,” he replied quietly.
“My eye, you do ’ave an orful w'y of findin' things,” said Bobbs
tolerantly. “First somethink of Martie's at Folkestone-or so
you s’y,” shrewdly, “and now this. Wot's yer gyme, I don't
know, Muster, but you're a deep one and no mistyke.”
Strangely could not help laughing at the mixture of admiration
and suspicion in his new colleague's tones.
"About this Bert Brown,” he probed. “Where is he?”
“You'll soon know more nor wot I does meself,” responded
Bobbs good-naturedly. “'E's no mate of mine, but many's the
time I've watched 'im open the shop wiv keys from this syme
key-rink. A plumbink shop it is. Great Russell Street, near the
museum. Carn’t miss it. So long, Muster. Cheerio!"
Long after Bobbs had departed, Strangely sat on at the table in
the tavern while he planned the course of his future activities. It
was now well toward mid-afternoon, and there was still much
more to be done before he would feel free to snatch a bit of rest..
1. He must inform Lawe of the opium intrigue.
2. He must see Mrs. O'Brien, and see why she had been un-
willing to discuss the little water-color paintings hanging on her
wall. They were somewhat similar in style to the one discovered
on the Wall-Flower, and might well have been painted by the
same hand.
3. He must also find out from Mrs. O'Brien if he were right
in the assumption that Martie Green had written a letter and
given it to her to mail on the evening of July 17th.
Indeed, Mrs. O'Brien seemed to be coming more and more
definitely into the riddle. And yet, in spite of everything,
Strangely felt that she was an honest woman.
The case was certainly becoming more involved each minute.
He wondered if Scotland Yard had yet become aware of Cumber-
land's murder, and, if so, what they had made of it.
Strangely himself had hoped to remain hidden until he had
completely solved the mystery, but the discovery of the second
murder and the opium plot had upset his plans. He felt now
that it was necessary to see Lawe at once and warn him of the


214
THE RAVENELLE RIDDLE
letter mailed by Mrs. O'Brien. At the time when the detective
had requested Lawe to do this, he had considered it important
merely as a slight possible clue, and, as such, not to be neglected.
But now, assuming that the letter might have been written by
Martie Green, and that Martie Green could well be the murdered
girl on the embankment, the letter was beginning to assume a vast
importance in the scheme of things.
There was now, to Strangely's mind at least, little doubt as to
the identity of the murdered girl, and also as to the complicity of
her former lover in the murder of Ralph Cumberland as well as
herself.
He wondered what MacDonald was doing on the case—if he
had yet discovered any one of these tortuous trails? Or if still
others had revealed themselves to the British detective? And
Lawe? What had Lawe accomplished? Well, it was impossible
to compare notes at this juncture. He must work alone a bit
longer. The goal should be more nearly in sight before he aban,
doned his secrecy.
On second thought, he was almost glad that he had missed
Lawe. After all, why speak to him until the whole business was
wound up? Simmons had described his young master as almost
beside himself with nervousness. Why add to that burden until
absolutely necessary?
"After all, I think I'll not wait,” he told Simmons. “And,” he
added emphatically, "forget that I ever came. Speak to no one
no one, you understand-not even Mr. Lawe-of having seen me
here to-day!”
Strangely had no more than reached the corner, however, when
the door slowly opened a crack and Simmon's face peered around
the edge. He wore an irresolute expression, and seemed half in-
clined to call after the detective's receding form. After a moment,
however, he shook his head, and a secretive look crept into his
eyes—eyes that were neither so old nor so dull as they had been a
few minutes before. Then the head withdrew, and the door
closed softly, but not before Strangely, turning a brisk corner,
had caught a glimpse of it.
beside high, Simmon, speak to almost sta


STRANGELY ACQUIRES A PAL
215
"Now what the deuce does that mean?” he pondered to him-
self. “Nothing, I guess. I'm beginning to suspect everyone of
acting queerly. The old chap probably wanted another look at
this thug outfit of mine.”
And he walked on.


