MR. FORTUNE EXPLAINS


Mr. Bailey has also written:
MR. FORTUNE'S PRACTICE
MR. FORTUNE'S TRIALS
KNIGHT-AT-ARMS
THE FOOL
MR. FORTUNE PLEASE
THE YOUNG LOVER
THE MERCHANT PRINCE


MR. FORTUNE
EXPLAINS
H. C. BAILEY,
Author of "Mr. Fortune's Practice,"
"The Merchant Prince," etc.
E. P. DUTTON & CO., INC.
NEW YORK


MR. KORTUNE EXPLAINS, COPYRIGHT, 1931,
BY E. P. DUTTON ft CO., INC. ALL
RIGHTS RESERVED PRINTED IN U. S. A.
Reprinted .... June 1932
SIS -


o Z- c-
CONTENTS
PAGE
FIRST EXPLANATION
The Picnic 7
SECOND EXPLANATION
The Little Milliner 45
THIRD EXPLANATION
The Wedding Ring 84
FOURTH EXPLANATION
The Football Photograph . . -123
FIFTH EXPLANATION
The Rock Garden 160
SIXTH EXPLANATION
The Silver Cross ....... 202
SEVENTH EXPLANATION
The Bicycle Lamp 241
EIGHTH EXPLANATION
The Face in the Picture 281


c


MR. FORTUNE EXPLAINS
FIRST EXPLANATION
THE PICNIC
THE Cleeve case came to Mr. Fortune in his
Kentish garden: which was the one piece of
luck. It is his habit to be there when he can find an
excuse. The ingenious brains which were at work in
the case could not know that certain new sweet-peas
of his breeding were about to flower. So after the
local doctor rang up from the cottage hospital to ask
if Mr. Fortune was at home, only ten minutes passed
before Mr. Fortune was looking at the Hon. Julian
Wray. There might have been hours.
Julian Wray was not a pleasant sight. He lay
unconscious. His face was livid and bruised and a
swollen lip oozed blood. He breathed noisily.
The doctor expounded. Mr. Wray had been found
by a farmer lying in the Abbey meadow. There was
no one else in sight. But the injuries seemed to be
fresh. The doctor was afraid the skull was fractured:
a very grave lesion: he was anxious to have Mr.
Fortune's opinion about an operation. . . .
"No. I don't think so." Reggie turned away from
the bed. "No. He has a chance. Quite a good
chance." But he looked at the doctor with plaintive,
inquiring eyes. ^
"I am so glad to have your opinion," said the doctor
7


8 MR. FORTUNE EXPLAINS
nervously. "Would you say it was an accident—a
fall?"
"He fell all right. On his face. But not accidental.
Blow from left rear by a heavy blunt instrument."
"I was afraid it might be something like that. An
assault, then?"
"Oh yes. Yes. Did you notice anything else?"
"I couldn't say—I don't know that I did."
"Why did they try to chloroform him?" said
Reggie. He gazed pathetically at the doctor. "Well,
well. We want a little local colour. I'll have to visit
the scene of the crime."
As he reached the hall of the hospital a car drew
up and the Inspector of police from Wembury came
out of it. "Hallo, Mr. Fortune I Are you on this job,
sir?"
"I fear so," Reggie sighed.
"That's good. How did you find Mr. Wray?"
Reggie told him. "Oh lord," the Inspector
groaned, ** I was hoping he'd be able to tell us some-
thing."
"I wonder." Reggie climbed into bis car. "Let's
go and see what he was doing in the Abbey meadow."
"He was on a picnic, sir."
"Very sociable of him," Reggie murmured. "I
seldom get sandbagged on a picnic myself. Why did
the company lay him out? Had he left the lunch
behind?"
The Inspector snorted at this babble. "There
wasn't any company. It's like this, sir—I suppose
you know who Mr. Wray is? He's the brother of the
Earl of Cleeve up at Stourham House." With rever-
ence it was spoken.
"Oh yes. Yes. And do Earls'brothers go on picnics
without company? I didn't know that. How haughty."


THE PICNIC
9
"Mr. Wray wasn't alone, sir. He was taking his
nephew, Viscount Stourham, for a day on the river.
They were going to picnic in the Abbey meadow
and"
"Viscount Stourham ?" Reggie cried. "That's the
little boy. Oh! There was a child in it."
"Yes, sir. Viscount Stourham is only seven. He
was with Mr. Wray. That was the first thing the
Earl of Cleeve said to me over the telephone when I
told him about Mr. Wray. 'But Peter was with him,'
he said; 'where is Peter?' Of course I didn't know,
sir. There wasn't anybody to be seen in the meadow
when Mr. Wray was found."
"No. There wouldn't be," Reggie muttered. His
face was set.
"I sent all my men out to work along the river.
But it's a nasty, queer business to my mind. This
young Viscount he's the heir and the only child, too.
The Earl not having any yet by his second wife.
Next to him would come Mr. Wray, if he lives."
The Abbey meadow is a broad strip of pasture by
the river. Grey ruins in which wallflowers grow and
toadflax and stonecrop rise from the turf and a scat-
tered company of ancient, gnarled hawthorn trees.
The river lies under a high bank from which clumps
of iris stretch out into the stream. Among the lances
of golden bloom a sculling boat lay with her bows
aground. There was nothing in her but sculls and boat-
hook and a bundle of bathing things. Reggie turned
away and, staring at the ground, moved slowly across
the rough grass.
"Both of'em landed here, sir "—the Inspector came
after him. "There's a child's footmarks in the mud
as well as a man's."
"Thank you. I did notice it," Reggie murmured.


io MR. FORTUNE EXPLAINS
"They also came along here together. Desirin' to
have lunch in the shade." He Stopped. Under one
of the thorn trees stood a luncheon basket. The grass
was much beaten down. He opened the basket. "Yes:
lunch consumed. And then?" He moved to and fro,
he picked up two pieces of a briar pipe. "Wray lit his
pipe. He'd just begun to smoke when it got smashed.
Yes. That would be the attempt to chloroform him."
"Chloroform !" the Inspector cried. "The doctor
didn't say anything about that."
"No. No. Only a slight indication. They didn't
bring it off with him. Probably worked all right with
the child." Reggie moved about. "Lot of trampling.
Looks like a struggle—breakin' away—yes "—he
stopped by a long patch of bent grass—" that's where
they finished with Wray. He lay there—and bled.
Not very far from the lane." And into the lane Reggie
went. "Not many cars come along here?"
"I'd say not one in a twelvemonth, sir."
"There's been one just lately. Came from the other
end. That's from the Dover road, what? Turned by
the gate there. Stood under the hedge. Some time.
Went back the same way." He frowned at the wheel-
marks. "What do you make of it?"
"Lord, sir, what can you make of it? There was a
car here, that's all."
"No. No. The top broke that elder bough. It
was a closed car, big car. But it would be. There
isn't much."
"I should say not. What's the use of looking for
a big closed car? Hundreds of 'em on every road.
And they're got clean off with the boy."
Reggie gazed at him with sad, wondering eyes.
"Yes, I was thinking of that, you know," he said
plaintively and wandered away.


THE PICNIC
tz
"We shan't do any*good here, sir"—the Inspector
followed him. "It's wasting time, to my mind."
"Yes. Yes. Time's everything," Reggie muttered,
but he wandered on. "Several fellows came out of the
car. And then?"
To and fro in the meadow he moved, working it like
a dog after game, and the Inspector fumed at his heels.
He came to a hollow along the hawthorns, where
the grass was flattened and crumbs lay about.
"They had lunch here, eh?" the Inspector said.
"Pretty well hidden they'd be."
Reggie did not answer. He was on his hands and
knees picking up crumbs. He rose with a small collec-
tion on a sheet of paper and rather diffidently offered
it to the Inspector. "Thanks. I saw it was bread and
cheese," the Inspector snorted. "What about it?"
Reggie put the crumbs in an envelope and the
envelope in his pocket-book and wandered to and fro,
gazing at the ground with dreamy, wistful eyes.
"Look here, sir, I must get on. We're doing nothing
here."
Reggie stooped and picked up something else,
looked at it carefully and went on, paused by a patch
of nettles and raked out of that with his foot a wine
bottle. It had no label, he held it up to the light and
saw it empty. He smelt it. And then he called out
to the Inspector, " Come on," and ran back to the car.
"What have you got / sir?" The Inspector jumped
in after him.
"Has the village policeman a telephone?" asked
Reggie, and the car shot into reckless speed down a
lane it filled.
"Yes, sir—good lord, sir, be careful."
"I always am," Reggie protested, and the car came
out of the lane into the village like a skidding comet.


12 MR. FORTUNE EXPLAINS
"Now then "—they were shut in the policeman's
stuffy sitting-room. "Ring up the police at Dover
and ask 'em if there is a Greek ship in harbour."
The Inspector stared and began to stammer
questions.
"Oh, don't bother. Get on. Time's everything."
The Inspector talked to the telephone and turned
again to Reggie with a new respect. "That's right,
sir. Greek ship come in three days ago, a tramp,
A pate, still there doing repairs to engines."
"Tell 'em they must get aboard quick and search
her for Viscount Stourham."
"Search her, sir?" the Inspector gasped.
"Damn it, man, they'll be off with him while you
chatter. They've had too much time already. Give
the orders."
"It's all very well, sir. But searching a ship—and
a foreigner—that's a big responsibility."
'' Give me the 'phone''—Reggie snatched it. "Dover
police? Right. Chief of the Criminal Investigation
Department speaking. Search that Greek ship for
Viscount Stourham. Small boy. Go right through
her. Inspector Grampound will give you his descrip-
tion. Go on, Inspector." And the scared Inspector,
taking the receiver again, said Viscount Stourham had
been kidnapped: boy of seven years old, fair hair,
blue eyes, fresh complexion, small for his age, dressed
in grey flannel. "Tell 'em to get on it quick," Reggie
prompted. "If the boy's not on board yet, the ship
must be watched. They should look out in Dover for
a big closed car, possibly several men, some Greek
sailors. That'll do."
The Inspector hung up the receiver and wiped his
face. "That'll do I " he repeated. '' I hope to God
I've done right backing you, Mr. Fortune. You do


THE PICNIC
13
take a bit on yourself. What if these chaps at Dover
ring up Scotland Yard?"
But Reggie was already asking for that number.
"Mr. Lomas, please. Fortune speaking. Oh, Super-
intendent Bell then. Hello, Bell, Mr. Lomas gone
into the country? Oh, about the Earl of Cleeve's
son? Splendid. I'm on that myself. Well, Mr.
Lomas has instructed the Dover police to search a
Greek tramp in Dover Harbour. Thought you'd better
know. What? No, I haven't seen him. But these
are his orders. I'm telling him so, when we meet.
If the Dover people ring you up, say they're to get on
with it instead of askin' silly questions. Good-bye."
He turned to the Inspector. "Had you told Scotland
Yard you wanted help?"
"No, sir, not yet we shouldn't. None of our people
but me knows what's happened."
"It was Lord Cleeve, then. Callin' on the higher
powers very quick." Reggie contemplated the
Inspector dreamily: "That's not without interest."
"Well, sir, I don't know. His lordship would be
doing everything to find the boy. When I told him
Mr. Wray had been picked up badly hurt, he was fair
knocked out. 'But Peter was with him,' he said;
'where is Peter?' I reckon he got on to Scotland
Yard at once and told 'em his son was kidnapped."
"Yes. That is indicated," Reggie murmured.
"Well, well. I wish you'd look about among the
people down here and find out if anybody saw that car,
or came across any foreigners in these parts lately."
"Very good, sir." The Inspector was revived at
the thought of action. "I'll see about it. But it's
like magic to me. I don't know how you got on to that
Greek ship."
"Not magic. No." Reggie smiled. "Only the


14 MR. FORTUNE EXPLAINS
sense of smell. And takin' one thing with another.
I showed you the bread and cheese."
"It beats me"—the Inspector breathed hard
"What is there Greek about bread and cheese?"
"Nothing distinctive. No. But it was goats'-
milk cheese. That didn't say Greek, but it made a
foreign atmosphere. Then there was this." He took
out of his pocket-book a small fruit stone. "Sug-
gestive, isn't it?"
"Looks like a little plum stone to me." The In-
spector stared at him.
"Oh, not plum. No. An olive stone. There were
others. Strong flavour of the Mediterranean in the
atmosphere. Finally we have their wine bottle.
Smell it."
The Inspector sniffed and did not like it. "Did you
say wine, sir? More like turpentine, to my mind."
"Others have said so," Reggie smiled. "But it's
wine all right. Greek wine. They put resin in it, you
know. They say they like it."
"Good lord, sir," said the Inspector with disgust.
"Yes. A sad world. Well, we thus had a wholly
Greek meal and a car that went off to Dover. The
natural inference was a Greek ship in Dover Harbour.
And there is one. Which verifies our theory."
"It's very clever, sir"—the Inspector hesitated
"But why would Greeks want to kidnap the Earl of
Cleeve's son?"
"I wonder," Reggie murmured. "The facts are not
yet adequate. You go and look for some Greeks."
"Yes, sir, where will you be?"
"I'm going home to tea."
But neither the anchovy sandwiches nor the cream
horns of Elise interested him and he turned away from
the strawberries. It is a sign of great agitation of


THE PICNIC
15
mind. In such a condition he has been compared by
Mrs. Fortune to a plump terrier waiting sadly at a shut
door.
The door opened and let in Lomas. Reggie jumped
out of his chair: "Well, what about it?"
"My dear fellow!" Lomas laughed and came to
shake hands with Mrs. Fortune.
"How do you do? Good-bye," she said and de-
parted. She has never yet allowed herself to be in
the way.
"Have you heard from Dover?" Reggie cried.
"Yes. I've just seen the Inspector here. Dover
has telephoned him. They took Customs officers on
board and rummaged this Greek ship. There was no
child, there was nothing suspicious."
"Damn," said Reggie, who is not prone to swear.
"Quite. I'd rather it hadn't been done, you know,"
Lomas frowned. "Just a little hasty, weren't you?"
Reggie's round face was drawn with anxiety and
fear. "I say, they must watch her still, Lomas. You
didn't stop that?"
"That's all right. I confirmed your instructions.
They'll watch any communication with the shore.
But I wish you'd confined yourself to that. I don't
like these dashing irregularities."
"I had to be quick," Reggie said. "Don't you
see? Time's everything. They might have got away
with the child."
"Well, they haven't. And they won't—not in the
Apate. If they try to put the child aboard her, we
shall get him."
"Yes. I hope so," said Reggie drearily. He
dropped into a chair and fumbled in his pockets. A
cigar-case was at last found, a cigar was clumsily lit:
in hours of anxious inaction his adroit hands are apt


16 MR. FORTUNE EXPLAINS
to make queer blunders. "I don't know if they will
try now," he mumbled, and looked at Lomas with the
plaintive appeal of a puzzled chiid.
"Losing confidence, eh?" Lomas smiled. "Not
so sure about this Greek ship theory? Well, I thought
it rather a wild guess myself."
"Oh, my hat!" Reggie groaned. "It wasn't a
guess. Some fellows were hiding in that meadow this
morning. They ate goats'-milk cheese and olives and
drank that awful Greek wine with resin in it. They
must have been Greeks and in the way of getting
Greek rations. They came in a car from Dover way
and went back towards Dover. The only possible
inference is, they belong to a Greek ship in Dover
Harbour. And there is a Greek ship there and it came
in with no business but to mend engines just a day or
two ago. You have to believe it sent men to kidnap
this child—or you've lost faith in the human reason."
Reggie puffed at his badly burning cigar. "Perhaps
you have."
"Not quite. Not yet," Lomas consoled him. "My
dear fellow, this is brilliantly clever. But you push
it rather far. You're so absolute. When you have
hit on a theory, it has to be the whole truth. What is
the evidence after all? There were some people in
that meadow some time lately making a foreign sort
of meal. That doesn't prove they stole the child.
And when we begin to act on your theory we get
nothing. There is this Greek ship at Dover, but the
child is not on board. The ship is well known in
English harbours, a tramp in the regular trade, with
respectable owners, a big firm, Castro & Castro. How
can we go on believing that her crew were concerned
in kidnapping the child? It is a wildly improbable
idea in itself—a Greek ship coming round Dover and


THE PICNIC
17
landing her crew to kidnap the son of an English
peer! What should Greeks want with him? What
would they do with him? Lord Cleeve is as English
as I am."
"Oh, my aunt!" Reggie moaned. "What are we
talking about? We've got to find the boy, Lomas.
Don't you see time's everything?"
"Quite. Quite. But I'm afraid we'll have to begin
at the other end."
"The other end?" Reggie's voice rose and he
shuddered and started up. "What do you mean?
Waiting till you've found him and workin' back?
Waiting! You'll find nothing or find a corpse."
"My dear fellow !" Lomas protested. "You take
this affair so wildly."
"Did you want me to sleep on it ?" Reggie cried.
"It's a child—and God%nows what these devils are
doing with him."
"Oh, my dear Reginald. Of course it's a cruel case,
but you needn't be so emotional. These affairs of
wealthy children being stolen are always a matter of
money. The rascals want a price for the child of
course. We shall have an offer presently."
"I wonder." Reggie looked at him with distrust.
"You want to wait for that? It's a chance."
"Well, everything is chance in our trade," said
Lomas. "But the child must have been stolen to
hold for ransom. There's no sense in the case else.
Just a quiet commercial crime."
"Yes. It could be," Reggie murmured.
"What have you got in your head, Reginald?
There is no rational purpose in carrying off the child
to kill him. And who should want him killed? The
only person to benefit by his death is Wray, who
would become the heir to the title and estate. But
B


18 MR. FORTUNE EXPLAINS
Cleeve is young still and has a young wife. They
might have half a dozen other children yet."
"Yes, I had thought of that," Reggie said. "Yes.
Very obscure case. Many nasty motives possible.
We can't stop to look for explanations. We have to
get the child back from these fellows quick."
"You're rather rattled, you know, Reginald."
Reggie shivered again. "I'm frightened. Yes,"
he said. '' I don't like it. I don't like any of it."
"My dear fellow! But what do you want to do?
We've searched this ship, we're watching the ship.
They won't get off with him that way."
"No. That don't comfort me. That may make
'em desperate."
"Well, you would have it," Lomas shrugged.
"What else could I do ?" Reggie muttered. "Once
aboard and away, they'd have the child at their will.
We've got to turn 'em and hunt 'em. But it's rather
ghastly, Lomas."
"Oh, I shouldn't worry, you know," said Lomas.
"They'll want to return him in good condition.
There's no money in cruelty to him."
Reggie looked at him with wondering eyes in which
there was no admiration. "You talked about workin'
from the other end. Did you happen to mean to do
anything?"
"Oh yes. I'm going up to Stourham Castle now.
I like to begin at the beginning myself. There are
several things I want to know. It's curious the kid-
nappers should have been able to pick out the time
when Wray had the boy alone on a picnic in this
remote meadow. That's what I call the other end,
Reginald."
"I wonder," Reggie murmured. "Lots of other
ends. All right; I'll come."


THE PICNIC
*9
Lord and Lady Cleeve were in the library together
and together they rose and came to shake hands.
"Oh, but, Mr. Lomas, it is kind of you to come so
quickly," she cried. "Do say you have some good
news for us?"
"I'm afraid I have no real news," Lomas said.
Cleeve looked at her anxiously. "Dora—perhaps
Mr. Lomas would rather speak to me alone."
"Oh, is there anything more—anything dreadful?"
She put her hand to her throat.
"I've nothing worse to tell you than you know,"
Lomas said.
"Ah, let me stay, Bertie." She put both hands
round her husband's arm. "I must hear what they
think. My poor Peter I"
Cleeve looked down at her. He was head and
shoulders the taller, a lean man of brown lined face
and sombre eyes, weary and worldly wise against her
simplicity. She had the fresh charm of a girl, though
there were dark shadows under her eyes, she was so
fair, so slight and dainty. She clung to him.
"Is there anything we can do ?" Cleeve said gruffly.
"I can't say that." Lomas shook his head. "But
you might be able to help us. I would rather Lady
Cleeve stayed."
"Oh, won't you sit down ?" she cried. She waved
them into chairs, she pulled her husband down beside
her on a sofa. "Please tell us! If we could only do
something."
"The position is this. The boy has been kidnapped,
but we have yet no information about the men con-
cerned. Mr. Wray is too seriously injured to give an
account of the affair. I want you to tell me if any-
thing has ever occurred to make you fear an attempt
on the child."