BOBBS HOOKS A FISH
217
Strangely for having entered the place at all, with himself for
having bandied words with the uncouth intruder, and with Bert
Brown for being the cause of it all.
"Well, if you won't, you won't,” he said brusquely, “and I've no
time to waste on young Bert's affairs. So get yourself out of here.”
“When'll 'e be back, Muster?” inquired Strangely, shambling
towards the door.
“That I don't know, and care less,” snapped the man. "He'd
never be here at all if decent workers wasn't so hard to get these
days, what with the dole and all, and able-bodied workmen sitting
on their door-steps. A man takes who he can get—and no thanks
for it.”
An unsatisfactory interview, thought Strangely as he traversed
the streets which led across the city. But he had got one thing
from it. Bert Brown was evidently not too enviable a character.
A visit to the morgue likewise proved fruitless. Distasteful as
the idea had been of viewing the dismembered body, Strangely
felt that a visit there was indicated, if only to see a few of the per-
sons who might be observing the corpse for identification pur-
poses.
The old saying that a murderer haunts the scene of his crime
is a trite one, but true. It might be added that he likewise haunts
the remains of his victim in nine cases out of ten, as Strangely had
had reason to learn in the course of former criminal investigations.
Some inescapable desire to see once more the object of his violence
lures the murderer time after time to place his head in dangerous
juxtaposition to the noose.
But if the American detective had any lingering hope of watch-
ing the play of expression on the faces of that pathetic band which
customarily invades the morgue after each murder-shaken with
the fear that the body there displayed is that of some missing
friend or relative—he was to be disappointed.
The expressionless officer guarding the door curtly waved him
off, announcing in level tones that no one would be allowed to
see the remains of the embankment case to-day. Those testifying
were expected to view the body to-morrow before the inquest.
of expres the morete displisappo


BOBBS HOOKS A FISH
221
plete outfit that the missing girl had been described as wearing
on the evening of her disappearance. Beneath everything lay an
empty bottle upon which Strangely pounced eagerly. With a
long whistle of astonishment, he held it to the light and read the
label. Then, still holding it, he sank back on his heels, a satisfied
expression creeping over his lean worn face.
Bobbs had, indeed, hooked a fish.
Sent out for a minnow, he had caught a whale!


XXVIII
CONCERNING RAVENELLE
ave been he sat in the of evidence
The next day, Saturday, was the one upon which, morning and
afternoon, the two inquests were held. Inspector MacDonald
would have been surprised, and perhaps disconcerted, to know
that the uncouth spectator upon whom his abstracted eyes rested
without recognition, several times during the proceedings, was his
American colleague.
Geoffrey Lawe's desperate questionings as to Strangely's where-
abouts would have been answered had he realized that, not
twenty paces from him, as he sat in the witness chair, the missing
man was listening closely to the tangle of evidence presented, his
keen mind cutting at once through those parts he considered
irrelevant, and docketing for future use those which he considered
pertinent to the ultimate solution of the crime.
From the beginning to the end, he sat tensely in his seat, alert
not only to the words issuing from the mouths of the witnesses,
but straining, through some sixth sense, to interpret the spirit
behind the words. Caution, grief, frankness, fear, even perjury.
Coldly he dissected them all, and interpreted the words of each
herme celor and interpreted. I
speaker in the light of the emotions displayed.
Through the whole thing, also, he was triumphantly conscious
that thus far he was one lap ahead of Scotland Yard. His deduc-
tions concerning the ink-stained finger had led him yesterday to
the theory that its unfortunate owner had been Martie Green.
And now, a portion of Mrs. O'Brien's testimony definitely con-
firmed this suspicion in his mind. It was the vital point in her
evidence, and the very one that-paradoxically—had caused the
jury to identify the body as that of the missing Rilla Ravenelle.
malso, he was tand Yard. Hesterday to
222


CONCERNING RAVENELLE
223
It was the part concerning the traces of pineapple and mush-
rooms found in the stomach of the deceased. In it, she made clear
that Rilla had not been the only person in the house to eat those
two articles of food. Everyone there had eaten the same thing.
Therefore, Martie Green as well as Rilla Ravenelle had eaten both,
for she did not leave the place until evening.
Moreover, Martie, too, had been missing since July 17th. Or, if
not actually listed as missing, she had at least dropped from sight
at that time. In addition, Strangely had already timed her mur-
der as occurring within a few hours of her dismissal, a theory
derived from the ink-stain on the finger he believed to be hers.
Now came supporting evidence of this, in form of the pineapple-
mushroom statement. For their presence in the stomach of the
victim indubitably placed the time of the murder as no later than
some time during the evening of July 17th.
Taking all this into consideration, Strangely could no longer
doubt that the poor, dismembered corpse, lying cold and grim in
the nearby mortuary, was that of Mrs. O'Brien's discharged
domestic—the high-spirited, reckless, ill-fated Martie Green.
Thus did the American arrive now at a conclusion which
Inspector MacDonald was not to reach until twenty-four hours
later, and that only through the opportune discovery of a ring
on the embankment.
Swiftly he had weighed this and that statement of each wit-
ness, dove-tailed it with the pieces of the jigsaw puzzle he already
held in his hand. And when, at the end of the second inquest,
he was herded from the room in company with the crowd of curi-
ous sensation-seekers that surrounded him, he knew that there
was but one thing left for him to do before he could fit the final
piece to the completed puzzle of the missing typist.
But he could not do it yet. First he must make absolutely sure
of his facts.
He had spent the past night in Bobbs' second-hand chair, in the
airless confines of the small, narrow room. Now he returned
there. All that evening and all the next day after another
cramped, restless night in his young friend's domain) he went