20 MR. FORTUNE EXPLAINS
"But no, no." Lady Cleeve looked bewildered.
"Nothing has ever happened, has it, Bertie? But
how could it? Everybody simply loves Peter. They
couldn't help it. He's an absolute darling, you know."
"Quite." Lomas looked at her sombre, silent hus-
band. "No suspicions of any of the servants? No
strangers been seen about the place?"
"I've not heard of any strangers," Cleeve said.
"The servants are all right. I should have said every-
body liked the boy." He gave Lomas a queer look of
defiance or mistrust.
"This is the point. I don't understand how the
kidnappers knew they would find the boy alone in
that remote place unless bis movements were con-
tinually watched or someone in the household gave
them information."
"Oh, that's clever," Lady Cleeve cried. "But how
horrible! Why should anyone want to hurt Peter?"
"If we've been watched, I didn't know it," Cleeve
said.
"About this picnic, then," Lomas went on placidly.
"Does Mr. Wray often take the boy out for the day?"
Cleeve left his wife to answer. "Oh no, indeed he
doesn't. Mr. Wray is not here very much, is he,
Bertie? He only came last week. But he is rather
fond of having Peter to himself. He made quite a
fuss of this river picnic. They've been talking about
it for days. Oh, I wish, I wish "She struggled
not to cry.
"Yes. I see," Lomas said. "Almost everybody
in the house would know of it."
"I dare say," Cleeve scowled. "Julian didn't keep
it a secret, if that's what you mean."
"But—but can't you do something, Mr. Lomas?"
his wife cried. "All this while they have Peter, they're


22 MR. FORTUNE EXPLAINS
"No, I'm not throwin' suspicion," Reggie said
quietly. "I say the boy was kidnapped by Greeks;
and Mr. Wray was nearly killed in the struggle. It
don't occur to you some Greeks might have a grudge
against Mr. Wray?"
"Oh, there !" Lady Cleeve cried faintly. "Bertie!
That would be right, wouldn't it? That might be."
"I don't know why the rascals should be Greeks at
all," said Cleeve sullenly.
"It's only a theory, I'm afraid." Lomas spoke to
soothe him. "Mr. Fortune found the remnants of a
Greek meal on the ground and there's a Greek ship in
Dover to-day. But the boy is not aboard her and
she's being watched. He won't be removed that
way."
"But then—but then—you don't really know any-
thing !" Lady Cleeve cried. "The Greek ship hasn't
got him. You haven't found any Greeks. The ship
is nothing to do with it. And all the while some
awful people are taking my Peter away. And you
talk about ships! Oh!" She flung herself on her
husband's shoulder. He was much embarrassed, mut-
tered something to her, caressed her awkwardly and
got free of her.
Flushed and ashamed of himself, he turned on
Lomas. "It comes to this, you haven't traced him
and you've found nothing that's any use to work on."
"I wouldn't say that," Reggie murmured. "There's
the ship, you know."
Lomas frowned. Cleeve exclaimed angrily, "The
ship! You say yourselves the boy isn't there and
they won't be able to get him there."
"They may try, though," Reggie murmured.
"I don't believe in it," Cleeve announced. "I can't
believe any of this about Greeks and a Greek ship."


THE PICNIC
23
"No? Why can't you?" Reggie sat up.
"It's fantastic," Cleeve scowled. "I don't think
you really believe it yourselves. Do you?"
"Oh yes. Yes. Absolutely?" said Reggie.
Lomas shrugged. "It's a theory. A possible
theory."
"It's wildly improbable."
"You don't help us, you know," said Reggie sharply.
"I thought you might help us to a motive."
"For a pack of Greek sailors making away with my
son? Well, I can't, then. It's mad."
"For anybody making away with your son," said
Reggie.
"I don't know of any motive for anybody," Cleeve
growled.
"Oh, but what could there be?" his wife cried.
"Peter—the child"
"I should take it there's only one possible motive,"
said Lomas. "He's been stolen to make you pay for
his recovery."
And after a moment, " I suppose so," Cleeve mut-
tered.
"You agree?" said Reggie. "Well then, you'd
better offer a reward. If you telephone to the Press
Association that you'll pay a thousand pounds for the
recovery of your son. Viscount Stourham, kidnapped
to-day, all the papers will announce that to-morrow
morning."
"You think that would do good?" Cleeve looked
at Lomas.
"Oh yes. Yes. It might do a lot of good," said
Reggie. "Anyway—it's the next chance."
But Cleeve did not listen to him. "What do you
say, Mr. Lomas?"
Lomas spread out his hands. "I'm not to advise


MR. FORTUNE EXPLAINS
it. We don't advise rewards in such cases. As For-
tune has suggested it, I don't care to prevent you."
"The perfect official," Reggie chuckled. "He
washes his hands of it, Lord Cleeve."
"You don't advise, and you don't prevent!" Cleeve
said angrily. "Very well, I'll do it."
"Oh, do, Bertie, please." Lady Cleeve started up
"Let's do it at once. It might, you know—oh, it
must bring him back."
"It's the only hope, I suppose." Cleeve looked
at Lomas.
"No. I wouldn't say that," Reggie murmured.
"The next chance. But we're keeping you. Informa-
tion leadin' to recovery of Viscount Stourham. And
give his description. I should say a thousand pounds."
"Thanks," said Cleeve angrily. "You're going, are
you?"
Lomas said something civil and they went. "Not
popular, are we ?" Reggie murmured as they settled
down in the car. "Takin' one thing with another,
you'd better stay with me."
"As you're so pressing," Lomas smiled. The car
ran on through orchards and hop gardens shimmering
in the yellow sunset light. "I'm afraid the Greeks
are out of it, Reginald. I abstain from saying I told
you so."
"Yes. I should if L were you," Reggie murmured.
"My dear fellow! You know you've given them
up yourself."
"Oh no. No. The Greeks were in it all right."
Lomas looked at him. "This faith is beautiful.
But I remark that you suggested a reward for further
information."
"I wanted to see if Cleeve would put it in the papers.
If he doesn't, that'll be rather interesting, Lomas."


THE PICNIC
"What do you mean? Of course he will. He was
at the telephone before we were out of the house."
"Yes, I noticed that. Oh yes, I think he will. I
rather think I frightened him. Well, if he does, that
may be interesting, too."
"We shall get a mass of futile rumours," Lomas
said gloomily. "A reward is always a nuisance. I've
heard you say so yourself."
"Not scientific, no," Reggie murmured. "But
time's everything. We can't wait to be neat. This
is a chance to break 'em up."
"Break them up?" Lomas echoed. "Where are
we now, Reginald? Another theory?"
"Oh no. Same theory. Growin' more complex. I
thought it would. Very obscure case. I told you.
What did you make of Cleeve and his wife?"
"Quite natural, weren't they? He was rather surly.
Lots of men are when they're badly shaken. She's
almost hysterical, poor thing."
"Yes. Marked contrast. Woman full of emotions.
Man sullen. Woman talking voluble, all ejaculations.
Man almost dumb; even when losing his temper."
"My dear fellow!" Lomas laughed. "One's a
woman and one's a man."
"That was emphasized. Yes. But great disturb-
ance in both when I mentioned Greeks. Not so much
surprise as alarm."
"Natural enough—it was Wray's connection with
Greece horrified them."
"Yes, comin' back to my Greeks, aren't we? But
they'd all been in Greece, you know."
"Good gad! You don't suspect Cleeve himself?"
"I wonder," Reggie murmured. "I don't think
Cleeve was quite frank, you know. And I think he's
afraid."


26 MR. FORTUNE EXPLAINS
"But, great heavens, why should Cleeve have his
own son kidnapped?"
"I don't know," Reggie said slowly. "Quite a lot
of things we don't know, Lomas." And the car turned
into the gates of his house.
The Inspector was waiting for them. "Hallo, my
friend," Lomas smiled. "Any news from Dover?"
"I've heard nothing from Dover, sir. But Mr.
Fortune told me to look about for foreigners. Well, I
think we've got 'em?"
"What?" Reggie was amazed.
"Not arrested 'em, sir. Not laid hands on 'em. I
mean to say we've got evidence there were foreigners
down there by the meadow to-day. It's like this, sir.
The boy from the shop, he'd been up to Skindle's farm
with their fresh yeast and he was coming back through
the meadows. He saw some men looking about, little
dark men he says, and one of 'em had ear-rings."
Lomas laughed. "So they must have been for-
eigners. Good!"
"Beg your pardon, sir," said the Inspector with
dignity. "I hadn't finished. The boy says they were
jabbering. He's sure it wasn't proper English. One
of 'em kept saying something about 'Cleet hear us,'
and another was trying to shut him up. 'Them brass,'
he said. Then they saw the boy and had a good look
at him and he heard this, ' Them brass ' again."
Reggie smiled. "Yes. That boy's too good to be
carrying yeast," he said.
"Good Gad !" said Lomas. "Do you pretend to
recognize this language, Reginald?"
"Yes, I think so. One of them was afraid of
'Kleteras'—that's police. And another was telling
him 'Them Birassi'—that means 'It don't matter.'
In modern Greek, Lomas, old thing."
■


THE PICNIC
27
"Your game," said Lomas.
"Oh no. No." Reggie's smile passed. "We're
only toilin' after 'em. And they've got the child.
What will they do with him when they're checked?"
"If we keep 'em off the ship, we shall get 'em in the
end," said Lomas.
"In the end !" Reggie said. "Where will the child
be by then?"
"Ring up Dover, Inspector, and tell them to watch
close who goes aboard that ship. Did your errand-
boy see the car these fellows used?"
"He says there was a big closed car in the lane.
Dark car. I can't hear any more of it. Something
may turn up."
"Oh yes. Yes. Something will turn up," Reggie
murmured. "But not to-night." He looked pathetic-
ally at Lomas. "Well, well, I suppose I can eat.
Can you? We'd better try."
Lomas had no difficulty, and Reggie in an absent,
abnormal manner made something of a dinner. Thus
fortified, he began to talk about the case. His wife
looked at him with anxiety. It is not his habit to talk
shop, and she does not expect to be told anything of
his cases till they are over. But his simple purpose
was soon revealed. "You know everything, Joan.
What do you think of the Cleeves?"
Mrs. Fortune gave him the opinion of the world,
revised by her own placid and kind judgment. Cleeve
was a lonely fellow. He lived to himself and his own
people. He had been much absorbed in his first wife,
after her death in the child. There was some surprise
when he married again, but the lady was in all things
approved—charmingly pretty, rich, of good breeding,
plainly devoted to him. They were never apart.
People laughed a little. But the child was not put


28
MR. FORTUNE EXPLAINS
aside. They would not be long away from him. In-
deed, it was a common joke that Lady Cleeve believed
she was his mother.
"Yes. Yes. You don't like 'em, Joan," Reggie
murmured. "I wonder."
"Does a nice woman ever like a man who marries
again?" Lomas smiled.
"The only rule is there's no rule," said Mrs. Fortune.
She turned to her husband. "I think I might like
him, but he stands off."
That was the first day of the Cleeve case.
In the morning Lomas, who loves his bed, was dis-
turbed by Reggie. "Were you getting up to-day? I
think you'd better. The ship's gone."
Lomas sat up. "Is she, though? Well, what
about it?"
"I don't know. I thought you might. Exert the
higher intelligence. But it's true. The Inspector has
just rung up. Dover says she went out on the morn-
ing tide, heading down Channel. Swears nobody has
gone aboard since they searched her, except two of
her own men late last night, rather drunk but unaccom-
panied. And she's off."
"What do you want to do now?"
"Oh, my aunt! What can we do? Wait. I
know what I'd have done in Dover last night: Arrest
those two for drunk and disorderly and see what I
could get out of them. But we're always missing the
bus in this case. Nothing to do but wait for the next."
He contemplated Lomas gloomily. "You might as
well get up though. Better warn coastguards and
ports and people we want to hear of the good ship
Apate if she comes in anywhere."
When Lomas, after a long conference with the tele-


THE PICNIC 29
phone, came to breakfast Reggie was behind a paper.
"He's been and done it. Here you are. Reward of
One Thousand Pounds for information leading to
recovery of Viscount Stourham. Send it to the Earl
of Cleeve at 999 Grosvenor Gate. Not to our active
and intelligent police force. I'm afraid Cleeve didn't
take to you, Lomas."
Lomas made an ugly noise. "Ugh! I wish you'd
let it alone. He'll be bothering us with a mass of
silly rumours."
"I wonder," Reggie murmured. "His London
house, you observe. He abandons the county of Kent.
I'm afraid we'd better go to London, too."
"I wasn't thinking of staying here."
Reggie sighed. "No. No. London is indicated.
But what indicated it to him? He didn't know the
ship would sail this morning. Or did he?"
"What do you mean?"
"I don't know. Very obscure case," Reggie moaned.
"Oh, to be in London now that summer's here."
And to London they went, and every police force
in the kingdom was inspired to watch for the little
fair boy who was Viscount Stourham and a big, dark,
closed car in which might be foreigners, and the air
bore questions to ships in the Channel of the course
of the Greek ship Apate. But the day passed and
nothing came to Scotland Yard which could be set
before Lomas as a fact, and from Cleeve there was no
word.
On the next morning Cleeve himself appeared at
Scotland Yard. His temper had not improved, he
showed signs of strain. He wished, quite without
courtesy, to know if he could expect the police to be
of any use. Lomas, civility at a low temperature, was
sorry they had not received the help which might


30 MR. FORTUNE EXPLAINS
have been expected. Cleeve did not know what they
had expected. The offer of a reward had brought a
pack of nonsense, if they wanted that. He produced
many letters. Lomas looked them over and, rather
remote and contemptuous, agreed that they were
nonsense. Cleeve wanted to know if there was any-
thing in that other nonsense about the Greeks and
the ship at Dover. Lomas had found no further
evidence. Cleeve supposed he never would. He had
done nothing and didn't mean to try. Lomas, still
civil but below freezing-point, was employing all the
resources of the police to find the child. And Cleeve
laughed.
Some time after he was gone, Reggie drifted in,
pale and vague of eye and movement and speech, but
also demanding news. He was told. His wistful gaze
settled upon Lomas. "Yes. You don't seem gettin'
to love each other, you an' him. I wonder."
"The fellow's deuced hostile." Lomas frowned.
"But I could excuse that. I felt he wouldn't open
his mind, that's what stiffened me. I believe you're
right, Reginald. He knows something."
"Yes, I think so," Reggie murmured drearily.
"But the child—what's going to happen to the child
—what's happening now?"
"It begins to look like a put-up job."
"Yes. Put up against a child. Oh, my hat! And
we can't get near." He drew a long breath and got
on his feet. "Well, you'd better have the Cleeves
watched, you know. I can't do anything. I'll go
down to the Laboratory. A job is sedative." He
wandered out.
He worked in his hospital laboratory till evening.
He sought the loneliest of his clubs for dinner; he was
loitering, heavily full and forlorn, over the tape machine


THE PICNIC 31
in the sepulchral hall when he was called to the tele-
phone.
"Lomas speaking. The ship has been sighted com-
ing into Falmouth. Any ideas?"
"Oh yes. Yes. Shake up the Falmouth police. Where
are you? Scotland Yard. Good. I'll come along."
It was a message from a pilot boat sent through the
signal station at the Lizard. The Apate was going
into Falmouth, reporting engine trouble.
"Yes. Has a lot of it, hasn't she," Reggie mur-
mured. "When is the night train? Somewhere
about ten, what? We'll catch that nicely. And some
of your heftier men wouldn't be amiss."
"I've warned Falmouth," Lomas said. "They'll
watch the ship and detain her."
"I want the child," said Reggie. "The child
ought to be somewhere near Falmouth "—he stopped,
he looked at Lomas with fear in his eyes—" or the
fellows who had the child. Let's get on, let's get
on." Lomas was persuaded, Lomas was collecting
his forces and giving his orders, and in the middle
of it the telephone rang again.
** What? What? Who are you? Oh, Cator.
Good gad! Go on after 'em. All right." Lomas
turned to Reggie. "That's one of the men watching
Cleeve's house. Cleeve and his wife have just taken a
taxi to Paddington. They won't get away. There's
another man following them. Just as well we looked
after 'em, though."
"Yes. We can't afford to make mistakes," said
Reggie. "But that wouldn't have mattered, as it's
turnin' out. They wouldn't have got away, anyhow.
Oh, come on."
Lomas bustled after him. "Why do you say it
wouldn't matter?"


32 MR. FORTUNE EXPLAINS
"Paddington's the station for Falmouth."
"Damme, if they're there we'll have some questions
to ask Cleeve."
"Oh yes. Yes. I have."
When their car stopped at Paddington, a man like a
valet was briskly at the door. "Booked to Falmouth,
sir. Got berths in the sleeping-car."
He was told he must watch it and he faded away.
A square fellow closed on them as they walked to the
platform. "No room in the sleeper, sir. Two last
berths taken early this evening. Got you a compart-
ment. We're just forward."
They established themselves behind drawn blinds.
"Did you notice that?" said Lomas. "They knew
they were going to Falmouth early this evening. And
the ApcUe hadn't come in yet when I rang up the
Falmouth police."
Reggie looked at him with dreary wonder. "Does
that happen to mean anything to you?"
"It means they know too much about that ship."
"Oh yes. Yes. I always thought they were inter-
ested in my Greeks. But what are they wanted for
in Falmouth?"
Lomas frowned. "I'd like to confront Cleeve with
that ship's captain."
"Yes. Yes. That is indicated. Lots of confronta-
tion. Last scene. Everybody gettin' on the stage,
livin' and dead. Oh, my lord I Let's try and sleep.
We shall want to be fit in the morning."
For Falmouth you change from that train at Truro.
Lord and Lady Cleeve were anxious to do so. Reggie
watched their scurry down the platform, while Lomas
stretched himself awake. Then a little party of solid
men made for the other train.
Just as it drew out one man more climbed into their


THE PICNIC
33
carriage. "I've been on to the Falmouth police, sir.
This Greek ship came in just after midnight. Police
boat patrolling. No one gone on board yet, no one
landed. Some fellows were loitering about the quay
in the night, but nothing to call suspicious. An
Inspector's coming to meet the train."
"Seem to be all on our toes, don't we?" Reggie
murmured. "Yes. I wonder if we're in time."
The little train stopped. Cleeve was out on the
instant and calling a porter. His wife and he hurried
away. But two of the detectives were in front of
them. A man of military aspect scanned the train
and marched upon it.
"Mr. Lomas, sir? I'm Inspector Hawken. I
'phoned your man at Truro. Nothing new since."
"We'll have something now," Lomas smiled. "I
want you to go aboard the Apate and ask for the captain.
Tell him you have orders to bring him ashore about
the two men of his crew who got drunk at Dover.
You can say the Chief of the Criminal Investigation
Department has come down here to inquire into the
affair. You don't know anything else. To inquire
into the affair. But you can frighten him like hell.
I don't mind."
Inspector Hawken marched off with an air to frighten
armies.
"Now then." Lomas stood up. "We only want
the Cleeves."
"Oh! Oh, is that all?" Reggie murmured.
One of the detectives came back. "Gone to the
Bristol Hotel, sir. I've got a car for you."
It was not far, but when they drove up, Cleeve and
his wife were already coming out of the hotel. "Good
morning I " Lomas called. They started round; the
tired faces were distorted with emotion. "You're in
c


34 MR. FORTUNE EXPLAINS
rather a hurry." He came out of the car. "But
why are you in a hurry?"
Cleeve scowled. "I suppose he wrote to you, too?"
"You've had a letter? What a pity you didn't
tell me! I'm afraid you've not been quite frank with
us, Lord Cleeve."
"Well, I didn't tell you."
"You didn't trust us, in fact. Why not?"
"Very well, if you like, I didn't trust you."
"Oh, why should we?" Lady Cleeve cried.
"You've done nothing—nothing."
"The letter, please?" said Lomas.
Cleeve brought out a sheet of cheap paper. The
writing was in pencil and laborious.
Dr Sir,—
Your advert, ofering reward for Vicount Stourham.
I know how you could get him back if you was to come
quick to Falmouth. Come to Blacky's in the Ope,
which any will tell you of and ask for Pincher. Look-
ing to you as a gentleman for the reward. Come in the
daytime. P.S. You best come quick.
"Half educated and English." Lomas looked at
Reggie. "Well, we'll try it." He turned sharply on
Cleeve. "If you'd done your duty we could have
taken this fellow and had what he knows last night."
"No, you couldn't," Cleeve said sullenly. "He
says he's only there in the daytime. My God, do you
suppose no one thinks but you?"
"Bah, he wants to see who's coming," Lomas cried.
"Now go on with you. Ask for the fellow. We'll do
the rest."
The Ope is a court which runs down to the sea, a
place of lounging and lodging for sailors. Cleeve and


THE PICNIC
35
his wife hurried into it, asked for Blacky's and were
directed to a house something cleaner than the rest.
A shaggy, frowsy man answered their knock. Pincher
was in, for what he knew. Come yesterday and had
his usuals, never went out last night. He looked at
Lady Cleeve's wan daintiness with curiosity. Would
the gemmun go up? But the lady went, too.
The next minute, the Ope was startled by a woman's
scream. Cleeve put his head out of a window and
shouted, " Lomas! Here for heaven's sake!"
Lomas came into the room to find a dead man. He
lay in bed and it was sodden with his blood and a
wound gaped in his throat. "What do you know
about it?" Lomas turned on the landlord.
"Gawd! I don't know nuffin, sir. He's been
lodging here this two-three days. Pincher 'e calls
hisself, or Pincher Martin. Sleeping daytime, out o'
nights. 'E said 'e was doing watchman on a yacht.
'E come in yesterday bit later 'n this, 'ad 'is usuals
an' I never see 'im since, so 'elp me Gawd. Anybody
might 'ave come up to 'im."
Reggie turned from the body. "Killed by knife-
thrust in the throat. Many hours ago. Say last night.
He may have been a sailor. But I think he was a
chauffeur last." He looked vaguely about the room,
from the puzzled frown of Lomas to Cleeve's scowl, to
the wide-eyed horror of Lady Cleeve. "And that's
that. I suppose you don't know him, Cleeve?"
"Know him?" Cleeve took a step forward and
looked again. "I never saw him before. I could
swear that."
"Come on then. Let's try our captain."
"The captain?" Cleeve stared. "What do you
mean?"
"The captain of the Greek ship Apate."


36 MR. FORTUNE EXPLAINS
"She's in here?"
"Oh yes. Yes. Didn't you know ?" said Reggie.
"Come and meet him, Cleeve," said Lomas. He
spoke to some of his men, he waved the Cleeves to the
door.
"I'll do anything you like," Cleeve muttered.
"You'd better," said Lomas.
"Oh, but this dreadful thing!" Lady Cleeve cried.
'* How did it happen?"
"We'll attend to that," said Lomas. "If you want
to know why it happened, this fellow was killed so
that he shouldn't be able to say what has become of
the child."
"Oh, then we shall never know! Oh, Bertie."
She clung to her husband. But he was not sym-
pathetic.
"We'll hear what the captain has to say about
that," said Lomas. "Come to the police station,
please."
They hurried on; much stared at by the loungers in
the Ope they came to the main street. Outside the
post office Inspector Hawken was waiting. "I've got
the captain, sir. He has the wind up. He asked to
go into the post office to get his letters." The Inspec-
tor winked. "I was willing. One of my men went,
too."
A man came quickly out of the office, a dark, sleek
little man. Another appeared at the door and made
signs to Inspector Hawken. The Inspector strode
forward and caught the little man. "If you please,
sir. I'm a police officer."
"What do you want with me?"
"I'll have to ask you a few questions."
The little man looked quickly all round him. He
saw the Cleeves and Lomas and the shepherding detec-


THE PICNIC
37
tives; he wrenched himself free and pulled out a pistol.
The Inspector closed again as he fired. They wrestled
together; the street was a turmoil of scrambling men.
There was another shot and another. The detectives
had him down. But they fell upon a dead man.
"My oath, he's gone," the Inspector gasped. Blood
began to ooze from the sweating face. He rose and
stared at Lomas. "I swear I thought I'd got him."
"Where's that captain?" Lomas frowned. The
captain was brought in the grip of a sturdy Cornish-
man. "Do you know this man?"
The captain, a portly fellow of fierce moustaches,
looked and shuddered and sucked in his lower lip.
"They spoke in the post office. Spoke foreign,"
the Cornishman said.
"I know him, yes," the captain burst out. "He
is my owner, he is Mr. Constantine Castro. Why do
you shoot him?"
"Your owner. That won't get you off. You'd
better come along and tell the truth." Lomas turned
away. "Every one at the station please, Inspector.
I shall want you, Cleeve."
The detectives made a way for them through the
gathering crowd.
In a big bare room at the police station the captain
was put into a chair opposite Lomas. "Where's Lord
Cleeve? Sit at the end of the table, please. Now, my
man, you are Captain Janni, master of the Greek ship
ApaU?"
"I am the captain, yes. Mr. Castro, he was the
owner."
"You've acted under his orders? You know that's
no defence on a criminal charge."
"But I 'ave done no crime. I 'ave done nothing."
"You know what you're brought here for. You


38 MR. FORTUNE EXPLAINS
and your men were concerned in kidnapping a little
boy, Viscount Stourham, when your ship was in Dover."
"It is not true, sir. You search my ship in Dover.
You find nothing. You search it now, you find noth-
ing again. I 'ave no little boy."
"Have you ever seen this man before, Cleeve?"
said Lomas sharply. Cleeve was looking at Captain
Janni with a queer, uneasy stare. "You don't care
to say?"
"I don't know," Cleeve muttered. He turned to
Lomas. "I knew this fellow Castro. Met him in
Greece."
"Friend of yours?"
"No. I met him. I didn't like him."
"Any particular reason for not liking him?"
Cleeve shifted in his chair. "I—I loathed the
fellow."
The captain swore a spitting Greek oath. "And he
is to be shot, my owner, because this my Lord does
not like him!"
"Your owner started shooting, Janni. If he shot
himself, he had his reasons. What were they?"
"He did not shoot himself." The captain was
gathering truculence. "He was shot down like a
dog."
"That won't do." Lomas smiled. "What was he
up to that he tried to shoot a policeman? What
was he doing in Falmouth at all? Where's that boy,
Janni? Speak out now or you'll have ten years of
an English prison—if it isn't the rope. Do you want
to hang because your owner planned to steal the child?
Don't be trying any more lies. I know too much.
Castro had your men ashore at Dover and they stole
the boy to put him aboard your ship. We watched
you so closely they couldn't do it. So you came in to


THE PICNIC
39
Falmouth to pick him up here. You haven't got him
and you won't get him. But we've got you and we'll
hold you till he's found and hang you if he's found
dead. Now then—where is he?"
"What do I know?" the captain screamed. "I
know nothing, nothing, nothing. Castro he never told-
What can I do? You 'ave killed the only man who
knew."
"Think!" Lomas bent forward. "Think I It's
the rope for you."
"But I do not know. I cannot tell." The captain
wept and beat at himself. "I am nothing in it. It
is Castro, 'e only knew, and you kill 'im."
Lomas watched his paroxysm a moment. "So
much the worse for you. Take him away. Take him
away."
The wretched man was dragged out screaming.
"Now then, Vardon, go aboard that ship and get the
men who were drunk at Dover. Quick. Inspector,
you'll have to find out where this fellow Castro has
been in Falmouth. Get on to it."
"Have you finished with me ?" said Cleeve.
Lomas flung back in his chair. "Damme, Cleeve,
you're very disinterested. What do you want to do?"
Cleeve looked at him under heavy brows. "I want
to find my wife," he said.
"What? I suppose she's here." But she was not.
When the shots were fired, when the detectives ran
in upon the dead man, Reggie stepped aside. His
hand drew at the sleeve of one. "Sergeant Cator,"
he said softly, and Cator fell back to him. Reggie's
eyes were on Lady Cleeve. She, too, was out of the
crowd; she was hurrying away. "Don't stop her,"
Reggie murmured, "don't lose her." And Cator
followed her and Reggie followed Cator. She went


40 MR. FORTUNE EXPLAINS
fast through the town, past the Swan Pool, and away
by a footpath through wild pasture, and Reggie closed
on Cator. The roofs of a tiny hamlet were near.
Lady Cleeve stopped there and asked the name of it.
She made haste on, climbing over rough ground, and
they heard the roar of the sea. The hill-side was broken
with heaps of stones, and above stood the ruins of the
stone chimney and engine house of an old mine.
"Run for it," Reggie muttered, but as round as he
is, it was he who came first to Lady Cleeve. She had
given one glance behind, she ran on, she was at the
low wall which guarded the mine shaft.
"Yes. Thanks very much." Reggie panted.
"We'll do the rest." He gripped her arm. She was
pulling at the knots by which a rope hanging down
the shaft was fastened.
"Mr. Fortune!" Red and dishevelled, she stared
at him with wild eyes. "He's here. My Peter's here.
I—I heard that man say so."
"Yes. When ?" said Reggie, and reached for her
other hand. "Take her, Cator."
"If you please, ma'am." Cator embraced her.
Reggie began to haul at the rope.
But she fought madly, she broke a hand free, she
had a pistol out. Cator wrenched it from her as she
fired. She tore herself away from him and sprang at
the rope, flinging herself in front of Reggie as he hauled,
tearing it out of his hands. He thrust her aside, Cator
gripped at her again, but she clung to the rope and
threw her weight upon it, lying on the wall, flung her-
self over. At the jerk, Reggie slid and staggered, but
he held fast. The rope was torn from her fingers and
she fell into the dark with a shriek that ended in a
thud.
He stood a moment, breathing hard and drew at


THE PICNIC
4i
the rope cautiously. It bore a light weight still. Into
the daylight rose a little boy. A bandage was bound
across his mouth, his white face was wet, his eyes
haunted.
"All over now, Peter," Reggie said, and gathered
the boy in his arms. "All right now. Goin' home,
my dear." He pulled the bandage away from the
wan mouth.
"Ooh ! it hurts," the boy moaned, and his little hands
plucked at the rope round his chest. Then they stopped
with a quivering spasm. "Oh, I shall fall," he screamed,
and clutched Reggie.
Cator was cutting at the knots. "All right, old
man," Reggie said gently. "You're safe now."
The child moaned. "Everyfing goes wound and
wound." His head thrust into Reggie's shoulder.
"Oh no. Not now. Nothing goes wound any more.
All fixed and firm."
"What was it vat did fall, all crying and wump?
Ooh!"
"That was just the last of it. All over."
"Is it really?" The haunted eyes sought Reggie's.
"You're not like ve bad men. Who are you?"
"I'm Mr. Fortune. Your Mr. Fortune. Come to
make you all right and jolly again."
"I did say my prayers, you know. I said vem
down vere."
"Yes. And then I was sent, you see. So it came
all right."
"Was vat one of the bad men vat fell?"
"Just a badness trying to hurt you. But it didn't
and never will: and all the bad men are caught: and
everything's going to be all right for Peter."
"I did say Our Fawer," the boy said. "But it all
went muzzy in my head." He began to cry. . . .


MR. FORTUNE EXPLAINS
Some time after the telephone in the police station
rang. "Hello, Lomas. Fortune speaking. From the
hospital. Have you got Cleeve?"
"I'm holding him," said Lomas grimly.
"Told him anything? No? Good. Bring him
along." Reggie came down to a room in the hospital,
where, under the cold and curious eyes of Lomas,
Cleeve stood waiting with the face of a man in torment.
"We have your boy," Reggie said gravely. "He's
alive. Lady Cleeve isn't. We couldn't save her."
Cleeve shook, Cleeve gulped. "Peter is all right?"
he cried.
"I wouldn't say that. Peter's going to be all right
—if you're wise. You haven't been very wise, have
you? The child has been living in hell for days."
"Oh, my God!" Cleeve shuddered. "What could
I do? I didn't know."
"No, I believe that," Reggie said gently.
"You didn't know !" Lomas snapped. "You had
a good guess. When Fortune told you there was a
Greek ship in it, you suspected your wife. I saw
that."
"Well, well!" Reggie murmured and gazed at him
with reverence. "You do see things, Lomas."
"If you'd told us Lady Cleeve was mixed up with
that rascal Castro, we should have stopped this damn-
able business."
"Should we, Lomas? We're very clever," Reggie
murmured. "I wonder if we should."
Cleeve had hidden his face in his hands. "Don't
you see, I didn't know," he groaned. He looked up.
"Is Dora dead?"
"Lady Cleeve killed herself when we found the
boy."
Cleeve shuddered. "Well, every one will know


THE PICNIC
43
everything now, I may as well tell you. Don't you
see, I believe Dora—Dora did Oh, well. We
were happy. I used to think she loved Peter, too.
All the more as she hadn't a child. Then she met
this fellow Castro in Athens. I don't believe there
was anything—I wouldn't believe it. But after we
came back she was different. I noticed it first with
Peter. She made a great deal of him still, but—I
can't put it in words—she wasn't kind. And then—
this. You see, I had nothing I could tell you. I
don't know what she wanted."
"She wanted to hurt the child," said Reggie gravely,
"because she hadn't one, because she was jealous you
loved him, because—it doesn't matter. She arranged
with this scoundrel Castro to carry him off to Greece.
I'm afraid they meant Peter to have rather a bad
time there. We spoilt their chance at Dover. Castro
ordered his ship round to Falmouth and brought the
child down here. Castro and his chauffeur. They
hid the child hanging on a rope down an old mine
shaft. Not a nice man, the late Castro. But ingenious.
The chauffeur watched at night, Castro by day. Then
the chauffeur read of the reward and wrote to you.
You should have told us of that. We might have
saved the fellow's life. But perhaps it's-as well as it
is. Lady Cleeve must have telephoned to warn Castro,
and Castro made an end of the chauffeur. I rather
wonder he didn't let the child drop down the mine
and run for it. I suppose he wanted to keep a hold
on Lady Cleeve. But she wasn't going to let him
give her away. When she saw him being taken she
shot him."
"It was Dora!"
"Oh yes. Yes. Didn't you know? I thought
you might have guessed then. She made off to the


44 MR. FORTUNE EXPLAINS
mine. But we were a little too quick. She tried to
drop the child down. She missed and went down
herself."
"She was lucky," said Lomas fiercely.
"I don't know." Reggie looked at him with dreamy
eyes. "I wasn't thinking of her myself. We can
manage the thing now."
"Peter saw her?" Cleeve groaned. "Peter
knows?"
"Oh no. No. Peter didn't see. Peter doesn't
know anything. Peter isn't going to know. That's
your part. You have something to make up to the
child, Cleeve."
Cleeve drew deep breath. "Ah, if I can, if I can!"
he muttered. "But everybody has to know the whole
cursed thing. Everybody will be"
"Nobody will. For publication—the late Mr. Castro
kidnapped your child and being caught, shot himself.
Lady Cleeve, tryin' to rescue the child from the mine,
fell down, and Mr. Fortune and Sergeant Cator couldn't
save her. That's all. Now just come to Peter. He
wants you."
Cleeve gripped his hand. Cleeve tried to talk and
failed.
"All right. In a minute," said Reggie, and took
Lomas away.
"What a fool! What a fool!" Lomas said.
"Yes. Yes. He gets fond of people," said Reggie.
"How clever you are, Lomas."


SECOND EXPLANATION
THE LITTLE MILLINER
IN moments of bitterness, when work is continuous,
Mr. Fortune has been heard to complain that the
life of a policeman is an insult to the human reason.
It is then his conviction that he was born to be a
family doctor: to keep babies blooming, mothers
quiet and fathers in a good temper: and he mourns
the fate which made him the scientific adviser of the
police force, for he compares the Chief of the Criminal
Investigation Department to an undertaker. This
has been resented. But he points out to Lomas that
the police, like the undertaker, do nothing until the
only thing to be done is clearing up the remains with
pomp and circumstance: a procedure fundamentally
irrational. His favourite example in this argument is
the case of the little milliner.
It began with the card of Lady Jemima St. Lo.
No woman since Florence Nightingale has found other
people so much work to do. Reggie Fortune was
sinking into a doze between tea and dinner when Lady
Jemima's card came before his eyes. He blinked. He
said "Help I" He became aware that it bore an
inscription. He sat up. The writing of Lady Jemima
is of the most modern art: it does not resemble any-
thing, it suggests emotions. After some time it
appeared to Reggie that Lady Jemima intended to
say, "Do help the poor child."
45


46 MR. FORTUNE EXPLAINS
He gazed forlornly at his parlourmaid.
"There's a lady waiting," said she.
Reggie moaned and went to his consulting-room.
The " poor child" who ran at him was some six feet
high. He is not. She was of a stately shape and
dressed to show it. She found him less impressive.
"Mr. Fortune?" she cried, and stared at him.
Her handsome, haughty face became blank and she
giggled.
"Yes. That being that, let's sit down," said Reggie.
"Sorry. I am awful. I thought you'd be big and
important and—oo ;" again she giggled.
"Like a policeman?" Reggie suggested.
She nodded. She became intensely earnest. "You
are really sort of high up in the police force, aren't
you? Lady Jemima said you were." She looked
like a tragic goddess. Her speech was Cockney, sharp
and strong.
"Yes. Very good of Lady Jemima. I tell the
police a few things sometimes."
"And they take notice of you, Mr. Fortune?"
She leant across his table.
"Oh yes. I have known it happen. What do you
want the police to notice?"
"I'm most awfully worried, don't you know," she
said in the drawl of a perfect lady, then relapsed into
the twang of London streets. "I don't 'arf know what
I'm doing. They all think I'm just potty about *er."
She gazed at Mr. Fortune and her classic nose wrinkled,
her large eyes filled with tears.
"Oh no. No," said Mr. Fortune gently. "Who
is she, though?"
"Of course I am sweet on 'er," the goddess admitted.
"She's a dear. And then going off like this! She
was in the 'ats, you know."


THE LITTLE MILLINER 47
"Where was that ?" said Mr. Fortune with anxiety.
"There, I never told you! I'm getting it all wrong,
I'm so upset. Look here, my name's Miss Tggs. I'm
a mannikin at Amilee's."
"Of course." Mr. Fortune sighed satisfaction that
he had the goddess classified at last. "Of course,"
with her beauty and her accent she would be a
mannequin—at Amelie's. Amelie is a dressmaker
of distinction, but economical. Just the shop for
Lady Jemima. The affair was becoming partially
reasonable.
The goddess went on with a rush: "Miss Gray was
in the 'ats. Been there a long time. Earning good
money, too. She didn't go with anyone, kep' 'erself
to 'erself, but we been friends, Mr. Fortune. She
liked me, she did. She'd come 'ome with me and
'ave a bit o' dinner o' Sundays, 'er 'aving no people
of 'er own, though quite the lady. But she wouldn't
take things off you and do nothing herself, Cely wasn't
that kind. Let me call 'er Cely, she did, and called
me Bertha—when we wasn't in the shop. And many's
the time she's taken me to the theatre, because she
'adn't a 'ome to ask me back. Said she liked it best
wiv me. And now she's gone, Mr. Fortune, gone right
off and never no word. What I say is, there's some-
thing wrong. Something's been and 'appened to 'er.
She wouldn't go away and not tell me nothing—not
Cely."
"And the alarmin' fact is that she did," Reggie
murmured. "I see." He considered Miss Higgs with
dreamy eyes.
"She never went natural, Mr. Fortune. It's my
belief she was took. Kidnapped or something. Like
girls are, you know, that's what I told the police.
But the Inspector 'e did nothing but grin. Fat'ead I"


48 MR. FORTUNE EXPLAINS
"Yes. What was the Inspector's theory?" said
Reggie.
"Theory!" The goddess snorted. "I don't know.
He said, 'Girls do leave home, Miss Tggs,' he said
superior-like, and grinned, at me; 'don't you worry,
my dear,' he said. T could ha' slapped his nasty face."
And her large eyes flashed on Reggie.
"Yes. I'm not grinning," said Reggie quickly.
"When did Miss Gray vanish?"
"Last time I saw her was at the shop on Saturday.
She never said a word about going away, she was just
like usual. Then"
"One moment. What is usual? What is she
like?"
"She's just sweet, Mr. Fortune. A little quiet
thing, you wouldn't 'ardly notice 'er."
"But you want me to, you know," Reggie protested.
"She never gave you a photograph?"
"She never was took that I know," Miss Higgs
meditated profoundly. "She's fair and her hair's
bobbed and she's got grey eyes. Such nice eyes.
Moddam says she's very shick. But it's not that.
She just looks sweet."
Reggie sighed. "Last seen—looking sweet—on
Saturday."
"Then o' Monday she didn't come to the shop.
Moddam 'eard nothing from 'er. So in the evening
I went round to 'er lodgings to see if she'd been took
ill. And she wasn't there, Mr. Fortune I"
"Where are the lodgings?"
"Camden Town. 7, Navarino Street, Camden
Town. Nice, respectable 'ouse. But you know what
lodgings are. Not 'omely, poor girl."
"Miss Gray didn't like them?"
"You wouldn't yourself. Cely did want a place of


THE LITTLE MILLINER 49
her own. But what's a girl to do? Well, the old
landlady said Cely came in Saturday all right and then
she went out again leaving word she was going away
for the week-end, but she 'adn't come back. Well
then, Tuesday she wasn't at the shop either and no
word of 'er. I trapesed off to 'er lodgings again and
still she 'adn't come back. Then I went straight to
the police. Like I told you. Fat lot of good that
was. Now it's Thursday, Mr. Fortune. She's been
gone pretty near a week and no one's doing anything
to find her and God knows what's 'appening to 'er."
"Yes. Yes," Reggie murmured. "Takin' the
landlady as honest"
"I don't know. She's the usual."
"Miss Gray meant to go off for the week-end:
without telling anybody where. You don't think she
often did that."
"I don't believe she'd ever done it before. Don't
you see, Cely's a good girl I" There was a cry of
faith in her voice. She blushed, she went on quickly;
"She's not like some of 'em, Mr. Fortune. She never
would look at a man."
"Yes. She has a friend," said Reggie gravely.
"Well, well. No other friends—no people of her
own?"
"She wasn't one to make friends much. I never
'eard of any. She 'adn't any relations anywhere.
She often said that."
"And yet she meant to go off somewhere without
telling you. I wonder."
"Why, don't you see?" Miss Higgs cried. "If
she told the old woman she'd be away for the week-
end, she meant just that, just the week-end and no
more. She was always straight. And she's stayed
on and on. That's what ain't right about it. If you
D