CONCERNING RAVENELLE
225
open in evident effort to banish the fumes, Mrs. O'Brien herself
came out, wiping her hands on her apron. Seeing a stranger, and
a particularly repellent one, blocking her way, she gave a slight
screech of fright. But, before she could move out of his pathway
or close the door of her sitting-room in his face, Strangely had
caught her by the arm, propelled her into the room, and himself
closed the door, standing with his back to it.
The woman shook herself loose and faced him in angry fright.
“And what does this mean?” she cried furiously. “The likes
of you, coming unbeknownst to honest folks' houses and scarin'
the wits from a poor widow woman. If it's money you're wantin',
I've got none, so shake the dust from your dir-rty heels and get!”
*Now, now, Mrs. O'Brien,” said Strangely. “Look a bit closer
and you'll see who I am. I forgot for a moment that I look like
a cut-throat. I didn't mean to frighten you, but- ” he paused
sternly, “there's got to be a little plain speaking here. Sit down
if you wish. But, first of all, what have you been burning?"
“Mr. Strangely, is it," replied the woman frigidly. “And by
what token do you come walkin' in, scarin' an honest woman into
fits, and demandin' this and that? A reg'lar cock-o-the-walk you
are to-day. It'll take some explainin', and that's the truth!”
“So it will, Mrs. O'Brien, but you are the one who will do it.
A little explaining first of all about that bonfire of yours—that
bonfire of pictures. No, don't jump. You see I know all about
it!” He waved his hand to the wall. The places where those
small water-color paintings had hung, were now empty!
“Now, what I want to know is why? Why, in the first place,
did you refuse to tell me who painted them? And why did you
burn them now? And why, why," he caught the agitated
woman's plump wrist in steely fingers, "why did you tell us that
you last saw Rilla Ravenelle on the evening of July 17th?”
Mrs. O'Brien sank weakly down in a chair. The apoplectic
color in her face paled.
"Heaven help us all, the man's crazy," she quavered. “Me see
Rilla Ravenelle! What ever do you mean, Mr. Strangely?”


226
THE RAVENELLE RIDDLE
“Don't hedge, Mrs. O'Brien. There's a great deal you haven't
told.”
“There may be that, or there mayn't,” replied the woman defi-
antly. “But it's naught to do with you. Lyin', was I? I'd have
you know I answered truthful all I was ast!"
“Then you did not see the girl after eight o'clock on the eve-
ning of July 17th?”
“I did not.”
"Yet you have not told me all you know," persisted Strangely
mercilessly. “Give me the truth about those pictures.”
"You needn't speak so fierce, Mr. Strangely.” Mrs. O'Brien
touched the corner of her apron to her eyes. “'Twas not through
deceit. 'Twas a promise. And I see no harm in it whatever, for
it's in nowise connected with all this.”
“Well,” said Strangely in gentler tones. “No one can blame
you for breaking a promise if you are forced to do so by someone
in authority. And I do force you, Mrs. O'Brien. I am the best
judge of whether or not it concerns this affair, and I will take the
sole responsibility for any disclosure.”
"I'll have to go a ways back to answer you,” began Mrs. O'Brien
tremulously and reluctantly. “When first the Ravenelles come to
me, Mr. Ravenelle was always fussin' about with his bit of can-
vas and paint or paper and water-colors. And Miss Rilla, poor
child, used to carry them out to try to sell. But she always
brought them back. She told me that before the accident her
father had been a real gentleman painter, but the same accident
that took away the use of his limbs part paralyzed his hand.
He's never been able to use it rightly since. But he'd poke away
and paint, and he did some real pretty scenes once in a way, but
no one would buy them. I gathered from what the child said
that onct he'd painted by a diffrunt name entirely, but after he
become crippled up, he refused to trade on the fact, so to speak,
to make hisself sales. Awful proud they, the both. And "
But Strangely was staring at her, his mind half grasping some-
thing which had been eluding him ever since his first sight of