5o MR. FORTUNE EXPLAINS
knew her, you'd know she wouldn't never leave us all
worrying."
"Yes. Yes. I thought of that point myself."
Reggie contemplated her with closing eyes. "Quite
a good point."
"Ah, you understand. Don't you?" Her beau-
tiful throat quivered. "You talk so funny and queer.
But you feel things. You'll have her looked for,
won't you? Oh, sir, make 'em find 'er, for God's sake.
I can't bear to think of 'er being—being—like she
may be."
"Don't think anything, my dear," said Reggie
gently. "Not till we know." He stood up. "I'll
make the police have a look for her. I can't make 'em
find her. There's ten thousand things might have
been." He held out his hand. "But the worst don't
often happen."
"Oo—you're a gentleman," said Miss Higgs, and
wept.
When she was gone Mr. Fortune fell into his deepest
chair and moaned. "Missin' from Camden Town:
a little woman with fair hair bobbed and nice grey
eyes: just sweet. Oh, my aunt I You fall over 'em.
Possibilities practically infinite and mainly nasty."
He has an active conscience. He meditated uncom-
fortably. He wriggled. He reached for the telephone
and rang up Scotland Yard. "Mr. Fortune speaking.
I want to know if there's any news of Celia Gray,
reported missing from Camden Town. You haven't
heard? You wouldn't. Let 'em know I want to see
the reports in the morning, please."
Next morning the room of the Hon. Sydney Lomas
received him early. Lomas cocked a bright and
quizzical eye.
"My dear fellow"


THE LITTLE MILLINER 51
"Hullo," said Reggie morosely. "Any news?"
"This anxiety is affecting. All my regrets, Regin-
ald. We had no notion you were interested in the girl.
I'm afraid there's nothing to give you any encourage-
ment." He rang for Superintendent Bell. "Speaking
as your friend, I can only advise you to think no more
about her."
"We are not amused, Lomas." Reggie wandered
to the window and looked out at the spring sunshine.
His round face was set in simple childlike gloom.
Superintendent Bell came in briskly, greeted him,
received a grunt and looked at him with curiosity
and apprehension.
"Mr. Fortune isn't pleased with you, Bell," Lomas
chuckled.
"I'm afraid we haven't got much, sir." Bell
frowned at his papers. "But it seems a straight
case."
"Get on, get on. Let's have it."
"Celia Gray, lodging 7, Navarino Street, Camden
Town, employed as milliner at Amelie's. . . . Gray
left lodgings Saturday, taking suit-case, destination
unknown. Not since heard of. Landlady and em-
ployer unable to account for absence. Left some
clothes behind and odds and ends of no value. Fur-
niture not her own. No rent owing. Never left work
before. Never away from lodgings without notice.
Seldom went away. Considered respectable girl.
Nothing known of any followers."
"Our active and intelligent police force," Reggie
mumbled. He swung round to face them. "The
Inspector got all that from Bertha. He's done
nothing."
Lomas shrugged. "My dear fellow! What was he
to do? The girl said she was going away and she's


52 MR. FORTUNE EXPLAINS
gone. If we went looking for all the girls who go away
for a week-end and stay rather longer we should be
busy."
"Better to do nothing, isn't it?" said Reggie.
"You might stop a crime or two before it happened
if you took trouble. Much more official to come
along afterwards and bury the dead."
Lomas stiffened. "Taking this matter rather
seriously, aren't you, Fortune? Of course, if we had
known the little milliner was a friend of yours we'd
have seen after her with the whole force."
Reggie gazed at him. "Bertha wanted to slap your
Inspector's face," he murmured. "I quite under-
stand."
The respectability of Superintendent Bell was
alarmed. The professional instinct of Superintendent
Bell was troubled. "Beg your pardon, Mr. Fortune,"
he said hastily. "Don't mind my asking. Did you
know this Miss Gray?"
"I never saw her."
"Then I don't understand, sir. You don't know
but what she's the sort of girl to go off on the quiet."
"Oh yes. Yes. I've talked to Bertha. Bertha
says she isn't."
"Good Gad!" Lomas gasped. "But, my dear
fellow, what does it all come to? A little milliner
chose to go away without telling anybody where she
was going. There are a thousand possible reasons.
Lots of 'em perfectly respectable. She may just have
wanted to break with the shop and her old friends and
start fresh somewhere. She may have gone to get
married and don't want these girls at the shop to
know about it."
"Yes. Yes. I thought of that, Lomas. It could
be."


THE LITTLE MILLINER 53
"Of course it could. Happens often enough."
"But it don't cover all the facts. If she wanted to
disappear quietly she wouldn't have made a mystery
for Bertha to worry about."
"My dear Reginald! You want her to be quite
reasonable. Girls aren't. Especially when they're
running away with a man. She didn't bother about
explanations."
"Oh yes, she did. She said she was going away for
the week-end. Just as easy to say she was going for
a week or for ever. But she said the week-end.
What's happened to keep her? What's happened
that she can't send word?"
Lomas leant back in his chair and smiled. "What
Bertha says isn't evidence, Reginald."
*' Oh yes, it is. Bertha was telling the truth. Your
Inspector didn't believe her. She said he was a fat-
head, Lomas. I rather agree with her."
"Thanks very much." Lomas shrugged. "It
comes to this, then. You want to make a mystery
of it because you like the girl's face."
"I never like anybody's face," said Reggie with
indignation. "And she's taller than any woman has
a right to be. I feel small and inadequate still. Bertha
is good but depressing. Only she's right, bother her.
It is a nasty mess."
"ilt's all in the air," Lomas grumbled. '* What do
*you want to do? Advertise her missing, with descrip-
tion and portrait?"
'"There isn't a portrait. Description is small, fair,
bobbed, nice grey eyes, just sweet."
* That would only get you about a million girls."
*' Yes. I had thought of that, Lomas dear. We
won't advertise anything yet. The people who've
been keeping her might do something hasty."


54 MR. FORTUNE EXPLAINS
"What have you got in your head ?" Lomas cried.
"Nothing. Nothing. That's what worries me.
You don't feel a vacancy. Well, well. I want some
sound fellow to take up the case, some fellow that's
a man and a brother." He smiled on Superintendent
Bell. "Yes. Bell is strongly indicated."
"Thank you, sir." Bell was pleased and uncom-
fortable. "I'd be very happy. But I don't see my
way."
"Nor do I. Come and have a look at Celia's lodg-
ings and Celia's shop."
"You're for it, Bell," Lomas chuckled. "Take him
away. Make him buy her a wedding present."
Reggie gazed at him with melancholy wonder and
went out.
"Queer how it's taken him, sir." Bell rose. "I'd
say there's nothing in it myself—but he has a way of
feeling things."
"Confound him!" said Lomas. "Confound you,
Bell! Go away."
Mr. Fortune's car bore him and Bell into the depths
of Camden Town. Navarino Street is shabby genteel
houses, all stucco and lace curtains. The inside of
number seven fulfilled dismally the promise of the
outside. It smelt musty, its landlady was of a dingy
and acid propriety, her parlour plush and antimacassars.
By the dignity of Superintendent Bell she was unawed.
She became shrill with many grievances. She was a
respectable woman and kept a respectable house and
the police had no right to come borhering her: nothing
but botheration; bad enough to have a lodger go off
and no notice given: she couldn't afford to keep her
rooms empty on the chance my lady was coming back
and she had a right to a week s money, anyhow. So
the landlady at length, with repetitions and variations,


THE LITTLE MILLINER 55
and the persistence of Bell could extract from her
nothing like a fact which they did not know.
"We'll see her rooms, please," he said.
"Rooms!" The landlady sniffed. "She only
had one. Bed-sitting she was. First floor back."
She took them up, lingered, was dismissed, and with-
drew, snorting affront.
"She's all right, sir, I'd say," Bell pronounced.
"Yes. Yes. Only a fool," Reggie murmured. He
wandered round the room. It was drearily uncom-
fortable: stiff chairs, a rickety round table, wardrobe
and drawers of fawn graining, china of contorted
shape and hideous pattern.
"Looks like all the cheap lodgings I ever saw,"
said Bell.
"Yes. I don't wonder Celia wanted to get out of
it" Reggie mumbled.
"Did she, though? That's rather a point, sir."
"One of the points, yes." Reggie looked about him.
On the faded walls there were some pictures, senti-
mental and religious. A few popular novels stood on a
shelf. "Celia's room don't tell us much about Celia."
"You'd say she wasn't anything in particular."
"I'd say she was poor and didn't mean to make a
home here." Reggie opened the wardrobe. There
were several frocks in it—good frocks.
"Well, well," he murmured, and went to the chest
of drawers. The first that he pulled out was full of
dainty clothes. The others also. "I would also say
she meant to come back, Bell."
"I'm sure," Bell nodded. "No girl would leave
these behind. Silk, too. That's where the money
went. She's got a regular trousseau."
"I wonder," Reggie murmured. His round face
was without expression.


56 MR. FORTUNE EXPLAINS
"You mean Mr. Lomas may be right, sir," Bell
smiled. "She's just gone off to get married."
"Leavin' her trousseau behind. Not much done,
is it? No. Don't you feel we're up against something
queer?" He rummaged in the drawers, he pulled out
a box covered with chintz.
"Hallo, she did he ve some papers then," Bell
said eagerly. "Landlady's bills. Savings Bank book.
Matter of ten pounds she had. List of clothes. What's
this. Menu of restaurant dinner. At the' Bristol' too.
Flying a bit high for once. And a champagne cork.
Some theatre programmes. What's this? Picture
cut out of a paper. Photograph of a bit of country.
And that's the lot. Not a single letter." Reggie
was looking at the picture. "Well, sir, we haven't
got much here."
"I wouldn't say that," Reggie murmured. "No.
I wouldn't say that," and still he gazed at the picture.
It showed the head of a valley among hills crowned
with trees. "What did she keep this for, Bell?"
"Good lord, sir, how can you tell? Took her
fancy, I suppose. It's cut out of one of the daily
papers that publish photos o' landscape. Nice bit o'
country."
"I wonder," Reggie murmured.
"Looks like a bit of the chalk downs to my mind."
"Oh no. No. Look at the stream. Those slopes
ought to be limestone." He put it away in his pocket.
"Let's get on. We'll try Amelie now." He ran
downstairs.
"Why, sir, do you think you're on to something?"
said Bell, as he settled himself in the car. "We're
where we were to my mind."
"Oh no. No. Deeper and deeper yet."
"Well, I don't know why you say so."


THE LITTLE MILLINER 57
"Oh, Bell! oh, my Bell! We find the girl was
gettin' clothes together, apparently for her trousseau.
But her best friend didn't know there was a man.
And when she vanished, she didn't go to get married.
We find also that she'd been dining lavish and she
thought a lot of the dinner. And finally there is a bit
of country which she's very keen on."
"If you can make anything of all that I " Bell cried.
"I can't. That's what worries me. That's why
I am in a hurry. It's all dark. And the girl's been
missing a week."
"You do find such a lot in things," Bell objected.
"About that picture, sir. Lots o' people keep photos
of a bit of country they like."
"She didn't care for pictures. She didn't keep
anything to speak of. What she did keep meant
something."
Bell shrugged. "A girl that kept champagne
corks!"
"You're so inaccurate. She kept one champagne
cork. Which is very suggestive. There was just one
dinner and one bottle of champagne which had mattered
in her life."
"That looks like a man, don't it ?" said Bell.
"Yes. Yes. One of the unknown quantities is
probably a man. And her particular friend had never
heard of any man. She kept him very quiet. Reason
obscure. Purposes of hypothetical man also obscure."
"If some fellow's been playing tricks with the girl
that'd account for everything," Bell pronounced.
"Take it like that, and we've got a regular, ordinary
case."
"Oh, my aunt' I " Reggie moaned. "Why do you
fellows want to make every case an ordinary case?
'Is it weakness of intellect, Birdie? I cried.' Lomas


60 MR. FORTUNE EXPLAINS
her without respect. "Give me her address. Give me
your Miss Higgs, too. I'll take her to help the artist."
"I'll fetch her at once." Amelie hurried out.
"You've put the wind up, sir," Bell said.
"Yes. Yes. Probably means nothing. I should
say she's only a brute. But she annoyed me."
The large Miss Higgs fluttering with emotions was
an uncomfortable companion in a car. Her disappoint-
ment in the news that they had no news struggled with
the excitement of having the high powers of the police
at work with her. She told them everything all over
again, passionately incoherent.
The door of the artist's flat was opened by a buxom
girl with a mop of black hair. "Hallo, Bertha "—she
made eyes. "What's doing? Who are the little
men?"
"Let's come in, may we, Miss Grant?" She bent
to the girl's ear. "They're police."
"The constables came in two by two." She led
the way to a little untidy room. "What's up, Bertha?
Have you been getting pinched?"
"It isn't me. It's about Cely."
"The little milliner? Search me!"
"They wanted you to draw 'er, Miss Grant."
Miss Grant whistled. "Can do. What was she
wearing?"
"There! I don't know."
"The clothes she would wear for a longish journey
by rail or car," said Reggie, and Bell looked at him
curiously.
"That'd be her grey coat—and the grey 'at,"
Bertha cried, and explained technically.
"Right-o. Plain or coloured, constable?"
"Colour for choice," said Reggie. "General like-
ness, please."


62 MR. FORTUNE EXPLAINS
by rail she'd go by a Worcester train or a Cheltenham
train."
"All right, sir. It's wonderfully clever. But I'd
say it's a chance of a chance."
Reggie wriggled. "I want to be quick, Bell. Don't
you see we've got to be quick."
So Superintendent Bell went to try his luck with the
railwaymen at Paddington. Reggie's car took him
on to the office of the Daily Recorder. In the files of
that paper he found the picture. The description
which Celia had not cut out informed him that it was
a landscape in the heart of the Cotswold Hills, between
Stow-on-the-Wold and Ford. He went home and
spent the afternoon in his library over books about the
Cotswold country, drearily conscious of futility. No
information about that pleasant land suggested why
the little milliner had gone there: if she had.
In the evening Lomas surprised him bent over a map.
He started up. "Hallo! Any news from Bell?"
"Ingenuous youth !" Lomas chuckled. "No, Reg-
inald. The wretched Bell labours in vain. The
Great Western Railway declines to know your little
milliner. Most respectable line. He has put her
picture before all that can be found of the guards and
dining-car men and what not on Worcester and Chel-
tenham trains and they plead not guilty. Over the
telephone he sounds disgruntled. He proposes to
wait at Paddington to see one crew more, one lone last
hope, but I infer he hasn't any. A faithful fellow.
He spoils you, Reginald. You abuse his simple trust.
Speaking frankly, this is chasing one of your wildest
geese."
"It was a chance," Reggie mumbled.
"My dear fellow! You don't really think so?"
Lomas stared. He observed the open map. It dis-


THE LITTLE MILLINER 63
played the Cotswold country on a large scale. Reggie
had marked off a tract; some of the highest ground
in which valleys were cut deep and with steep sides:
a tract in which villages were small and few. "What
is this selected desert?"
"That's where her bit of landscape is. If Bell
can't trace her, I'll go down there to-morrow."
"Great heavens !" said Lomas. "My dear fellow,
you're not yourself in this case. From every scrap
of a fact you make a wild conjecture and take that
for evidence. All your theories about the girl are
outside reason. This hunt in the Cotswolds is simply
fantastic."
"Oh no. No. I'm quite rational, Lomas," Reggie
said wearily. "I believe evidence, that's all. You
don't trust it when it's queer. My little mind likes
to work on it. What's the higher intelligence want
to do? Nothing?"
"We have to look for the girl, of course. We shall
probably disturb her on her honeymoon. But that's
her own fault. I came round to speak to you about
putting her portrait in the morning papers."
"Send it out, yes. We must try everything." His
parlourmaid came in. "What is it?"
"Miss Higgs to see you, sir."
Reggie nodded. "All right. This is the faithful
friend, Lomas." And Miss Higgs came tempestuously.
"Mr. Fortune, I've 'eard from Cely. I've 'ad a
letter. Waiting for me to-night when I got 'ome.
'Ere, look. Didn't I say she wouldn't never leave me
without a word?"
Reggie took the letter. It was addressed in a
sketchy, jerky hand. The envelope bore the postmark
London, W.2. "This is Miss Gray's writing?" he
said.


64 MR. FORTUNE EXPLAINS
"Why, Mr. Fortune, of course it is. As if I wouldn't
know I It does look a bit splashy. She's kind of
flustered, poor dear. But it's 'er. She's all right,
thank God." Miss Higgs wiped her eyes.
The letter was written on a sheet torn from a pad.
It had no address. Twice the pen made a blot. The
writing was spasmodic in short uneven lines which
ran downhill.
Thursday.
Dear Bertha,—
Don't worry about me. I was wanting to write
before. Just a line to tell you not to worry. I'm
all right, I'm perfectly all right, dear. I want you
to tell Madame and my rooms I shan't be coming back.
Can't explain now. It's like being in a dream, all
that's happening. Going to be wonderful. Must stop
now. I want to see you soon.
Yours ever,
Celia.
Reggie was a long time reading it. He gave it to
Lomas. He looked at Miss Higgs. "That's like her,
is it? Sort of letter you'd expect?"
"We was always such friends. I knew she wouldn't
chuck me," said Miss Higgs affectionately. "Of course,
she don't say much. You can see something's come
to her. She's that excited."
"Yes. Yes. That is indicated."
"Sounds likes she's come in to something good,
bless 'er."
"Quite," Lomas smiled. "I should say the lady's
making a good marriage, Miss Higgs." He gave her
back the letter.
"Well, I never did !" Miss Higgs cried. "It does
sound like that, sir. But I 'adn't a notion. She was


THE LITTLE MILLINER 65
that close! Might be some gentleman what wouldn't
want it known he was marrying in the shop."
"Nothing more likely," Lomas agreed. "Anyhow,
you're quite satisfied?"
"I should say I was! She did ought to 'ave all the
best. She's a lady. And look 'ow she thinks o' me!"
Miss Higgs again wept.
"Very nice, very nice." Lomas was paternal. "I
hope she always will. So glad it's come to a happy
ending, Miss Higgs."
"Thank you, sir." She looked at Reggie, silent
and solemn, sunk in his chair. "Thank you, Mr.
Fortune. I've give you a lot of trouble for nothing.
And you been so kind."
"Oh no. No," Reggie mumbled. "Good night,
my dear."
He heaved himself up, he got rid of her.
Lomas slapped him on the shoulder. "My poor
Reginald! Are we downhearted?"
"Yes. We are," said Reggie, and stared at him
with contemptuous dislike.
Lomas chuckled. "This bitterness is very painful,
Reginald. I'm afraid you're spoilt. Not one of our
good losers. The little milliner must be a lesson to
you. Learn to respect the simple mind."
"Have you a mind?" said Reggie. "Then why
not use it? You told that girl it was a happy ending.
It isn't happy. And it isn't the end."
"My dear fellow! You have a letter which her
friend recognizes as the girl's own writing. Do you
doubt that?"
"Oh no. She wrote it."
"Good. We return to the world of reason. She
said she was all right. She suggested extreme happi-
ness. Isn't that clear?"
E


66 MR. FORTUNE EXPLAINS
"No. No. She said it was ' going to be wonderful.'
In the future; the present seemed to be rather hectic."
"Quite. The girl was wildly excited."
"You did notice that? Well, well. Rather vague
too, wasn't she? Striking absence of information.
She didn't say where she'd gone or why she'd gone or
what she was doing."
"It's obvious she means to break away from her old
life."
"Yes. It could be." Reggie looked at him with
large, solemn eyes.
"What is the theory now?"
"Somebody's breaking her. Ever seen a letter like
that before?"
"Oh, it looked a little drunk, of course."
"Drunk. Yes. Drunken writing, wasn't it?
Drunken thought: even to repeating she was quite
all right. But I don't think she'd been drinking,
Lomas. Say disorder of the nervous system."
"By all means," Lomas laughed. "Great nervous
excitement. It does happen to girls when they're just
married or just going to be."
Reggie was not amused. "Call it fright, then,"
he said sharply. "Can't you see that letter was written
to order? Whoever has got her wants to make sure
nobody shall worry about what's happening to her.
And she daren't say what it is."
"Good gad! This is an obsession. You got it into
your head that the girl had had foul play and now you
can't bear to be proved wrong. Look at the facts, man."
"Which?"
"The letter will do, thank you. Your wonderful
theory was the girl had been carried off to the wilds
of the Cotswolds. Did you see the envelope? Post-
mark, London."


68 MR. FORTUNE EXPLAINS
"That don't look so bad, sir. This young fellow,
he's a well-thought-of good sportsman. Very old
family, the Marners. His pa was called Smith—made
a pot of money out of soap or something. He married
the Miss Marner who was heiress to this old estate and
he took her name and got a knighthood. Dead a long
while. Lady Smith-Marner runs the place. She's all
right, they say. Don't forget she's somebody. No
children but this young man."
"I see no sign of crime, Reginald," Lomas smiled.
"The heir of all the Marners wants his wife to get
away from the shop, that's all."
"You think-so? Well, well. I wonder what Celia
thinks by now?"
"Meaning to go down, sir ?" said Bell. "No more
trains to-night."
"No. No." Reggie looked at his watch. "My
only aunt!" he moaned. "I've had no dinner. One
small swift dinner and early to bed. And then the
car at dawn. Oh, my hat! You'd better sleep here,
Bell."
"What on earth do you want to do ?" Lomas cried.
"I want to see the girl." Reggie looked up with a
certain ferocity on his amiable face. '' Any objection?
I'm going to see the girl—alive or dead."
"Still at it !" Lomas sighed. "All right. If you
will go mare's-nesting!" In the doorway he turned.
"Try to keep him out of trouble, Bell—but should
Lady Smith-Marner tell him off, let her rip."
Pale and glum in the early morning light Reggie
climbed into his car and slid deep under rugs. Super-
intendent Bell tucked him up paternally and the big
car purred away through the shut, silent town. . . .
Bell's pipe fell from an opening mouth. Bell was


THE LITTLE MILLINER 69
soothed to massive slumber, but Reggie fidgeted,
Reggie watched the fleeting miles, drearily wakeful.
. . . Spring sunshine broke through the grey sky,
the towers of Oxford stood clear, the car slowed for
the High Street amidst a ringing of chapel bells. Bell
woke and gaped. "Ah I Bless my soul! Here
already. Rare fine town, sir."
"Go to sleep," Reggie growled. "We aren't any-
where."
The sprawling suburbs were left behind, they made
speed through flat meadowland and climbed on a ridge
above the hurry of a stream. The mellow stone of a
little town glowed in the sunshine and was left behind;
they came upon the hills, long miles of rolling bare
land where no smoke stained the air, no house broke
the green curves, there was no sound but of the birds
and the wind. "Lonely!" Bell grunted.
Reggie fumbled for a map. "After the next village
turn right," he called to the chauffeur.
The village slept forlorn about a noble church. They
turned away north and the hills broke into deeper
valleys, steep slopes falling to clear, swift brown
streams edged with gold, and here and there beech-
woods covered hollow and ridge.
Reggie came out of his rugs. "Look! There's
Celia's picture," he said.
"Bless my soul!" Bell cried. "It is, absolutely.
You've hit that off, Mr. Fortune."
"Yes. I think so. And it's quite close to Marner
Grange."
Through solitude they came to the stone wall of a
park, to ancient gates of wrought iron. "A wolf's
head. Crest of the Marners. Well, well."
Bell looked at him. "Right out of the world they've
got her, too."


70 MR. FORTUNE EXPLAINS
"Yes. Yes. Very neatly managed. Some brains
among the Smith-Marners."
Marner Grange was built under the hill, a Tudor
Manor House of kindly grace in the mellow Cotswold
stone. A small car stood by the porch and its chauffeur
looked at them curiously. An antique butler opened
the door. He was given the card of Superintendent
Bell of the Criminal Investigation Department.
"Take that to Mr. Harry Smith-Marner. Tell him
that I have come down from London to see him."
"I will see if Mr. Harry is at home."
"Tell him he is,' said Bell.
"This way, if you please." The butler took them
out of the hall into a room which was the study of a
man who did not study. There were books against
the wall, a little library of field sports, a row of game
books, there were rod-cases and a line of guns.
They had time to examine it before anyone came to
them. At last appeared a slim youth of a pleasant,
simple countenance, very fair by nature, which had
become of an ashen pallor.
"I say. What's all this ?" he cried. "What have
you come for?"
"Mr. Harry Smith-Marner?" said Bell heavily.
"That's my name. What do you want?"
"The police have received information that Miss
Celia Gray, employed by Amelie, Rye Street, London,
disappeared in suspicious circumstances. Miss Gray
was traced travelling with you to Cheltenham. I want
to know where she is."
"She's here, of course. There's nothing suspicious."
The young man flushed. "My mother's here. I don't
know what you mean. My mother asked her down
and she's been staying on."
"Is that so? Then we want to see her."


THE LITTLE MILLINER 71
The young man's colour faded again. "See her?"
he cried. "I say, you can't talk about a lady like that.
I don't know if she ought—if she'd like I'll have
to ask my mother. I"
The door opened. "If you please, sir," the old
butler spoke. "Dr. Whinney wishes to speak to you."
The young man hurried out.
"Looks queer," Bell said. "He's got very cold feet."
"Yes. Yes. Severe mental disturbance. Him
also. That's very interesting. You never know,
you know. Actions and reactions. And there's a
doctor about. Well, well. I wonder if Dr. Whinney
will like speaking to me."
Bell stared at him. "You're cheering up, sir. Do
you reckon you see your way through it?"
"Oh no. No. It's opening out. But they're
playing with souls, Bell. Not a nice game. Not at
all a nice game."
He wandered away to the books, looking at one
and another. Bell turned to the guns. "That
young man's got the goods here." He handled them
affectionately. But these diversions did not beguile
the time.
"This won't do, Bell," Reggie said. "Dr. Whinney
has too much to say. Come on."
In the hall the butler confronted them. "Mr.
Smith-Marner is engaged, sir."
"Where?" Reggie snapped. The butler's chill
horror rebuked him in silence. But through the
silence he heard the young man's voice. It rose high.
Bell swept the butler away. They crossed the hall
to Lady Smith-Marner's drawing-room.
The door opened upon emotions. The young man
sat huddled; his hands hid his face and he muttered
in a broken voice. His mother had her arm about


72 MR. FORTUNE EXPLAINS
his shoulders. "My dear Harry," she was saying,
"my dear boy."
Two men watched with sympathy: a small sleek one
who was murmuring, "My dear fellow, I am most
distressed "; another, lanky and military, who barked,
"A sad business. A sad business. Have to face it,
Harry. What the devil t Who are you, sir?"
They all became aware of Reggie and Superintendent
Bell. The lad's pallor showed drawn and blotchy.
He waved them away as if they were wraiths in the
air. Lady Smith-Marner started up, a tall woman in
black, white hair piled above a gaunt bloodless face.
She bit her lip. Her lean bosom heaved. She swept
upon them. "An outrage," she said hoarsely and her
voice found strength. "This is an outrage."
"Oh no. No." Reggie met her. "You've made
it necessary. You know who we are."
"I know nothing, sir."
"Why say so ?" Reggie sighed. "Dr. Whinney I"
The smaller of the two men stood up. "My name's
Fortune, Reginald Fortune. You may have heard it."
The discomfort of Dr. Whinney made plain that he
had. "I'm here to make a medical report on the case
of Miss Gray for the Criminal Investigation Depart-
ment. Any objection?"
The young man's face was distorted with fear, horror,
shame. "My God! Oh, my God !" he groaned and
rushed out.
"What has affected your son, madam?" Reggie
said coldly.
"How dare you !" she muttered. Her fierce eyes
struck at him.
The military man swung forward. "Steady, Agnes,
steady. May as well tell him. Can't be a secret,
you know, damn it. Doing his duty, what? Sit


THE LITTLE MILLINER 73
down, Mr. Fortune. This is a very painful affair, sir.
Sad thing for the family. Now"
"See what the boy's up to, Bell," said Reggie over his
shoulder, and Bell strode away. "Now who are you?"
"Colonel Marner, sir. I'm Lady Smith-Marner's
cousin."
"Oh yes. Yes. Are you managing this affair for
her?"
"Damme, sir, I'm the only man in the family.
Now"
"Except her son," Reggie murmured. "Oh yes."
He swung round on the unhappy little doctor. "Now,
Dr. Whinney, what are you going to tell me?"
"Really, Mr. Fortune "—the doctor made mouths—
"you see my position. Professional confidence—good
gracious, what's that?"
It was a thudding crash, the noise of a scuffle, a
gun-shot, a fall. Reggie ran out. The smell of
powder met him. Bell called, "Mr. Fortune, sir."
In the room across the hall Bell was kneeling beside a
young man's body.
"Came here and locked the door, sir. So I broke
in. He was getting one of his guns fixed to fire into
his face. See the rod there to shove the trigger. I
went for him, but he had his shot. Took him some-
where up here by the neck. I don't know if he's gone,
there's such a mess. These shot-gun wounds"
A hoarse cry tore through his talk. The mother
had seen that wound.
"Steady, Agnes, steady," Colonel Marner admon-
ished her. "You mustn't break, my girl. Harry
don't want that."
She caught at Reggie bent working on the senseless
body. "Is he dead ?" she muttered.
"No. No." For a quick moment Reggie looked


74 MR. FORTUNE EXPLAINS
up at her. "But he's tried hard. You're in the way,
madam. The room clear, please. Dr. Whinney I"
The little doctor came shaking. . . . The wound was
dressed and bound. . . .
"That'll do now. I want him taken to a trust-
worthy nursing home. Go and telephone."
"Really, I don't know, Mr. Fortune; "the
doctor stammered. "Lady Smith-Marner—couldn't
he remain here?"
"A nursing home I can trust. Tell 'em to send an
ambulance."
"Well, of course it is a very nasty case." The
little doctor was torn with anxieties.
"Yes. Quite nasty. For everybody. And I'm in
charge."
"Certainly, Mr. Fortune. Quite so, yes. I—I will
tell Lady Smith-Marner."
"Go and telephone," said Reggie sharply. Dr.
Whinney fled.
The young man lay, decently and in order now,
waking to half-consciousness. "Stand by, Bell,"
Reggie murmured. "Don't let anybody talk to him.
Tell him not to worry. Ah I" A light step was
moving outside. He went to the door.
Behind it appeared the brown face of Colonel
Marner. "How goes it, what?"
Reggie came out and shut the door behind him.
"The boy is still alive," he said.
"You don't like the look of it, do you? Whinney's
telephoning for nurses, I hear."
"No. For a room in a nursing home."
"You want to take him away? His mother won't
like that, you know."
"You might explain to her, Colonel." Reggie
looked at him with half-shut eyes.


THE LITTLE MILLINER 75
"Quite so. Let's know how we stand. What's
going to happen to the boy? Looked a nasty thing
to me. I remember a poor chap in India, love affair
don't you know, went out shooting, put a shot into
himself. Didn't look such a mess as this. But they
couldn't do anything. Called it accident, of course,
for the sake of his people. Only decent, what?"
"Oh. You've been in India." Reggie murmured
and his eyes opened. "Oh yes. Well, this boy ought
to pull through. If he's properly cared for. That's
why he's going to a nursing home."
He turned away, he sought Dr. Whinney. The
telephone was still in action. . . .
Dr. Whinney gushed apologies: very sorry for the
delay: difficult to get through to Cheltenham. Unfor-
tunately Miss Ablett's nursing home was full. But he
had been offered a choice of rooms at Miss Dumaresq's:
really very good: Mr. Fortune could have every
confidence in her: and the ambulance should
arrive in half an hour, well, an hour at most. He did
hope
'* Do you ?" said Reggie. "What about the girl?
Come on." He opened the door of Lady Smith-
Marner's drawing-room. It appeared that the Colonel's
explanations with her had been stormy. Some swift,
vehement talk was suddenly hushed; she stood very
close to him, gripping his arm.
She swept round upon Reggie. "Is my boy going
to live?" she cried.
"I think he will live if he wants to live, madam,"
said Reggie slowly. "Why did he want to die?"
She bit her lip. "It is this woman," she said.
"A most painful affair, sir," the Colonel barked.
"Most distressing, begad. The boy was infatuated


76 MR. FORTUNE EXPLAINS
with the poor creature. And she—well, well, the
doctor will tell you."
"One moment. One moment. You can tell me
something, madam. Why did Miss Gray come to your
house?"
"My boy wished to marry her. I had never seen
her. You know what she is. A girl in a milliner's
shop. Harry is all I have. I told him to bring her
here."
"Very generous, too," the Colonel grunted. "Give
the girl her chance, what? I'll always say you were
right, Agnes."
"The boy had your consent to marry her, madam?"
said Reggie.
"Nothing was decided. When the girl came here
we saw she—she wasn't well."
"Which the boy hadn't noticed before. She came
on Saturday night. How soon was she ill?"
"On Sunday we thought she wasn't quite normal."
Lady Smith-Marner spoke as if each word hurt her.
"Very excited and noisy."
"Might have been feverish, don't you know?"
the Colonel explained.
"After that she got very strange. Sometimes in
wild spirits and then depressed and sullen. She—
she puzzled us very much."
"Took to seeing things, if you know what I mean,"
the Colonel put in. "Poor girl, she'd say 'What's
that ?' all of a sudden, when there wasn't really any-
thing."
"Yes. Very painful for the boy. When did you
have the doctor?"
"I sent for Dr. Whinney on Tuesday."
Reggie turned to the doctor. "Your case from
Tuesday. Well?"


THE LITTLE MILLINER 77
"I—I—it has been a very distressing case, Mr.
Fortune," the little man stammered. "I thought
possibly some nervous strain—in the circumstances—
a hysterical condition. I found the symptoms—the
symptoms Lady Smith-Marner describes. I ordered
the patient to bed—complete rest. But her condition
has grown worse. The senses are disordered. There
is grave mental disturbance. There are hallucinations.
Her judgment of time and distance and sound is quite
uncertain. I was forced to the conclusion it is a case
of paranoia. I had to tell the poor boy this morning."
"You told him the girl was mad. Yes, I thought
so. And now I'll see her."
"Certainly, Mr. Fortune." The little man looked
to the lady and the Colonel for instructions and got
none. "Of course, I shall be very glad "Reggie
pointed to the door.
The room to which he was taken was vast and dim,
so closely its casements were curtained, so dark the
panelled walls, so gloomy the ancient furniture. In
a corner he made out a four-poster bed hung with
crimson. He looked at Dr. Whinney without affection.
"Nice wholesome mausoleum," he muttered. He went
to the window and dragged back all the curtains.
From the bedside a nurse arose, rustled forward
with an important show of moving quietly and spoke
in a penetrating whisper. "She's very low, Doctor.
The light's bad for her."
"I'll call you when I want you," said Reggie, and
she retired dwindling.
In the wide expanse of the four-poster there was a
little mound. Celia lay with her knees drawn up to
her body, burying her face in the pillow. "Well, well."
Reggie bent over her. "Good morning, Miss Gray.
Harry wants me to have a look at you. My name's


78 MR. FORTUNE EXPLAINS
Fortune. A doctor, you know. All the way from
London."
"Harry sent for you?" She turned to look at him.
He saw the charming shy face of the portrait, wan and
anxious, with fear haunting dull eyes.
He took her hand. "Now we're friends." His
fingers moved to the pulse. "You see, I know Bertha.
So I know something about Bertha's friend. And I
ought to be able to find out what's gone wrong with
her." He was looking close into the sunken, dark-
rimmed eyes. "Tell me all about things."
"You know Bertha ?" she said, as if she could not
believe it. A little colour came into her face.
"Oh yes. Yes. Bertha's rather a dear, isn't she?
Well, how have you been feeling down here?"
She frowned. "What was that noise?"
Dr. Whinney coughed. Dr. Whinney touched
Reggie's arm. "Yes, ignorin' the doctor's silly cold,"
said Reggie, "which noise do you mean?"
"It was this morning. I'm sure it was this morn-
ing.
From her banishment the nurse spoke with prim
satisfaction: "I told Miss Gray it was nothing,
doctor."
"She thinks I'm mad," Celia cried. "I know she
thinks I'm mad."
"Oh, my dear!" said the nurse. "You mustn't
talk like that."
Reggie looked over his shoulder. "I've heard all I
want of you," he said sharply and came back to the girl.
"It don't matter what nurse thinks. If she can
think. There was a noise, of course: an awful crash.
Somebody hit a door and things fell down."
"There was! Oh, I'm so glad. I've heard things
before and they said there wasn't a sound. And


THE LITTLE MILLINER
afterwards I thought really there wasn't." She thrust
her tumbled hair back from her brow. "Then seeing
things, too: they couldn't really be real."
"Nice things?" Reggie said gently.
She blushed. "Oh—oh yes." Her voice was
faint. "Only like dreams. Sort of gorgeous. Like
a big scene in a theatre."
"And you were happy while you saw them?"
"Awfully happy. Only when they're gone it's
dreadful. Sort of being dead while you're alive" She
looked at him and he saw the fear in her eyes darker.
"Oh, that's ghastly. Do you know?"
"Yes, I think so," Reggie said gently. "Now just
shut your eyes a minute." His hand moved upon her.
"Do you feel me touch you? Tell me if I do. Tell
me where." Sometimes she knew, sometimes she
felt nothing. "Eyes open. All over." He took her
hand. "Well, you know, I'm going to tell Harry
not to worry about you. I'm going to tell Bertha
I've got you all right. My hat! You make people
rather like you, don't you? Well, I'm going to look
after you. I'm going to take you away from this
gloomy old room into a nursing home where you can
be comfy. And you're going to be quick and get well.
Now just curl up and be peaceful. I'll be back
soon."
"Oh, you are nice," she said faintly.
Reggie moved to the door, beckoning the nurse after
him. "Don't talk to her," he said in a low voice.
"Don't give her anything. If anything more happens
to her in this house, I'll make you responsible." He
turned to the little doctor. "Now I'll talk to you.
Where's a room?"
Dr. Whinney babbled: "Certainly, Mr. Fortune,
if you please. I am sure we may use this." They


80 MR. FORTUNE EXPLAINS
went into an old sun parlour. "I hope you don't
think"
"What have you been giving her?"
"Why, really—nothing but a sedative. Just a
little bromide."
"Who brought that nurse in?"
"Really, Mr. Fortune. I thought it quite necessary
—and Lady Smith-Marner asked me to get a nurse
who could control the poor girl—be firm with her, you
know, in her delusions. I was bound to agree."
Reggie contemplated the little man without affection.
"Lady Smith-Marner told you she wanted a firm nurse
and you agreed. Yes. Did Lady Smith-Marner tell
you she wanted the girl found mad?"
"Good heavens, Mr. Fortune! Upon my word, I
don't understand you."
"I was wondering if you agreed to that, too."
"This—this is really intolerable," the little man
stammered. "I'm not to be treated so. Mr. For-
tune, I—I"
"Yes. You're very uncomfortable. You ought
to be. You told that boy the girl was mad and he
went and shot himself. And she's not mad. She's
been drugged."
"Drugged?" The little man gasped. "It's not
possible. What drug?"
"Don't you know?" said Reggie. "I do."
"I swear I never thought of such a thing."
"Yes. You haven't thought much, have you?"
The sound of a car was heard. Reggie looked out
of the window. "Well, here's the ambulance. We'll
deliver you of your patients, Doctor." He ran
downstairs.
The lad lay conscious, staring at the grave, paternal
presence of Superintendent Bell. "Well, young man."


THE LITTLE MILLINER 81
Reggie felt about his wrist. "Yes. I've seen your
Celia. She's going to be all right, you know. Nothing
to worry about. Now then." The men from the
ambulance carried the lad away. "That'll do nicely.
You'll take him to Miss Dumaresq's home. Tell her
Mr. Fortune will be there soon. Mr. Reginald Fortune.
And I want another room for a lady, a nice room.
Then come back here with the ambulance for her.
See? Good." -
The ambulance drove off. "Mr. Fortune, if you
please," Dr. Whinney twittered. "Mr. Fortune, just
a word"
Reggie stared at him. "I don't want you any
more. You may go home—and think." Reggie drew
Bell into the house. "Anything happen while I was
upstairs?"
"The boy's mother came in, sir. I said not to talk.
She just looked at him, kind of ghastly. He must
have seen her, but he didn't seem to. She gave a sort
of groan and went away. I reckon it's hit her hard."
"I wonder," Reggie murmured. He drew a long
breath. '* Well, let's deal with 'em." He took Bell
into the drawing-room.
Lady Smith-Marner was by the window staring out.
She did not choose to see him. The Colonel was more
affable. "Well, Mr. Fortune, got poor Harry com-
fortably provided for? That's good. You've made
your examination of the girl, what? Formed an
opinion?"
"Oh yes. Yes. Quite a clear case. There's only
one point." He stopped. "Lady Smith-Marner!"
he said sharply.
The gaunt face turned to him. The eyes were dim.
"Was it part of the scheme that Harry should be
made to kill himself?"
F


82 MR. FORTUNE EXPLAINS
"What the devil do you mean, sir?" the Colonel
roared.
"Oh, don't be noisy. I can see it would suit you
very well if Lady Smith-Marner were left without a
son. You're quite obvious. . I did wonder whether his
mother was ready for that, too."
"I never meant—I never thought "Lady
Smith-Marner gasped. "Oh, my God, what have you
told Harry?"
"Damme, Agnes, don't let the fellow bully you!"
the Colonel barked.
Reggie watched her. "Yes. I shall have to tell
him something. You couldn't bear him to marry a
girl out of a shop. When you found that he wouldn't
give the girl up, you asked the girl to the house in order
to drug her till she seemed mad. I might tell Harry
that."
Lady Smith-Marner gazed at him and her lips moved,
but she did not speak. "Drugs, sir?" the Colonel
barked. "Damme, you're mad yourself. Crazy impu-
dence. An English lady don't use drugs, sir. The
girl's had a doctor. He knows all about her. He"
"Oh, the doctor," Reggie shrugged. "He was very
nice and tame, wasn't he? I suppose you had reckoned
up the doctor beforehand. And, as you say, it wasn't
an English drug, Colonel. You mentioned you'd been
in India. Very kind of you. That explained the
case before I saw the girl. Do you use the stuff
yourself ?''
"What stuff, sir? Damme, what do you dare to
suggest?"
"Cannabis indica. I suppose you call it Bhang or
Hashish."
"Never heard of it," the Colonel growled.
"Oh yes. They eat it in India. Very excitin'.