CONCERNING RAVENELLE
227
old Ravenelle's face in the greenish light of the night-lamp the
Thursday before.
"Oh," he said slowly. “And Mr. Ravenelle's name is Basil C.
Ravenelle, isn't it?”
“That's right, sir."
Strangely struck his knee. Of course. Why hadn't he thought
of it before? Basil Caverly Ravenelle. But Basil Caverly had
been the name he used.
Strangely's memory fled back to an affair he had attended years
before on his first visit to Paris. During the afternoon someone
had drawn his attention to a man who was just entering, leading
a fairylike child of five or six by the hand.
“There,” this person had said. “That's Caverly, the painter.
You must have heard of him. He's made a furore here.”
Strangely had indeed heard of the man. His work had brought
the biggest acclaim of the year in Paris, and the intelligentsia
backed him as a coming master.
“That's his little girl,” Strangely's informant had continued.
“The mother is dead. They say he and the child are never sepa-
rated.”
No wonder Basil Ravenelle's face had seemed familiar. It had
been a younger face by far in Paris, without such heavy lines of
suffering, and the mop of hair had been chestnut then instead of
white. But there was no mistaking that hawklike profile, that
classic cast of feature. It was the child who had changed! Her
serious little face had been unformed then, showing no hint of
the beauty that was to be Rilla Ravenelle's.
That man a crook? That girl involved in an opium plot?
Strangely could not believe it. Yet odder things had happened.
It was the difference in names that had misled him. Evidently
Caverly had not painted under his full name, and who would
associate Basil C. Ravenelle with Caverly of international fame?
There had been a seven days' wonder when the man dropped
from sight. There was talk of a train wreck, a terrific smash-up,
and then the news that Caverly and his child had been rescued
from the crash.
that hestnut the
had bee was the


228
THE RAVENELLE RIDDLE
In Vienna a couple of years later Strangely had heard a café
acquaintance mention the man.
“A queer duck,” he had said. “Awfully fond of travel. He'll
turn up some day.”
So this was where he had turned up. On the third floor back
of a bleak Bloomsbury lodging house, crippled, practically desti-
tute. And Geoffrey Lawe's missing typist was the spritelike child
of years before in Paris. What tricks Life plays.
“So that's it,” he said aloud.
“That's it, indeed,” replied the landlady indignantly. “Rushin'
in like a madman entirely, accusin' me of I don't know what.
You're bound you'll know, so listen well and take shame to your-
self. After Mr. Ravenelle, poor gentleman, found he'd no knack
any longer to wield the brush, and knowin' the late O'Brien to
be fond of a fancy pitcher here and there, he sends for me one
day and bundles the lot of them in me arms. "Take them,” he
sez, ‘and for the love of Heaven never let me see one of them
again. Never mention them to me, or to anyone, if you value my
peace of mind,' he sez, 'let alone say who did them! Give me
your word, Madam,' he sez, just like that, 'for, though I'm a
broken reed, I want pity from no one. Well, I took them, and I
promised, and I kept me promise. And O'Brien had a deal of
pleasure in them while he lived. But this morning Mr. Ravenelle
sez to me when I took his tea, 'Those atrocities, Mrs. O'Brien,
that I gave you some years ago—you have them yet?' 'Yes,' sez
I. 'Take them,' sez he, ‘and destroy them, for I'll never rest easy
till they're gone. A curse it was,' he sez, ‘and a curse that's come
to rest on the second generation. He got so wild, Mr. Strangely,
that I said I would. To-night's my first leisure moment the day,
and I've burned them, as you see. And what I've done to deserve
such treatment— ".
Strangely awkwardly patted her shoulder.
"I should not have been so brusque,” he apologized. “But you
had told me a falsehood, and, for a reason I can't go into now, I
thought you might know something about another set of pictures
which has come to light-rather unpleasantly."


CONCERNING RAVENELLE
229
The woman looked honestly mystified.
“They're all the pitchers I know on, Mr. Strangely,” she said
honestly.
“I'm sure of it,” replied Strangely, “but there is something else
I must say to you."
Instant apprehension leaped into her eyes.
“You are very, very fond of Rilla Ravenelle, are you not, Mrs.
O'Brien?” questioned the detective gently.
“That I am, sir,” her voice choked. “No chick nor child of
me own-”
"You'd do almost anything to help her, Mrs. O'Brien?”
“Yes, sir,” emphatically.
“I know you would,” agreed Strangely enigmatically. “And
you know that Mr. Lawe and I only wished to help her, too?”
"Yes, sir. Yes, Mr. Strangely.” But was there a slight hesita-
tion in the woman's tone now.
"Well, then, Mrs. O'Brien,” Strangely's voice rang out ac-
cusingly. “Why didn't you tell us the truth about Rilla Raven-
elle?"
Mrs. O'Brien shrank back, her cheeks blanched.
“I don't know—what you mean," she faltered. “I swear I've
told you the truth!”
“As far as it goes,” said Strangely drily. “But you have not told
all the truth. No, don't look so terrified. You see, I know.
That's why I'm here to-night. But I must know too what motive
was powerful enough to make you deceive me like this! Deceive
us all! Powerful enough to make you hedge and evade on the
witness stand. You must tell me everything, Mrs. O'Brien. Do
you understand? Everything!”
He paused and looked at the woman, who was cowering back
in her chair, her work-worn fingers twisted nervously together,
her face gray and drawn.
"Well,” he prompted inexorably, “see if I am right. You wrote
a letter— "
“I wrote a letter," repeated Mrs. O'Brien unsteadily. And then:


230
THE RAVENELLE RIDDLE
“Oh, wirra, wirra,” she cried, throwing her apron over her
head and bursting into frightened tears.
It had been only about seven o'clock when Strangely entered
Acacia Villas. It was eleven when he left, and his face, as he
crossed the deserted pavements of Tottenham Court Road, was
as white and rigid as that of a sleep-walker.
Before he stretched out for the third consecutive night in Bobbs'
rickety lounge-chair, he added one more thing to his already
comprehensive records, for the benefit of Scotland Yard.
It was the murderer's name.


THE FACE IN THE FLASH
It was pitch-dark in the little hall alcove where Dora's cot was
placed. Dark outside, too. Not even a star was visible, for heavy
storm clouds obscured them all. The thunder that had been dis-
tant rumbling during the afternoon, was now almost at hand.
Occasional flashes of lightning shot through the blue glass fanlight
above the hall door, and penetrated the heavy portieres of the
alcove. Following the oppressive, airless atmosphere of the after-
noon, an erratic wind had sprung up, and the night quiet was
punctuated by weird creaks and bangs. Another clap of thunder
rolled closer, and in the distance a dog began to bark.
“Just the night for a nice, thorough murder,” thought Strangely
as he crouched, tensely waiting, under a blanket on the cot where
he had taken Dora's place.
It was not a pleasant thing-waiting to be murdered. To know
that somewhere in the sleeping city, coming each moment nearer,
was a human instrument of death. In appearance like his fellows.
But, in his mind, the dark disorder that marked him out for
crime.
Worst of all, Strangely knew who this person was. He knew
whom he had to confront, sooner or later to-night, in the close
confines of this stygian cubicle. And his knowledge intensified
the horror of the waiting.
“God!” thought the detective. “Let him come. Anything to
break this tension!”
And, on the thought, the murderer came.
Strangely, though his ears had been alert for the slightest signal
of approach, had not heard him enter. He did not hear him now.
238


THE FACE IN THE FLASH
239
Yet he could not doubt that he was there. That inexplicable, but
certain, sense which tells of another human presence, warned the
detective now that the moment had come.
With a composure at which he himself marvelled, Strangely
drew long, even, heavy breaths—the kind that a listener might
expect from a tired, overworked servant's slumber at the end of a
long day.
There was an infinitesimal rustle now, the faintest waft of air
from somewhere. Blue lightning suddenly flooded the hallway
sharply for an instant, outlining a dark bulk standing much
nearer than the detective had anticipated. It was a matter of
seconds now. With swiftly beating heart, he tensed his steel
muscles for a furious spring.
A crash of thunder covered the murderer's next move. But
Strangely knew it was coming. Before the dark figure could
pounce, before those savagely twining fingers could find his
throat, the detective, with one bound, was on the assassin.
The struggle was horrible for its silence. Only Strangely's own
labored heart-beats thudded in his ears as he grappled, twisting
and writhing. His wiry strength seemed pitted against maniacal
force almost too great for him.
Insidiously, surely, one of those terrible hands reached his
throat. With a last desperate gathering of all his powers, he
wrenched loose, and Aung himself once more upon his unseen
opponent, just as a blinding flash of lightning illumined the
alcove.
For a split second both faces were visible-distorted, horror-
ridden in the livid blue flame. There came a sharp, unhuman cry,
drowned in a deafening crash. The next instant one of the com-
batants had crumpled to the floor.