THE LITTLE MILLINER 83
You're rather excited, aren't you? We call it—hemp.
Used here for other purposes, Colonel Marner."
The Colonel's eyes swelled bloodshot. He made
throaty noises. "Confounded impudence—don't you
bully me, sir—infernal trick—know nothing about it."
"Oh—you coward," the woman cried. "Mr. For-
tune—he did it—we did it. It's my fault, God knows
it's my fault. I hated the girl so. But he thought of
this way. He had this thing—he used it. He said
if we gave her enough it would make her so wild and
strange Harry would think she was out of her mind
and have to break it off. And the drug wouldn't hurt
her really—only make her so strange that even a doctor
couldn't tell, and we could trust Dr. Whinney. So I
gave her the stuff. It's me, me. And Harry—oh,
I wish I'd died first. I wish I were dead. I never
thought it would make him "Her voice failed.
Reggie swung round on the Colonel. "That's all.
When we want you, we'll find you," he said, and the
Colonel slunk out.
"Mr. Fortune," the woman said faintly. "I
never meant"
"Not the boy's death, no. I believe that," Reggie
frowned. "Only breakin' the girl's life."
"What are you going to do to me?"
"I'm not thinkin' about you."
"Oh God, if I could die!" she sobbed. "What are
you going to tell Harry?"
"Yes. That's what matters," he said gently.
"They must have their chance. So I'm going to
give you yours. Good-bye."


THIRD EXPLANATION
THE WEDDING RING
ON a winter afternoon Mr. Fortune came back
from a triumphant row with a physician over
a culture of bacteria to be told that a doctor had
called to see him. Few doctors do so without appoint-
ment. This one had startled Edith, the parlourmaid,
by desiring to wait for the unknown moment of
Mr. Fortune's return. He had been waiting a couple
of hours. He gave the name of Dr. Marshall and
said Mr. Fortune would not know him but his affair
was urgent. In the opinion of Edith he was a
foreigner.
"All right. Bring him along," said Reggie, and
turned into his consulting-room.
The next moment Edith came fluttering: "He's
not in here, sir. He must have gone."
"Well, well," Reggie sighed. "Has the silver gone,
too?" And Edith fled.
But the doctor had stolen nothing. It was to be
inferred that, despairing of seeing Mr. Fortune, he had
resolved to take his urgent affair to another authority.
Reggie delivered a mild homily on the responsibility
of parlourmaids for unknown visitors and sat down to
write letters. The gloom of a December night closed
upon Wimpole Street.
It was an hour later when Edith disturbed him.
"A lady, sir. She says she's Dr. Marshall's wife,
84


THE WEDDING RING
85
Madame Marshall. She asked if he'd been here and
wants to see you."
"You told her he had been?" Reggie frowned.
"No, sir, I didn't," Edith reproved him with con-
scious virtue. "I said I'd inquire."
'* Oh yes. That's right. I'll see her."
A slim dark woman tripped in. "Mr. Fortune?
I am Madame Marchal," she pronounced it as a French
word. Reggie murmured that he hadn't the honour
—" But you know my husband, Dr. Marchal."
"Do I?" Reggie contemplated her with half-shut
eyes. She was young, but many years more than a
girl. A sharp, knowing face. She was excited but
quite sure of herself. Not English, possibly French.
Not too well off. Discreet dark clothes. Like a secret-
ary or superior clerk. But she had a wedding ring
all right. It showed as she twisted her bare hands.
"He's been with you this afternoon. You've seen
him," she cried.
Reggie shook his head. Reggie smiled. "I'm
afraid this won't do, you know. I'm a medical man.
I can't tell you whether anybody has been to consult
me or not."
"But I am his wife, Mr. Fortune."
"Quite. Naturally you have his confidence."
Reggie bowed.
"His confidence? Oh yes. Perfectly. I know
that he desired to consult you." Large dark eyes
gazed at Reggie with tragic intensity. "Mr. Fortune!
He came to you this afternoon and he is not returned
to me."
"My dear lady "—Reggie smiled—" are you sug-
gesting that I have made away with your husband?
If you think that, you should apply to the police."
"Oh, heaven! Why are you so cruel with me?


THE WEDDING RING 89
"My dear Reginald." Lomas took him by the arm..
"You come along to bed. We've got men watching
the house and one will stay inside. It's all right now."
"Oh yes. Yes. Quite all right. Bed is indicated.
I ache at large. Nothing serious, but tiring. I shall
be very stiff to-morrow. And not beautiful. That
schoolgirl complexion is lost awhile. Ow I"
Lomas helped him to bed with solicitude. "Now
what about a doctor, young fellow?"
"Oh no. No. The medical profession is super-
fluous. We'll keep it quite quiet. Give 'em some-
thing to think about."
"Who do you mean?"
"I haven't the slightest idea. Dr. Marchal per-
haps. With him Madame Marchal. A rose by any
other name would smell as sweet. Somebody must
yearn to know whether I am a corpse or otherwise.
And what's being done about it. Let's be mysterious,
too. Same like the vanishin' doctor. Lomas, dear,
I'm confusin' you. It is confusin' to the simple
mind." And he told the story of the Marchals and the
attack. "There's the crude, bewilderin' facts. And
if you can see what they mean, I shall be delighted.
And surprised." He gazed dreamily at Lomas with
the one eye which remained open. "Yes, I should
say we're goin' to be a good deal surprised before
we're done with it. Speakin' broadly, anything
would surprise me."
"One thing's clear," said Lomas briskly.
"Oh, my aunt!" Reggie moaned. "And what is
that?"
"There's been a determined attempt to kill you."
"Ow! I wish you wouldn't make me laugh. It
hurts. Yes. Somebody is not loving me. I did
notice that. One of the crude facts. But its meaning


go MR. FORTUNE EXPLAINS
escapes me. Why should anyone want to eliminate
me? And oh, Mr. Lomas, this is so sudden. And
what is the reason for the existence of Madame
Marchal?"
"Let's take it from the beginning," said Lomas
in a superior, instructive manner.
And Reggie murmured: "Yes, dear."
"The natural explanation is that these Marchals
were engaged in the attack on you."
"Yes. It could be. Yes. Some connection be-
tween the Marchals and the sandbags is indicated.
But why the sandbags? Why does anyone want
to slay poor Reginald? Cut bono? Who's goin' to
gain by my decease? I haven't got anything big in
hand."
Lomas nodded. "There's no important case just
now. I thought of that."
"I riled old Basildon to-day, showin' him he didn't
know a streptococcus when he met one. But he
wouldn't murder me. He only wanted to."
"Let's be serious, old fellow," Lomas reproached
him.
"Oh, I am. All over."
"This is a nasty business. An attack on you is an
attack on the work of the police."
"Yes. Yes. Also it hurts."
"As there's no question of interference with a case
in hand, the motive must be revenge. Someone
you've convicted, or his friends would like to get even
with you."
"Yes. It could be," Reggie sighed. "I suppose
I've made a few earnest enemies."
"We've had a case or two before, haven't we?"
Reggie moved uncomfortably. "Rather a near
thing once or twice. Yes. And this was near enough.


THE WEDDING RING
Yes. Revenge is one possibility. But there are
difficulties. You can fit the vanishing doctor into
revenge. Or Madame. But not the two of 'em
together."
"Quite simple, my dear fellow. Marchal couldn't
get at you, so Madame was sent to discover if you
were going to be out for ever."
"That's why she was so anxious to know whether
I had seen Marchal? I wonder."
"Naturally she wanted to find out if you had any
suspicions."
"Yes. She did want. She very much wanted to
find out what I made of the vanishing Marchal. But
I don't think she knew whether I'd seen him or not.
That's why I didn't tell her."
"No doubt Marchal was sent to attack you, got
scared of waiting so long, thought he was suspected,
and bolted. So the people behind him wouldn't
know what happened."
"Theory number two," said Reggie wearily. "You
can have which you like, Lomas, but not both."
Lomas stared. "There's no new theory. I'm only
working out this idea of a conspiracy of revenge."
"My dear chap! Oh, my dear chap! First theory,
Marchal went back to the hypothetical people behind
him and said I was not at home, so they sent Madame
to see if I'd come in. All right.' Second theory,
Marchal got the wind up and bolted, so the people
behind him didn't know what had happened to him
and Madame was sent to find out. All right again.
But one must be wrong."
"There's no real difficulty," Lomas pronounced.
And Reggie moaned," Oh, my hat I"
"Don't you see, it's obvious there are people in it
besides the Marchals——"


92 MR. FORTUNE EXPLAINS
"Oh yes. My friends with the sandbags. I did
notice 'em."
"Whether Marchal has bolted in a funk or has been
working with them all the time doesn't matter much."
"My only aunt," Reggie moaned.
"The point is, we have to deal with a gang who
are out for your blood. Well, they won't get it
now." Lomas looked at him with affection. "I'll see
to that, old man. But I have to get them. And the
only clue is these Marchals."
"Yes. Thanks very much. A hefty man or so
will be grateful and comfortin'. Yes. Safety first.
I have no desire to die for my country. But this
revenge motive is only a hypothesis, you know. Not
one of our best hypotheses, Lomas old thing."
"What's in your mind?"
"Well, some of the facts don't fit into it. What
worried Madame was that she didn't know whether I'd
seen Marchal or not. What she was afraid was that
he'd told me something."
"Why naturally, she was afraid, as the man had
bolted, he might have given them away."
"All right. Try again. When I went out, I had
some letters to post. Those letters didn't go into the
area with me. They weren't on the pavement when
I came back home. They must have been taken
by the sandbag men. The only possible inference is
those fellows wanted to make sure I shouldn't send
information of anything Marchal had told me."
"Good gad!" said Lomas. "That's an odd thing.
But it's rather mad. You'd been hours in the house.
Anything urgent that Marchal might have told you,
you would have telephoned. They couldn't expect
you to write us a letter about it."
"Yes. That's assuming Marchal came to tell me


THE WEDDING RING
93
something short and snappy. But they seem to have
thought it would want writing out."
"What on earth could that be?"
"I haven't the slightest idea. Possibly some code
or plan. He called himself a doctor. It might be
something medical. It might be anything. But you
see there's another possible hypothesis. Marchal came
to give me some information and because I may have
it, somebody felt it worth while to do me in."
"Quite. It is a possibility. But we come back to
the same point. The only clue is the Marchals.
That's what I said."
"Dear Lomas," Reggie smiled. "Ow! I wish
you wouldn't be funny. Who is Marchal, what is he,
that I have got it in the neck? What's become of
Marchal, since he gave us all the slip? Run away
and look for him. He isn't in the medical directory.
Edith thinks he's foreign. Big man with beard.
That's all she knows. He left this house some time
in the dusk. Madame is a dark slim thing in dark
clothes not too good. Nearly new wedding ring—
very yellow—she's certainly foreign. Might be French.
She went off in a taxi with a man in it about eight."
He yawned. "That's all the available facts. And I
wish you luck." His one operative eye closed. He
wriggled down into bed. "I would like to sleep if it
could be managed. Good-bye."
"My dear fellow," said Lomas affectionately.
"Sleep the clock round. We'll look after you."
But the energies of the solemn men who watched
over Reggie's house were not called for. Undisturbed,
his bruised and sprained body rested, his face sank
back into its natural shape and colour. And day by
day his telephoned inquiries to the Criminal Investiga-
tion Department became more satirical.


94
MR. FORTUNE EXPLAINS
Till Lomas brought Superintendent Bell to lunch.
"You've been sounding peevish, Reginald. I always
find Bell has a soothing influence."
"You've had a bad time, sir," said Bell with
solicitude.
"Not nice, no. Startlin' at the moment. Kind of
lookin' at the everlastin' void, Bell. And afterwards
painful, like havin' been beaten with many stripes.
It leaves a certain resentment. But the pain is now
in the mind."
"Ah! That sort of thing shakes you up, doesn't
it?" Bell nodded.
"My dear chap! Oh, my dear chap! I'm not a
plaintive sufferer. I want to know what's become
of the elusive Marchal. That's my complaint. Well,
come and lunch. I can eat both sides of my mouth
now. Very gratifyin'! You watch. Ignore the
iridescent eye."
He fed them on oysters and an entrecote Elise, that
rich way of dealing with beef which he designed and
christened with his cook's name; he gave them
Richebourg to drink and apologized for the meal.
"A trifle crude, a trifle coarse. But fortifyin' to
the nerves. Vigour is what we need."
"Sleep is what I shall need," Lomas chuckled.
"We haven't been exactly dawdling, sir," Bell
protested. "You know this isn't an easy case to
handle. Absolutely the only thing we had to work
on was these Marchals coming and going here. I've
got a taxi-driver who picked up a man and a woman
in Regent Street and drove 'em to your house and
drove 'em back to the Marble Arch. That's not
going to do us a lot o' good. He didn't notice the man.
It was the woman did the talking. He describes her
same as you did. Then about Marchal. A taxi was


THE WEDDING RING
95
engaged by a chap in your street about tea-time that
day and drove him to the Victory Hotel—big, fair
chap. Well, they've had a Doctor and Madame
Marchal there. Came in the morning. On that
evening Marchal went out again and a taxi took a big
man like him to Hertford Place—you know, up in
Westminster—he didn't give a number, he wasn't
seen to go in anywhere. There we've lost him. He
hasn't been back to the hotel as far as we know.
Madame stayed on two days. Then she left and we
lose her. The hotel noticed nothing special about
'em. Luggage a couple o' suit-cases. Thought they
were foreigners. Only their names in the register."
"Bell, have you told me all ?" said Reggie solemnly.
"Well, of course there was one other clue—the
sandbagging. I'd say that was a professional crook's
job, it was managed so neat. If you hadn't thought
of going down the area they'd have done you in.
And I never knew anybody but a professional use a
sandbag."
"Professional work," Reggie smiled. "Yes, I
thought that. What about it?"
"Well, we don't have sandbags much in London.
Long time since there was a street case. Yet they were
ready for you. To my mind that looks like foreigners."
"Yes. Yes. Again foreign talent is suggested.
Another little point. The directin' intelligence is
cautious. If they'd used the knife they could have
got me just as well. Probably they would have got
me. But it would have been plain murder. If I'd
been found dead in the road with a fractured skull
and a bruise or two I should have gone to the grave as a
traffic accident."
"Yes, very likely," Lomas grinned. "As you
wouldn't have done the post-mortem yourself."


96 MR. FORTUNE EXPLAINS
"Don't be facetious. It would have been most
annoyin'. Think of me in heaven watchin' another
doctor report it accidental death and you fellows
hushin' up the case. My hat! I'd have come back
to haunt you."
"You would, Reginald, I'm sure you would,"
Lomas chuckled.
Bell was shocked. "This sort of talk doesn't
help," he rebuked them.
"Oh, my Bell! Not wholly irrelevant. I'm pointin'
out that if the thing had gone accordin' to plan, there
would have been no tiresome policeman snimn' after
the Marchals. Two inferences. First that somebody
don't want us to know the Marchals, though Marchal
came runnin' round to me. Second, that the some-
body is a cautious, far-sighted mind but frightened.
He can plan very clever, he has large resources, he is
in some sort of danger and he'll do anything he can
think of to save himself. I don't like it, Lomas. I
don't like it at all. I should say we'll get him in
the end. These clever nervous criminals generally
put in one crime too many. But he may do a lot of
damage first."
"My dear fellow!" Lomas pushed back in his
chair. "This is sheer prophecy. You not only
imagine the required criminal but tell his fortune!
Very daring. Not like you at all."
"Imagine!" Reggie moaned. "Oh, my aunt!
Imagine nothing. That's what he is. Don't you feel
it in the facts?"
He led the way to his library and set them smoking
and lit a long cigar and sank into a chair. "Yes.
The primary problem is, what was Marchal coming to
tell me?"
"You give up the theory of revenge?" Lomas said.


THE WEDDING RING 97
"No. I never had it. No. I wonder how things
would have worked out if I had told Madame I hadn't
seen Marchal."
Bell frowned at him. "Why didn't you tell her
just that? Seems the natural thing."
"Because she wasn't natural. Because I didn't
believe in her."
"Ah! You always thought she was fishy. Then
what did you think she was up to?"
"I hadn't the slightest idea. But I thought if
she believed I knew something she'd show her hand."
"Your mistake," said Lomas.
"Oh no. No. We had a trump played. Attempt
to murder me. It didn't take the trick. But it shows
you the sort o' card they've got ready. And the card
they're afraid of—what Marchal knows."
"My dear fellow. This is nothing but fancy.
What could Marchal have been going to tell you?"
And again Reggie murmured, " I haven't the slightest
idea." Then he sat up. "Anything else occur to
you, Bell?"
"Not me, sir. Everything's broken down."
"I wouldn't say that. There are points. Curious
diffusion of the Marchals over London. He goes to
Westminster and vanishes. She is picked up in Regent
Street and dropped at the Marble Arch. Another
curious point. Very curious. Madame stays on at
the hotel two days after the vanishing of Marchal."
He looked at them with plaintive inquiry. "1 don't
understand that at all."
"Probably waiting for news of your death," Lomas
shrugged.
"I wonder. Well, take the definite spots in Mar-
chars movements. Victory Hotel, Hertford Place,
Westminster. Who lives in Hertford Place?"
G


98 MR. FORTUNE EXPLAINS
Bell smiled. "You can take it we've worked that
out, sir. One of those old streets behind the Abbey,
been rebuilt as rather recherche houses. Absolutely
first-class people. Young Rimington of the Rimington
firm, Sir Blayne Gorton, Lady Esther Botynor, Vis-
count Ford, and Mr. Spennilove the architect. Don't
sound much like foreign crooks, does it? However,
we tried 'em all. Nothing known of any Dr. Marchal
calling. Gorton's away, but I saw his butler. He's
all right."
"Yet the elusive and foreign Marchal picked out
this small distinguished street. Curiouser and curi-
ouser. Architect? I think not. Ford—he's a dis-
charged politician. No. Lady Esther's a lamb. I've
met her. Gorton—Blayne Gorton "He looked
at Lomas.
"Chemical manufacturer. Quite well known. Lead-
ing man in his line."
"Yes. That is so." Reggie blew smoke rings.
"Yes. And Gorton is away. Was Gorton away
when Marchal drove to Hertford Place?"
"I didn't get that." Bell frowned. '' The butler
just said he was away. And nobody had called that
night. Quite clear."
"One more house. Young Rimington. The Rim-
ingtons have a finger in a lot o' pies."
"My dear fellow!" Lomas was impatient. "His-
toric firm. Sound as the Bank—and as straight.
What's in your mind? It's absurd to suspect Rim-
ingtons or Gortons of conspiracy with a gang of
crooks."
"Oh yes. Yes. That is indicated. But you don't
explain why Marchal drove to Hertford Place."
"Because he was going somewhere else," said
Lomas.


THE WEDDING RING
"You think so ?" Reggie murmured. "Well, well.
Take it from the other end. What about the Victory
Hotel? Did you see the chambermaid, Bell?"
"Yes, sir. Saw every one who had to do with
'em. She couldn't describe 'em."
Reggie gazed at him with dreamy eyes. "I won-
der," he murmured. "I'd like to talk to the chamber-
maid."
Bell was not pleased. "What do you think I've
missed, sir?"
"Oh, my Bell! Nothing. Nothing anybody knew.
But there might be something they don't know they
know."
"All right, sir. I like to see you at work. If
you're up to it."
Lomas laughed. "Oh, take him along. He won't
be happy till he's showing us how to do our job."
"I wish I knew," Reggie mumbled. He stood up
and surveyed them and his round face was pale and
anxious. "Don't you see? This isn't the usual
police case r crime all over before you come along.
What they did to me is only a by-product. We
haven't got near the real thing. And it's still going
on. With some clever, careful devil directin'. If we
can't cut in quick there'll be more than my head
broken. Come on, Bell."
The Victory Hotel is a place of a hundred beds and
the simple life. The manager, a brisk and competent
Swiss, received another police inquiry with resignation.
For his part he had told everything. He could not
himself recall the Marchals clearly: an impression that
the man was a big blond and spoke English not
like an Englishman—that was all. In fact, he had
only remarked them once, when first they came and
he happened to be in the hall. It was his habit to go


ioo MR. FORTUNE EXPLAINS
round the tables at dinner and speak to the guests.
But they did not dine in the hotel.
Reggie stirred. "Oh, Madame stayed on two days
after the doctor departed. But she didn't have
dinner."
"She did not have dinner. That is sure. It is
not charged. to her. When the doctor departed, I
do not know. You see, they engaged a room for
two persons and they pay for two all the time. But
there are meals charged for one only. See "—he
produced his books. "Breakfast for one—lunch for
one—breakfast for one in the bedroom the next day
and the next. Then the bill is paid and the room
given up. They tell me Madame paid and no one here
saw Monsieur after the first day. But I do not know."
"That's clear enough." Bell looked at Reggie.
"The man never came back here after he went out that
first evening."
Reggie gave no sign of hearing. "How did she
pay her bill?" he murmured.
"How?" The manager stared. "She paid in her
room. She paid the chambermaid. That is a little
unusual, yes. But since she had only two meals
downstairs, natural enough."
"Breakfast and lunch on the day after she came
—then nobody saw her but the chambermaid?"
"I see. Yes." Reggie contemplated him with
dreamy eyes.
"The Marchals have never been here before?"
The manager shrugged. "What do I know? No
one remembers them. They appear the type of
which we have many. Good bourgeois, French,
German, Swiss, Dutch, Belgian, all come to us, and
English who travel. Business people. You under-
stand, sir, this is a most respectable hotel."


THE WEDDING RING
101
"Quite. Quite. You ought to be a judge of
nationality. And you think Marchal wasn't English?
What was he?"
The manager spread out his hands. "I see him
only a moment, I hear only a few words. I think
perhaps he is French. But do not trust to that."
"Oh no. No, I won't. Now it's mademoiselle
of the bureau, and the waiter, and the chambermaid,
please. And your register."
Mademoiselle brought the register. "Dr. & Madame
Marchal" was written in a small neat hand with a
flourish.
"Might be his real name, it's done so natural,"
Bell grunted. "Used it often, anyway."
Mademoiselle remembered Marchal as a big man
with a fair beard, his wife as small and dark. She
thought him flurried. The man's accent was French.
The woman had been to the bureau once or twice for
her key. She was very polite.
"No change in her manner as time went on?"
Reggie asked.
"But I do not remember. I think I did not see her
only at first."
The waiter also thought Madame amiable. He
supposed her French. Certainly she spoke to him in
French. She was dark and small. But pretty,
without doubt. "What you call nice in English."
Bell grunted. "You think so ?" Reggie murmured.
"Yes." He turned to the manager. "Is the room
which Madame had vacant?"
"One moment. Seventy-three. Yes, it is vacant.
But you will find nothing there. We have had people
in there since. It has been cleaned and cleaned again.
Also the Superintendent he saw it before."
"That's right. Nothing there, sir," said Bell.


104 MR. FORTUNE EXPLAINS
benign smile. "But it's worth ten shillings, my
dear." He wandered out.
Bell took leave of the manager and pursued him.
Mr. Fortune was already in his car and it began to
move while Bell was getting in. "Sorry, sir." Bell
struggled off his lap. "In a hurry, are we?"
"Oh yes. Yes. Still pantin' far behind. But not
without hope."
Bell looked at the convalescent face and saw a
dreamy amiability. "You're feeling happy ?" he said
with surprise. "I knew when you smiled at that girl.
But it beats me what you've got."
"Not happy. No," Reggie murmured. "If I could
find out who telephoned to that woman I might be."
"Good lord, sir! You don't even know anybody
did."
"My dear chap," Reggie sighed. "Oh, my dear
chap! Somebody did. Probably after lunch on the
second day. Hence the subsequent seclusion."
"How can you know?" Bell grumbled.
"Oh, my Bell! Look at%the facts. After lunch
comes a change of life. She shuts herself up. She
keeps the room dark. Having been amiable down-
stairs, she is found peevish. Obviously something
happened. And the telephone must have been in it.
An evil invention."
Bell meditated. "Looks like funk. She might have
got news they didn't manage to do you in. But how
can we trace who telephoned to a woman in a hotel?"
"We can't. I know that. A diabolical invention."
Reggie sighed. "Well, well. Let us use it."
"What do you want to do?"
"I want to telephone to Professor Delarey. He lives
in Brussels. You've got to find out his number. The
Criminal Investigation Department has its simple uses."


THE WEDDING RING 105
"Brussels!" Bell stared. "How do you make
out we want Brussels?"
"Takin' one thing and another. Here a little and
there a little. And the confectionery is conclusive.
You weren't interested in the confectionery, Bell.
The weakness of a great mind. I like sweets. Almost
all sweets. Pain a la Grecque is pleasin' stuff."
"I saw you'd got something out of that box."
"Only crumbs. But they were pain a la Grecque
all right. And the box came from a gentleman who
keeps a shop in the Montagne de la Cour. So that
settled it."
"Oh, did it?" Bell grunted.
"Yes, I think so. Considerin' all things. The
name Marchal—which is probably genuine. The
accent which might be French. The unknown lan-
guage, which was like German but not German. It
might be Flemish. Assume the Marchals are Belgian
and those facts are covered. And the confectionery
confirms the hypothesis. They make pain a la Grecque
special good in Brussels, and the Montagne de la Cour
is in Brussels, steep street up by the Mus6e. So I'll
ring up old Delarey and ask him if he knows any Dr.
Marchal."
Bell stared at him. "And I told you there was
nothing to get at the hotel!"
"You never know, you know," Reggie murmured.
"Perhaps it isn't anything." The car turned out of
Whitehall to Scotland Yard. "You notice the sad
little fact, we've lost two people or so—lost 'em some
days "He hummed an ancient comic song.
"' And Maisie wonders why !'"
An hour afterwards he came out of a telephone-box
and wandered away to Lomas's room. "A cup of
your weaker tea would do no harm," he moaned,


io6 MR. FORTUNE EXPLAINS
and dropped into a chair and wiped his face and neck.
"A fiendish invention. Praise God. I shall never
know what my French sounds like over the telephone."
He shuddered. "Delarey sounds like a revolution in
hell. But that was after. For the first week or two
he was a lorry changing gear. Before my screams
roused his interest."
"Oh, he was interested?"
"My only aunt I" Reggie moaned. "Hell's found-
ations quiver with the shout of praise—same like the
hymn says. Oh, my head!" Bell brought him a
cup of tea.
"So he knows all about Marchal?" Lomas was
impatient.
Reggie waved a hand at him. "No, dear, no.
Don't hustle me. I can't abear it." He drank deep
and sighed. "Oh, my hat! And you think that's
tea. What a life I My poor Lomas. Well, well.
Delarey does know Marchal. That's the fundamental
fact. Dr. Marchal is real. Quite genuine. Dr. Quen-
tin Marchal was a brilliant young chemist. Special
line the rarer metals. Unfortunately he didn't keep
to pure science. He married a wife—and wanted an
income. He was tempted and he fell. He went into
the chemical industry. He took a job with the
S.A.I."
"What the deuce is that?"
"Oh, my dear chap. The Socigte Anonyme Inter-
nationale. Big chemical manufacturers—works in
Brussels, in Holland, in Switzerland. Make the
world's supply of delium. Ever heard of that?"
"Use it in medicine, don't you?"
"Yes. Quite a lot. We're going to use it more.
If we can get enough. Well, that's who the genuine
Dr. Marchal is. But Delarey hadn't heard of his


THE WEDDING RING
leaving Brussels. Thought it unlikely. He's going
to find out and telephone later. Somebody else can
take that message." Reggie rose wearily. "I'm
going to call this a day, Lomas old thing. But if the
real Marchal has left Brussels, some of your bright
young men had better find out quick where Sir Blayne
Gorton's got to. If it was the real Marchal who came
to London, we have a clever chemist in the employ
of a big company, going, privily and by stealth, to the
door of a rival manufacturer and vanishin'—with
wife. That wants a lot of explanation. Good-bye."
In the morning the detective who kept watch in his
house met him as he came to breakfast. "Message
from Superintendent Bell, sir. Mr. Lomas would like
to see you when you feel up to it."
"Tell him I'm taking nourishment," Reggie
murmured.
Lomas was found alone. His usual sprightliness
was overcast with solemnity. He was official and
important.
"Well, my dear Reginald, how are things?"
"If you mean me, I am fit but peevish. Things
are horrid. Everybody is so respectable."
"Quite. Quite. I hate to bother you. But the
case is taking a very difficult turn. It's one of the
gravest I have had. Your professor telephoned
again last night. He tells us that Marchal is not to
be found in Brussels, nor Madame Marchal. He
asked the employers, this Society Anonyme Inter-
nationale, if they knew what had become of him
and could get no information. They understood that
Marchal was away on private affairs. The professof
says nobody in authority was to be found. Well,
that's sufficiently unsatisfactory. I have felt justified
in asking the Brussels police to take it up."


io8 MR. FORTUNE EXPLAINS
"Oh yes. Yes. Let's do all the regulation things.
But what about Sir Blayne Gorton?"
"Well, on that report, as we agreed, I gave instruc-
tions to locate Gorton. It's not certain, but we
have reason to believe he's down at his works at Erith."
"Livin' at the works?" Reggie's sleepy eyes
opened. "What zeal!"
"He has rooms there. He's very keen on the
manufacturing side, I'm told. Puts in a lot of time
at it. Well, I've sent Bell down to make sure if he is
there and get at him."
"Yes. Yes. I'm afraid what the butler said
wasn't evidence."
"Very awkward affair." Lomas shook his head.
"Difficult to believe a man like Gorton would be
concerned in crime."
"My dear chap I Oh, my dear chap I Anybody
may be concerned in crime. From the highest motives."
"No doubt. Very difficult to handle such a case."
"Oh yes. Yes. But we needn't assume motives
are high. I should say they're not. Don't be awed
by big business."
A man brought in a card. "Dr. Doelen. Address
in Brussels." Lomas looked at Reggie. "Do you
know him?"
"Not personally. No. He's one of the larger noises
in the S.A.I. I wonder what we can do for Dr. Doelen."
Dr. Doelen was a short wide man with a big head.
"Mr. Lomas?" He smiled and bowed. "It is
kind of you to receive me. Perhaps I need not explain
who I am?"
"Can I take it you come from the Societe Anonyme
Internationale?"
"As you know, I am the managing director in
Brussels."


THE WEDDING RING
"Quite." Lomas nodded. "What can I do for
you? By the way, do you know Mr. Fortune?"
"I have, of course, heard of Mr. Fortune." Dr.
Doelen bowed again and gazed at Reggie with respectful
curiosity.
"I speak to you in confidence, gentlemen." Doelen
drew his chair nearer. "You understand, I represent
large interests and I assure you I shall be grateful for
your help. The affair is this. Last week a young
man of science whom we employ in our laboratories
at Brussels was absent without leave. His name is
Dr. Quentin Marchal. We felt some anxiety. He is
a brilliant fellow and his work was valuable. Also,
I could not ignore that he had important knowledge
of our processes of manufacture. We made inquiries
and it appeared that both he and his wife had left
Brussels, travelling to London. This is a strange
and disturbing situation. Pray understand me, I
do not at all accuse Dr. Marchal. It is very possible
that his sudden flight may be on account of some private
trouble. His wife is young, they are not long married.
There is perhaps an embarrassment with Madame, a
motive of passion, I cannot tell. But also, I am
bound to remember Dr. Marchal has the secrets of our
laboratories."
"Quite. Quite. I see your position." Lomas
nodded. "But what do you want us to do? Is it
suggested that Dr. Marchal has committed a crime?"
"Mr. Lomas, I suggest nothing. I tell you the
facts. This unhappy young man has disappeared,
and it seems in London. I appeal to you to discover
what has become of him. There is perhaps foul play.
I cannot tell. But if you can find where he is, then
we shall know what to do."
"Yes, I think so," Repgie murmured.


no MR. FORTUNE EXPLAINS
A paper was brought to Lomas. He read it. "Hold
the line," he said, and passed it to Reggie. "Tele-
phone message Superintendent Bell to Mr. Lomas,"
was written. "Woman found drowned in creek near
Gorton Works. Clothing marked Adele Marchal.
Have not yet seen Gorton. Waiting instructions."
"Well, well," Reggie murmured. "Dr. Doelen,
do you know Madame Marchal?"
"Know her?" Doelen stared. "I have seen her.
A small dark woman."
"Would you know her if you saw her again?"
"Certainly, I think so. Why, my friend, have you
news of her?"
"Yes. Yes. They say she's been found dead."
"Horrible! "Doelen cried. "But where? But how?"
"Found drowned somewhere down the river. I'm
afraid you'll have to go and see the body."
"I? But why? Oh, I am at your orders. But
what can I do?"
"You can tell us if she is Madame Marchal."
"It is possible, yes, if she is not much injured. I
suppose you have reason to believe"
"Oh yes. Yes. Name on her clothes." Reggie
stood up. "But you're the only man we have who
knew her."
"I'm afraid we must ask you to identify, Doctor."
Lomas rose.
"I am perfectly at your orders," said Doelen again.
"But what was the poor creature doing down the
river? Why should she be there?"
"Yes. That's what we're going to find out," said
Reggie. "One moment." He went out with Lomas.
"Queer thing." Lomas frowned. "This case gets
worse and worse."
"Yes. I did tell you so," Reggie mumbled. "Go


THE WEDDING RING in
on. Tell Bell to watch the works and stop Gorton
if he tries to break away. We'll attend to him when
we've seen the corpse. You take Doelen in your car.
I'll go on first."
On a slab in the mortuary the woman's body lay
and the divisional surgeon turned from it to nod at
Reggie. "Well, Mr. Fortune, I didn't think they'd
bring you to this. There you are."
Reggie bent over her. Her face was pale and
shrunken and there was froth about her mouth. He
moved the eyelids from the contracted pupils. . . .
He turned to the surgeon: "Anything occur to you?"
"Medically speaking, I should say it's a plain case.
She went into the water alive. There's no injuries.
All the indications point to death by drowning."
"You think so? Where was she found?"
"In a bit of a tidal creek by Gorton's works. Queer
place for a stranger to get to and not much of a place
to drown in. But that's not for medical evidence.
Drowned she was."
"Yes. I expect we'll have to say that. But
there'll be a lot of work first. Notice her eyes? I
should think she was under morphia when she was
put in the water. That's why her pupils aren't dilated
as they ought to be. That's why she didn't struggle.
That's why she couldn't get out." He gazed at the
surgeon mournfully. "Not that it makes much
difference. But very careful. Very ingenious. As
ever." He turned and looked again at the body.
He drew off the wedding ring, turned it over, peered
at the inside. "Well, well." Over his troubled face
came a slow smile. "Everybody has a weakness.
Thrift, thrift, Horatio." He wandered out. Lomas
and Doelen were already in the waiting-room.
"You've lost no time. Good."


112 MR. FORTUNE EXPLAINS
Doelen looked at him uncomfortably. "Is she
much disfigured, Mr. Fortune?"
"That's for you to say, isn't it ?" Reggie murmured.
"Come along. There."
Doelen stopped short and made a pious exclamation
in French. Reluctantly he approached the body and
peered at it. "Yes, my friends," he said in a low
voice. "This is Madame Marchal."
"No doubt about it ?" said Lomas.
"I can have no doubt." Doelen turned from the
body and stared at them. "But how? What has
happened? What brought her here?"
"Yes. We'll have to discuss that," said Reggie.
"Just wait, will you? I'd like you to meet Sir
Blayne Gorton."
"Blayne Gorton I" Doelen cried. "The chemical
manufacturer?"
"Oh yes. Yes. He has works down here. Didn't
you know?"
"Heaven, how should I know? I do not know
where I am. Gorton—is it possible! The Gorton
combine is in rivalry with my company. And it is
beside his works that you find Madame Marchal dead.
Where is Marchal then? What does it mean?"
"We'll ask Gorton," said Reggie. "If you'll
wait."
"Wait? Wait here?" Doelen looked about him
in horror.
"Not in here. No. They'll make you quite com-
fortable." Reggie went out and spoke to the police-
man at the gate. "Come on, Lomas," he cried and
jumped into his car. "Gorton's works."
"Was that the woman who came to you?" said
Lomas.
"Oh yes. Yes. That's my Madame Marchal. So •


THE WEDDING RING
"3
our case for Gorton is that Madame Marchal has been
found dead by his works and we want Marchal to come
and own her."
'* If he's there."
"My dear chap," Reggie murmured. "Oh, my dear
chap!"
The car stopped at the gate of a large factory and
the square form of Superintendent Bell appeared
from nowhere. "Gorton's staying there all night,"
he said. "Want me/ sir?"
"No. Stop him if he slips out," said Reggie and
they went in.
The Gorton office was of a rich solemnity. The
manner of Lomas became majestic to match. A man
like a churchwarden received them. "You will tell
Sir Blayne Gorton that the Chief of the Criminal
Investigation Department wishes to see him at once."
The churchwarden believed Sir Blayne Gorton was
not in Erith and vanished. They were taken to the
works manager. He regretted that Sir Blayne Gorton
was not there. If he could do anything
"You can find him," Lomas snapped. "At once.
Tell him to bring Dr. Marchal." The manager flinched.
If Mr. Lomas would explain the nature of the business
he would try to communicate. Lomas scrawled on a
sheet of paper. "Investigation of the death of
Madame Marchal " and put it in an envelope. "Take
him that." The manager fled.
In three minutes a fat man burst into the room.
"What's all this now? What are^ you giving
me?" he puffed. \
"I want to know why a woman bearing the name
of Adele Marchal has been found dead near your works,"
said Lomas.
Gorton gulped and made mouths. "Let's get
H


MR. FORTUNE EXPLAINS
that," he muttered. "Madame Marchal dead down
here? Natural?"
"Apparently drowned," said Lomas. "Found in
the creek."
Gorton stared at him. "Why would she—it's not
possible "He spoke rather to himself than Lomas.
And Lomas said: "You've got Dr. Marchal here."
"What do you mean?" Gorton pulled himself
together. "Marchal is here, been here for days, but
he hasn't seen Madame Marchal. I can swear to that."
"You'll probably have to. You'd better begin by
explaining why he's here in hiding."
"Hiding be damned! Marchal's here at work for
me.
"While he's in the employ of the Soci6t6 Anonyme
Internationale? An unusual arrangement. No won-
der you kept it secret."
"I've my answer to that. And so has he. Damn
it, man, do you think I do things I'm ashamed of?
He's left the S.A.I, and there won't be any secret about
the reason. He'd got a new process for extracting
delium. Dr. Doelen wouldn't take it up. The S.A.I,
have got their monopoly and they don't want a process
that will make the stuff cheap. Suits them better
to keep down production and sell dear—with all the
hospitals in the world calling out for delium. So
Marchal chucked up his job with them and came over
to England to get somebody to take up the new
process. He came to me and I brought him down here
to try it out."
"That's an explanation of his presence," said
Lomas coldly. "It doesn't explain his wife's death."
Gorton's confidence forsook him again. "I'll swear
Marchal knows nothing about it," he muttered.
"Well, you'd better produce him. He'll have to


THE WEDDING RING 115
come and see her," said Lomas. "Go on, tell him."
Gorton stared at him and swallowed and went out.
"He's got the wind up," said Lomas.
"I wonder," Reggie murmured. He wandered
round the room restlessly. "Hurry it up, Lomas.
Hurry, hurry."
And in a hurry Marchal came, a big bearded man in
tumbled clothes. "What is this he tells me?" His
sunken eyes blazed. "My wife is dead here? It is
not possible. My wife is in the Hotel Victory in
London."
"Oh no. No. That's where she isn't," said Reggie
quickly. "Come along. We've lost too much time
already."
"You take me to see her—her body." The big
frame shook. "Let us go then quick, quick." Reg-
gie led the way.
"I shall want you, too," Lomas said to Gorton.
"And you'll have me," Gorton scowled. "I'll see
the lad through it."
They hurried to the car and Lomas beckoned to
Bell, and with his sturdy presence beside the chauffeur
they drove back to the mortuary.
Reggie took Marchal's arm. "It's this way. . . .
Now "He drew back the sheet which covered the
dead woman.
And Marchal burst out laughing. Then, "God
forgive me !" he said, and crossed himself. He turned
to Reggie. "It is not my wife. Why do you say
so?"
"Look at her clothes," said Reggie gently.
"My God I Yes, I think "Fear came into his
sunken eyes again.
"Marked Adele Marchal. Dr. Doelen said she was
your wife."


Ii6 MR. FORTUNE EXPLAINS
"Doelen I" Marchal stared. "Doelen has been
here?"
"Yes. You'd better see him now."
"I do not understand. That woman—she is not
my wife—I do not know her—but she has my wife's
clothes. What does it mean? Where is Doelen?"
Reggie took him to the room where, in the company
of a stolid policeman, Doelen sat. "Dr. Marchal
wants to ask you a little question," he said. "Why
did you say that woman was his wife?"
Doelen stood up. "Marchal denies her?" He
licked his hps and smiled. "He sees her dead and
he denies her?" He shrugged. "Mr. Fortune, that
is like the man who betrays every one. I have fin-
ished." He turned away.
"Oh no. No. Your error." Reggie stopped him.
"Pardon, my friend," he bowed. "I think the rest
is for you."
But Marchal roared. "Doelen! What have you done
with my wife?" And again Dr. Doelen smiled. Marchal
sprang upon him and they went down together.
"Oh, my hat!" Reggie groaned. It took the help
of the policeman and Bell and Gorton to drag Marchal
off and hold him. Doelen lay still and pale, the collar
torn from his throat.
"Damme, is he dead?" Lomas muttered.
Reggie knelt beside him. "Oh no. No. He'll
come round "As he spoke Doelen started up,
tumbled him over and bolted out. Bell ran after
him. He got out of the mortuary, he rushed into
the traffic of the high road and a lorry met him. . . .
"My only aunt," Reggie moaned. "We have no
luck." . . .
Bell thrust his way through the gathering crowd.
"He don't want you. Gone, sir."