242
THE RAVENELLE RIDDLE
"Thus leaving the coast clear for the real criminal,” said
Strangely distinctly, “whose signed confession I have now in my
pocket!”
"You have what?” cried MacDonald, in turn astounded. “This
whole thing is incredible, Mr. Strangely. Will you kindly explain
yourself?”
"Gladly," replied Strangely, passing a tired hand over his fore-
head. “But I warn you that it will take a little time. It is a
strange story that you are about to hear. May I sit down?”
MacDonald waved him to a nearby chair, and then seated him-
self on an adjacent lounge. Then, into the Inspector's incredulous
ears Strangely poured, bit by bit, the story of his adventures after
parting from Geoffrey Lawe on the night of July 20th.
At mention of the Wall-Flower MacDonald nodded, at
Strangely's adventure on the downs and the description of the
cipher he gave an astonished whistle, and when the opium plot
was revealed in its entirety, he struck the nearby table a resound-
ing bang.
“A pretty piece of work, Mr. Strangely," he said warmly. “But
go on. You say your next move was the telegraph office where
you found the cable message had been sent by the fictitious John
Bell?”
Strangely nodded and continued his engrossing tale until he had
reached the encounter with Bobbs, and the ensuing discovery of
the handbag checked by Ralph Cumberland on the night of
Rilla Ravenelle's disappearance.
“The pieces of the puzzle were now almost all in my hands," he
said, “and, putting them together, the picture reads this way.
"For some time Rilla Ravenelle and her father had been un-
conscious tools in the hands of Ralph Cumberland and a callous
scoundrel whom we shall continue—for the sake of convenience-
to call John Bell. For six months Basil Ravenelle, a once famous
artist, had been painting what he believed to be business instruc-
tions in code. Specifications for these were given to him by
Cumberland. Rilla then took the finished products to the offices
of Lawe & Son, where she gave them to John Bell. He duly


244
THE RAVENELLE RIDDLE
always ambittered as t happy life and's fathe
always word was sent to Ravenelle. But the old man, more and
more embittered as time went on, still refused to see anyone con-
nected with his past happy life.
"About a year ago Cumberland's father died, and a bit later
the Dragon-Fly (still manned by Captain Smith) cracked up. But
Smith had saved a bit of money, during a rather adventurous
life, and immediately invested in a new vessel of which Ralph
Cumberland was part owner. The new craft was named by
Cumberland the Wall-Flower, in a sentimental moment after
meeting once more his lovely cousin. Wall:Flower, you know, is
a literal translation of the French word ravenelle.
"All this played directly into John Bell's hands. What further
aided him was Ravenelle's pitiful pleasure in being able to earn
a bit of money, and also the fact that Rilla Ravenelle six or seven
months ago lost the first position secured for her through Mrs.
O'Brien's efforts. At her cousin's suggestion, she became con-
nected with the firm of Lawe & Son, and it immediately became
apparent to John Bell how she and her father could be utilized.
“Now we come to the Saturday before Rilla's disappearance.
For some time, owing to a chance word let fall by Cumberland,
the girl had been growing suspicious, and now, at a meeting of
John Bell and Cumberland in her father's rooms, her suspicions
were verified. John Bell had developed for the beautiful girl an
admiration which she could not entirely return, and which Raven-
elle did not approve. Angered at this attitude, Bell rashly took
the opportunity on Saturday afternoon to tell them of the opium
plot and just what part they had been playing in it. He also
showed them how completely they were in his power, through
their own innocent participation.
“In outraged surprise, Ravenelle quarreled violently with both
men, and Cumberland quitted the room "
"Ah, yes, he was seen to run down the stairs," interjected
MacDonald, “but the observer, a Miss Prescote, who also over-
heard part of the quarrel, did not realize that there was still an-
other person there.”
“Yes, Cumberland left,” said Strangely, "but John Bell re-


INSPECTOR MacDONALD SHUDDERS 247
“That night,” said Strangely, “she signalled to Cumberland and
left the house.”
"Ah,” said MacDonald, “then she did really leave the house?”
"Oh, yes, just as Mrs. O'Brien and Ravenelle testified. They
were careful to tell no actual lies under oath. And the girl's last
words really were 'Tell Father it will be all right. They referred
to the anticipated success of her plan.
“However, Cumberland gummed the works, as we say at home.
After obtaining the disguise for Rilla and taking her to a small
foreign hotel where she could spend the night, he left to get rid
of the bag containing her own clothes. This he checked at Vic-
toria, knowing it would be safely out of the way there. Perhaps
he planned to return for it later.
"At any rate, another idea now entered his head. During the
quarrel on Saturday, Ravenelle-completely disillusioned as to the
character of his nephew—had made a few remarks which the
latter chose to term insulting. Also, his confederate, John Bell,
had lately assumed an overbearing air that Cumberland resented.
In addition, his own personal affairs were becoming entirely too
involved. The flirtation with Martie Green was reaching too deep
waters, and moreover-though she did not take his protestations
seriously—he had fallen violently in love with his beautiful cousin.
He was an out-and-out rotter.
“He saw a chance to do several things at once. To get even
with Ravenelle by kidnapping his daughter, to double-cross John
Bell by hi-jacking the opium, and to carry off Rilla on the Wall-
Flower when she sailed at the end of the week!
"Accordingly, after checking the bag, he returned to her, saying
that Ravenelle wanted her to change her plan. On thinking things
over, it seemed safer for her to wait a few days before carrying out
her original intention. Now she was reasonably safe, in an ob
scure hotel and in disguise. It was best for her to remain there,
her father thought, until Cumberland communicated with her
again. Rilla saw nothing suspicious about this, and readily agreed
to wait. As for Cumberland, he intended to stall her along from
day to day until the time was ripe to carry out his own plan.


248
THE RAVENELLE RIDDLE
wished to copossible to commune missing girl his son, had put
“But the next day Lawe, Sr., at the request of his son, had put
Scotland Yard on the trail of the missing girl, and Cumberland
found it impossible to communicate with her again unless he
wished to court discovery.
"Meanwhile Rilla was still entirely unsuspicious of Cumber-
land's good faith. But when day after day passed, and there was
still no word from him, she became panic-stricken. On the night
of the twentieth, she decided to act for herself. Accordingly,
under cover of the fog, she left the hotel and started out.
“That afternoon Cumberland had received word from John
Bell that the Wall-Flower would sail on Friday, and that he must
take this order to Captain Smith. Cumberland knew that the
time had arrived to carry out his own plans. He hurriedly packed
his bags and evidently painted some sort of false cipher instruc-
tions, hoping that they would pass as authentic with Captain
Smith. That he did so is carried out by the water-color stains
which I found on the towel in Mrs. Lugg's house, and the paint
which was still under his nails as he lay dead on the bed there.
"After having done these things, and probably realizing that
detectives were watching his every move, he apparently set out
(we can only conjecture this part, since he is dead), also under
cover of the fog, with the idea of throwing them off the trail,
visiting Rilla Ravenelle, and inducing her by some means to
accompany him to Folkestone.
"But when he finally managed to elude his pursuers and reach
his destination, the hotel room was empty.
“For the first time, Rilla Ravenelle had really disappeared!
“Cumberland must have been beside himself with disappoint-
ment and anxiety. Apparently he went out and did what many
a better man has done when plans fell through. He got roaring
drunk. So drunk that he forgot all about everything and went
back to his old room at Mrs. Lugg's. What became of his own
luggage I don't know, but suppose it will turn up."
“It has," said MacDonald. “In a pub off Wardour Street. Yes,
it all fits in very nicely. But- "
“But we haven't reached the murders,” Strangely finished, for


250
THE RAVENELLE RIDDLE
Cumberland, she may have suspected that the Wall-Flower was
not entirely the pleasure craft it purported to be. At any rate she
wrote the letter-the same one that later brought about the mur-
der of poor Watkins--but, after giving it to Mrs. O'Brien to
mail, she decided she would not wait for its delivery. In her im-
patience she looked up John Bell, and, by so doing, sealed her
own doom.
“He killed her on that very night—the night of July 17th.
"At this time, you understand, the murderer did not know
that Rilla Ravenelle had disappeared. But even so, he was highly
incensed at Cumberland, both for admiring his cousin, and for
foolishly having taken Martie Green to the yacht. Later, however,
when he became aware of Rilla's disappearance and believed Cum-
berland to be at the bottom of it, his fury was unbounded. He
decided to make Cumberland the goat. Accordingly, he visited
Cumberland's room (having first ordered the man elsewhere) and
planted the severed finger under the step. That night, under
cover of the fog, he disposed of the mutilated body, hoping that
the two things would be connected, to Cumberland's detriment.
“But things didn't pan out that way. Because that same night
John Bell killed Cumberland also. For a time I was unable to
understand this apparently illogical step. Why plant suspicion
on him and then do away with him? It simply did not click!
But the confession clears up that point-in a rather startling
fashion!
"From there on you know what happened. The flight of the
Wall-Flower (warned by Bell), the murder of John Watkins, and
the intended murder of Dora.”
He paused here, as if loath to proceed, but, at MacDonald's
eager prompting, took up the tale once more. The key-ring, the
visit to Bert Brown, Dora's breathless arrival, and finally the
horrible scene enacted in the sleeping alcove during the night.
At the end, MacDonald paid the American's narrative powers
the tribute of a slight impressed silence. At last:
"You are a brave man, Mr. Strangely,” he said. “And now


INSPECTOR MACDONALD SHUDDERS
253
have not only allowed—but made it imperative—that he escape
through suicide. In a word, I took the matter of justice into my
own hands. It seemed to me that I could not do otherwise!"
"Most reprehensible, Mr. Strangely,” said MacDonald, sternly
eyeing the younger man. “But at least I can understand your
kindly motives in so doing. The attempt to spare those nearest
to the criminal. For, in the light of all you have told me this
morning, I know at last who the murderer was!"
Strangely looked at him.
“Oh, yeah?” he said softly.
“Of course," returned the Inspector. “There can only have
been one logical culprit—the man who was able to engineer the
plot through the firm of Lawe & Son, who could have had an
affair with Martie Green, and was also capable of intimidating
the Ravenelles to the point of desperation. The man who op-
posed his son's marriage because he himself was infatuated with
Rilla Ravenelle. The man, also, who had a sufficient motive for
killing both Cumberland and Watkins, and who knew enough
of what we ourselves were doing, to thwart and circumvent us at
every turn in the case!"
"And that man?” questioned Strangely as MacDonald paused.
"That man,” cried MacDonald triumphantly, “is old Lawe him-
self! Lawe, Sr.! The head of the export and import firm of
Lawe & Son!”
But Strangely slowly shook his head.
"No," he said soberly. “You are wrong. I could almost find
it in my heart to wish that you were right."
An incredulous look had begun to spread over the Inspector's
paling face. His expression of mingled chagrin and horror was
indescribable. For the first time in a long life of criminal investi-
gation Inspector MacDonald shuddered.
“Not—” he began haltingly. “You don't-you can't
mean— " he broke off on an almost appealing note of question.
For answer, Peter Strangely silently handed him the confession.


256
THE RAVENELLE RIDDLE
If Strangely had been content merely to trace Rilla Ravenelle, it
never would have happened. It was really his own fault. He
knew too much. In one short evening he hit upon vital point
after vital point-Rilla's brief-case, the Wall-Flower, the letter.
If he kept that up, it was only a matter of hours till he'd know
I killed Martie Green! I couldn't have that, could I? And I
couldn't stop him without rousing his suspicions. I had to kill
him.
But Fate played me a scurvy trick that night. It took Strangely
away from the room and brought Cumberland back. I strangled
him in the dark, and never knew till next day that I had killed
the wrong man. No wonder I almost collapsed. I knew then
that I had failed, that Strangely was still alive to track me down.
Before I knew I had killed the wrong one, I did something very
clever. I kept my appointment with Strangely. That was a
good stroke, because then no one would suspect me of having
killed him. I always think of those things. But it was Cumber-
land I had killed, after all.
While I was waiting there I took one of Strangely's old pipes.
I don't know why. A trophy perhaps, the way Indians take a scalp.
I had Martie's ring, too. They both came in well enough after-
wards, though I confess I didn't plan for that, at the time.
I dropped the pipe in Watkins' yard when things were getting
too hot, and it served to confuse that ass MacDonald for a while.
Later my fear for Rilla led me to run the fearful risk of making
a second trip to the embankment and leaving the ring. Without
it MacDonald would have gone on believing the body was Rilla's
and so refuse to continue the search for her.
The pipe and the ring really came in very nicely, after all.
I made one mistake, though. I took the finger and the towel
from Strangely's rooms that day, and later I destroyed them.
That was a silly thing to do. I was forced into telling MacDonald
about them, anyway.
I never told him about the Wall-Flower, though, till I knew


258
THE RAVENELLE RIDDLE
It all seems so far off to me now. Perhaps it always does to
people. Mad people, I mean. How odd to know I'm mad! Or
am I?
All the way through, two terrible forces drove me. My fear for
Rilla Ravenelle. My fear for myself.
My fear for Rilla drove me to Strangely.
My fear for myself made me try to kill him when he learned too
much.
My fear for Rilla led me to put the ring on the embankment.
My fear for myself made me feel that Strangely had seen me do
it.
I was haunted by the thought of him. I saw him everywhere.
Once I even thought I saw him at the inquest.
The whole thing was like a dream. Perhaps the veronal did
that. At times I felt strong and powerful, like a giant. I had to
kill. Then it got ghastly, a nightmare. I seemed apart from
myself, watching myself walk through days and nights of horror.
At times everything was blurred-then very clear, and I was filled
with a sly, loathesome cunning. I was even proud of myself. I
enjoyed pitting my wits against Scotland Yard, misleading them
all. I felt a god.
But that's gone now. When I saw Strangely's face before me
to-night in the lightning, and fell to the ground, things seemed
to come straight all of a sudden in my mind. At least, partially
straight. Is that the way it always is? My poor mother!
I saw myself then as I had become. There is only one thing
for me to do, and I shall do it. I have not quite forgotten that
I was once a man. Strangely is waiting now for the shot that
will tell him it is all over. I had best do it while I can.
But I must say one thing before I go. I loved Rilla Ravenelle
with all the passion of which I was capable. If I had loved her
less, I would not be here now.
I liked and admired Peter Strangely. It seems unbelievable,
even as I write, that I could have tried to take his life. I swear
this.


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