THE WEDDING RING
"Yes. Job for the experts in another world. Bring
him in. Go through his pockets. I want an address:
any sort of address." ... To the room where Mar-
chal raged in vain wild questions Bell came back with
a cigarette-case and a wallet, and a bunch of keys.
"Nothing else on him, sir. And the cards in the
wallet have only got his address in Brussels."
"Oh, my God!" Marchal groaned. "What to do?"
"You go to Scotland Yard and wait," Reggie said.
"Look after him, Gorton." He beckoned to Lomas
and Bell turned away.
"Sir, sir, have you any hope?" Marchal caught at
him.
'* I don't know," Reggie said. "I'm still fighting."
He took Lomas and Bell to the telephone in the
keeper's room and turned the pages of the directory.
"What's the move now, Reginald?"
"The S.A.I, ought to have a London office. Yes,
here we are, Gresham Lane. Come on." He bustled
into his car. "Gresham Lane in the City, Sam.
Rush."
"You want to bluff Doelen's men?" Lomas smiled.
"Yes. Job for you. Your strong suit, Lomas."
"I can bluff them if they know anything. What
if they don't?"
Reggie spread out his hands and let them fall.
The Chief of the Criminal Investigation Department
demanded the manager of the office and was intro-
duced to a suave Englishman. "I want to know
where Dr. Doelen has been staying."
The manager was politely amazed. There must be
some mistake. Dr. Doelen was in Brussels.
"Oh no, he's not. We have him safe enough.
Unless you want to be arrested as an accessory you'd
better tell the truth."


n8 MR. FORTUNE EXPLAINS
The manager shook. He did not understand.
Accessory to what?
"You'd better think of murder. Now. Out with
it. Where has Doelan been hiding?"
The manager really had no knowledge, absolutely
none. Dr. Doelen had a flat in Adelaide Mansions,
generally stayed there when in London.
"Don't try to be clever. You know he has some
other place. Where is it?"
The manager took time. He really did not know
the address, but Dr. Doelen occasionally gave instruc-
tions when in London to ring up Tyburn 701. He
supposed a club or a friend's house. He had no idea.
Lomas took the telephone from his table and asked
the authorities for the name and address of Tyburn
701. "Thank you. Good-bye. Now, my man. You
and all your staff hold yourselves at the disposal of
the police. No one will leave the office till my men
have seen them."
Reggie was already hurrying out. He opened the
door of the car. "Where is it, Lomas?"
"Bacon, 3, Nicholas Street, Bayswater."
"Bayswater. And the dead woman who came to
me as Madame Marchal went away with an unknown
man to the Marble Arch. That's near enough."
Nicholas Street is a place of pleasant little houses
by the Park. They came to the door of Number 3
and Bell was going to ring. "No. Use Doelen's
keys," said Reggie, and with the second of them the
door opened. "Now ring." An oldish man of the
butler kind appeared and gaped.
"I'm a police officer. Superintendent Bell. This
is Dr. Doelen's house?"
"Dr. Doelen is not in, sir."
"Is the lady in?" said Reggie.


THE WEDDING RING
The man looked different ways. "The lady, sir?"
he repeated. "Dr. Doelen is not married."
"Where is she?" Reggie snapped.
"Is it Dr. Doelen's secretary, sir? I'm afraid she's
not well enough to see you."
Bell took hold of him. "You'll show me where she is
quick."
"Oh, very good, sir. If you say so. She's in bed,
you know." Bell pushed him on upstairs.
They came into a little dark room at the back.
Lomas pulled up the blind. A woman lay in bed, her
face buried in the pillow and a mass of dark hair. She
was asleep or unconscious. Her breath came moaning.
"How long has she been like this?" said Reggie.
"I really couldn't say, sir. I didn't know she was
took so bad. Dr. Doelen said she wasn't well and she
was staying in bed. He was going to send a doctor."
"Take him away," Reggie muttered. He sat down
by her side When he rose his face was drawn
and he bit his Hp.
"What is it, Reginald?"
"I should say it's meningitis. Go and ring up
Robert Blake for me and ask him to come round.
Then Wimpole House for nurses."
Lomas returned. "Blake's coming at once. And
two nurses. I suppose this is Madame Marchal?"
Reggie pointed to her hand. "Her wedding ring's
gold. Yes. Who else?"
"Meningitis I " Lomas frowned. "Queer, isn't it?"
"Not a nice case. No."
"Is there a chance for her?"
"I wonder," Reggie murmured. "Stand by, will
you? I want to look round this jolly house."
He was still looking when the specialist came. He
had to be called.


120 MR. FORTUNE EXPLAINS
"Hallo, Blake. Good man. I'm not really neg-
lectin' the patient. Now look here "They went
into the sick-room together. . . .
Nurses were established in charge, the specialist
departed and Reggie came down to Lomas. "Well,
what's the opinion?"
"Still fighting," Reggie smiled. "Not without
hope. You see, in this beastly disease, you have to
know the type of organism that brought it before
you can apply the right serum. Well, I've got the
stuff that infected her. Doelen has a little laboratory
on the top floor and there it is : diplococcus intraceUu-
laris fine and large."
"He gave it her? The devil."
"Yes, as you say," Reggie murmured. "Lots of
risks in being up against Dr. Doelen. Very ingenious
mind."
Some days afterwards he wandered, into Lomas's
room, dreamy and benign, and remarked that he was
going away. "Wife—Christmas—country. Rather
jolly inventions. Especially together. Before depart-
ure—is there any little thing you want?"
"I infer the patient is doing well?"
"Oh yes. Yes." Reggie drew back. "Did you
want to kiss me?"
"Thanks very much. No."
"Marchal did." Reggie sank into a chair. "He
succeeded, too. Overpowerin' personality. One of
your larger cigars would be soothin' to the emotions.
Yes. She's out of danger. Nothing else for me is
there?"
"No. You are not necessary, Reginald. In fact,
there's nothing much to be done. We've established
those thugs who set on you were brought over from


THE WEDDING RING
Brussels and they've gone back. So that's up to the
Belgians. The woman drowned was a secretary of
Doelen's. No doubt he murdered her and I suspect
that old rasca' in his house was an accessory: there
may have been others."
"Must have been," Reggie murmured.
"Probably. But we've no evidence and no chance
of it. It's a mad case."
"Quite clear, isn't it ?" Reggie opened his eyes.
"Good gad! Do you pretend to see your way
through it?"
"Yes, I think so. Doelen was a very clever fellow
but subject to fright. Dangerous combination. Be-
gin at the beginning. He wouldn't take up Marchal's
process for fear cheapening delium would lower his
profits. Marchal rushed off to England to find a
manufacturer with more pluck. He'd heard of me
from old Delarey as a man of science who knew the
world a bit. So he came round to ask me if Gorton
would give him a square deal. I wasn't in, he got
tired of waiting and decided to chance it. Off he went
to Gorton and old Gorton jumped at the process and
hurried him down to the works to set plant going and
try it out. Meanwhile Doelen had got on his track.
That secretary woman was sent to find out if Marchal
had described the process to me. I was so discreet she
thought he had. So Doelen set his thugs on to wipe
me out and went after Marchal. But Marchal, being
in Gorton's works, was out of reach. The only way
to attack him was through his wife. Doelen sent
her a telephone message that a car was coming to
take her to Marchal. And it came and took her
to that house in Bayswater. She doesn't know what
happened then, till she found herself in bed feeling
very ill. No doubt Doelen chloroformed her and put


122 MR. FORTUNE EXPLAINS
her to bed and gave her a dose of diplococcus intracellu-
laris. The secretary woman was sent back to pass
for her at the hotel. Partly to prevent inquiries
into her vanishing—very cautious man, Doelen—
partly to pick up any communication from her husband.
I dare say Doelen still had hopes of trapping Marchal,
too. Then she may have got the wind up, or wanted
too much money and threatened to give the show
away. Or Doelen may have come to think he'd
trusted her too far. Anyway, it occurred to him that
she might do very nicely to get Marchal arrested for
murdering his wife—very ingenious man Doelen. So
he drugged her and put her into Madame Marchal's
clothes and dumped her in the creek. And then
he heard from Brussels that the London police were
asking questions about the disappearance of the
Marchals. That broke him up. He came running
round to us to find out how much we knew. Very
timid man, Doelen."
"Timid!" said Lomas. "Good gad I"
"Oh yes. That's fundamental. The timid man
is a public danger. Two other little lessons in the
case, my brethren. One that a simple rational motive,
like keepin' a trade secret, can produce very odd re-
sults. Secondly, that economy is a mistake in crime."
"What the deuce do you mean?"
"The wedding ring," Reggie smiled. "The nearly
new and garish wedding ring of the sham Madame
Marchal. If I hadn't thought that looked brazen
I should have told her I hadn't seen Marchal. And
we should never have got near the case till the real
Madame Marchal had died quietly of meningitis and
Marchal was arrested for murder. But the poor
woman bought a brass wedding ring. Never do that,
Lomas."


FOURTH EXPLANATION
THE FOOTBALL PHOTOGRAPH
THE shop of Durfey and Killigrew sold jewellery
to Queen Anne. Perhaps it was a little dowdy
even then. Its low-browed windows are not for the
smart or the millionaire, but for people who want
value for money. Yet Durfey and Killigrew show
some perception of the progress of mankind since
Queen Anne's death. The doors and windows of
their shop are closed with rolling steel shutters.
It was a Monday morning in August. Mr. Fortune
was explaining to Mrs. Fortune without hope that
duty would prevent his going to the house in Scotland
to which she had promised to take him. In grouse
he has no interest till they are dead; in venison, none,
dead or alive. He does not care to kill anything or
to see it killed except in the way of his profession. A
place in which there is nothing to do but take exercise
he considers bad for his constitution, and the conver-
sation of country houses weakens his intellect. All
this he set forth plaintively to Mrs. Fortune, and she
said, "Don't blether, child," and the telephone rang.
Reggie contemplated that instrument with a loving
smile. "How wonderful are the works of science,
Joan. What a beneficent invention." He jumped at
it. "Yes, Fortune speaking. What? Durfey and
Killigrew? Of course I know 'em. My grandmother
bought me studs there. Like warming-pans. Bur-
123


124 MR. FORTUNE EXPLAINS
glary? Yes, I'll come if you want me. Not much
in my way, is it? Oh, all right." He turned to Mrs.
Fortune. "Well, well. Duty, Joan-, 'Duty, stern
daughter of the voice of God'; thou dost preserve the
stars from wrong—me too, darling."
"Pig," said she. "You are a fraud, Reggie."
"Oh no. No deception. Some poor beggar's been
killed." He kissed her hair. He departed.
The roll shutters of Durfey and Killigrew were still
down when his taxi came to the shop. A large man
met him and took him round the corner. In a narrow
side-street the shop has another window and an
entrance, and over these also the shutters were drawn.
But in the shutter at the entrance was a small steel
door, and that stood ajar.
The lights were on inside. Some men were crowded
into a corner, talking softly, watching others who
moved about the shop. From behind the counter
rose the square form of Superintendent Bell. Reggie
came to his beckoning finger. It pointed down to the
space between the counter and the unrobbed showcase
of silver on the wall. A man lay there in what had
been a pool of blood. He wore a long coat of olive
green with purple cuffs and collar. "It's the porter,
sir," said Bell.
Reggie crouched over the body. Its brow was torn
and bruised, but the blood came from a wound in the
throat. He worked upon both. . . . The clenched
hands and the blood on their knuckles interested him.
. . . From the man's coat he scraped something
sticky and shapeless and put it in a specimen box.
He opened the dead mouth.
Then he stood up and gazed round the shop. "Well,
well," he murmured. "Too many people."
"That's the manager and the assistants, sir." Bell


126 MR. FORTUNE EXPLAINS
inside he saw the place had been robbed. Then he
found the porter lying dead behind the counter." Bell
put his head on one side and looked at his Mr. For-
tune with a paternal smile. "Now, sir, the place was
still locked up safe, but the porter had got inside and
been killed and somebody had gone off with a bag full
of jewellery. Do you see how it was done?"
"Not wholly. No."
Bell chuckled. "Ah. It beats Mr. Fortune! Then
I'm going to get some of my own back for once. Look
here, sir." He bent to the bolts which should have
held the shutter to the floor.
"Oh, that," Reggie murmured. "I saw that when
I came in. Some fellow's cut through the bolts. From
outside. There's a mark or two on the base of the
shutter. What was the tool? I don't do much
burglary myself."
"Thank Heaven there's something you don't know,"
Bell growled. "Yes, it was a queer tool. A cold
chisel uncommon long and thin—they slid it under the
shutter and hammered it through the bolts. And
that's pretty queer, too. These fellows knew just what
they needed to make a short cut into this funny old
shop; they got their tool made and they had the
almighty cheek to stand in the street and hammer at
the door."
"Yes, quite bold. But I suppose it wouldn't take
long."
"Matter of minutes, sir. Still, hammering at a
jeweller's door in the open street! It is so blooming
impudent. Once they cut the bolts, of course they
had a soft job. Ran the shutter up a little, came
underneath and"
"And brought the porter in to kill him. Yes. All
very clear, Bell."


THE FOOTBALL PHOTOGRAPH 127
"I don't know what the porter was doing, sir.
That beats me."
"I wouldn't say that," Reggie murmured. "I
think I know what he was doing, Bell. But why did
he come inside? And why did they kill him? Not
according to plan. Some error. I should look into
the porter." He gazed at Bell dreamily. "By the
way, what are you looking into?"
"Everything, as you might say. We haven't got a
line yet. No finger-prints. Glove job. Professionals,
of course. We'll have to put some work in. It's a
kind of insult to the police, breaking in in this bare-
faced way. When I told Mr. Lomas he said it was
the most infernal impudence of his wretched career."
"Yes. Yes. It is cheek." Reggie nodded. "I feel
that. I don't like being ignored myself. I'll go and
sympathize. When you've looked up the porter's
record you might come along."
The Hon. Sidney Lomas at his desk was surprised
by the touch of a gentle hand.
"Alas, my poor brother!" Reggie sighed.
"Ha, Reginald! BeD said he would get you on to
it. Good man!"
"I am. But unrecognized. Treated as negligible.
Same like you, Lomas. I resent this."
"Deuced impudent, isn't it? Burgle a West End
jeweller's from the street with a hammer. Damme,
it's defying the whole police force."
"Yes. Not respectful. I think there were pre-
cautions, you know. Still, not nice of 'em. But
they've behaved shocking to me. Killing a poor
wretch crude and casual in the course of the job as if
they could get away with a murder as easy as nothing.
My only aunt! I exist, I suppose; I am still extant."
"My dear fellow," Lomas chuckled, " highly extant."


128 MR. FORTUNE EXPLAINS
"Yes. Yes, I think so. I resent being ignored by
an elementary person with a cold chisel."
"By all means. And what are you going to do
about it, Reginald?"
"Well, I was going to provide some work for our
active intelligent police force. There are one or two
little points left lying about by our nasty friend with
the cold chisel. Hallo, here's Bell, nice and quick."
"Got the outlines, sir. Pretty well all the jewellery
in the place is gone, except some things in the safe.
That's not been touched. The silver and gold plate
seems all there. You might say they cleared out the
light stuff. The manager puts it at ten thousand
pounds provisional."
"And very nice, too." Lomas smiled. "All any-
where by now. Looks easy, doesn't it, Bell? Mr.
Fortune says he has some work for you."
"I thought he had," Bell said gloomily. "I can
see plenty of work myself. But nothing that leads
anywhere. What's your line, sir?"
"It's the porter, you know," Reggie murmured.
"The manager says he'd answer for him absolutely.
Been employed a dozen years. Always straight."
"Poor beggar," Reggie sighed. "And how does
the manager think he came to be inside, Bell?"
"The idea is, he saw something wrong at the side-
door and came inside to see what was up and the
burglars killed him."
Lomas nodded. "Reasonable enough. We've had
cases like it before. What's the matter, Reginald?"
"Well, you haven't, you know. Not cases like this.
Think again, Lomas. At one o'clock Saturday the
porter went off duty. The first thing he ought to do
is to get out of his highly coloured livery. By the
way, where is his home? What about his people?


THE FOOTBALL PHOTOGRAPH 129
Nobody's reported him missing and he's been dead
since Saturday."
"Has he, though?" said Lomas quickly.
"Oh yes. Yes. Forty hours or more. His blood's
been drying quite a long time."
"Nobody reported him missing because he lived
alone," said Bell. "Rooms in workmen's dwellings,
Clerkenwell. No family."
Reggie sighed. "We don't have much luck. Well,
well. He didn't go home and change on Saturday.
He hung about. The burglars couldn't begin to work
till everybody was well away from the shop. Never-
theless, when they did begin the porter was handy in
bis livery all complete. What about it, Lomas?"
"You mean he was an accomplice."
"Yes. That is indicated. If he wasn't—why did
he go in? Suppose he saw the fellows at work—the
natural thing is to challenge 'em and make a row.
Suppose he came along when they'd gone inside—they
wouldn't have left the shutter up, and while it's down
nothing shows. He must have been an accomplice or
he wouldn't have gone in. And that explains the re-
markable cheek of hammering at the door in the street.
Nobody would interfere with them while Durfey and
Killigrew's own porter stood by. They'd pass for
lawful workmen mending the shutters."
"You've got it, sir," Bell cried. "That's neat."
"Yes. I am neat," Reggie sighed. "So were they.
Up to a point. Then the thing got away with 'em."
"Yes, sir. That often happens in crime," Bell said
solemnly.
"Or where would we be?" Reggie smiled.
"When you two have finished chirping at each
other!" Lomas cut in. "It isn't so dam' clear,
Reginald. Take it your way. The porter was an
1


MR. FORTUNE EXPLAINS
accomplice. He stood by to guarantee them while
they forced the shutter. Good. That explains their
confounded cheek very nicely. But it don't explain
in the least why he went in after 'em. Or why they
killed him."
"No. I noticed that," Reggie murmured. "I
don't know everything, Lomas; I don't know why he
went in. Not according to plan, I think. Some error.
And the thing got away with 'em."
"You might take it he went in to see how much
they got," Bell suggested. "So he shouldn't be done
out of his fair share of the swag. And there was a
row about it and they did him in. We've had cases
like that, sir."
"Yes, it could be," Reggie murmured.
"Yes, I dare say you're right, Bell." Lomas settled
deeper in his chair. "That'll do for a theory. Quite
nice. But it's only a theory. It doesn't give you
anything to work on."
"I never thought it did," Bell said gloomily. "One
of those cases where you've got a lot of donkey work.
It was a professional job and well planned out before-
hand. We'll have to go through all the burglars on
the list. I don't mind owning, there's nothing in it
that's any fellow's particular style. It's too simple."
"Simplicity is the mark of ability," Reggie mumbled.
"I dare say. You are often obscure, Reginald."
Lomas yawned and lit a cigarette. "Same old game,
what? Same dull old game. Sorry, Bell. You're in
for it."
Reggie reached for a cigar. "Thank you so much.
Yes." He lay back and blew smoke rings. "' Do the
work that's nearest. Though it's dull at whiles,' " he
murmured. "The nearest, Lomas old thing. I don't
like burglars. I want a murderer."


THE FOOTBALL PHOTOGRAPH 131
"Quite. Very proper taste. Happy to oblige.
Name and address, please?"
"I don't know his name. Or his address. He's a
shortish man, agile, of considerable strength; he has
dark red hair which is rather long and oiled, and he
has lost a triangular piece from one of the two middle
teeth in his upper jaw. At this moment he has a
bruised cut on his face. And he uses chewing-gum."
"Good gad!" said Lomas. "Were you there?"
"Do you mean there was only one man in it, sir?"
Bell cried.
"Oh no. No. He had a companion. I don't
know much about him. He was heavier and I should
think older. But the little man did the killing. The
porter came in, and they were all three together in
the middle of the shop, and there was a quarrel. The
small man got his face punched—the porter's knuckles
are broken and there was some red hair in the blood.
The porter also hit the little man in the mouth and
broke his tooth, and the beggar spat out blood and
chewing-gum and the bit of tooth, and it all stuck on
the porter. Then the little man got some long weapon
and hit him on the head. He fell stunned. They
hid him behind the counter, and to make sure jabbed
him in the throat with a sharp long tool. No doubt
it was that long chisel they had made for the job."
"Thank you. Very brilliant, Reginald. And now
all we have to do is to find a little man with red hair
and a broken tooth. That's going to be quite easy."
"It is wonderful what you get, sir," Bell said
reverently.
"Quite," Lomas chuckled. "Makes me feel like
the man in the play when they show him Peter Pan's
shadow. 'It's nobody I know.'"
"No. You're not suspected at present," Reggie


134 MR. FORTUNE EXPLAINS
drawer. "Lummy, it's gawn," she wheezed. "Bit
of a tin box it was, guv'nor, so big. I swear it was
vere last week."
"Did you ever see it open, mother?" said Bell.
"Yus, I seen it. 'E 'ad 'is money in it and some
bits o' pipers."
"They got away with his papers, then. Thank
you, mother, that's all." He led the way back to the
sitting-room.
"One moment," Reggie murmured. "One moment.
Has anything else been taken?"
"Ardsher mean?" she wheezed. "Ain't nuffink
else to tike only 'is bits o' sticks." But Reggie was
looking round the room, and she stared about her
with puzzled eyes. She moved to the shelf of odds
and ends and moved one or two. "Yus, 'is pretties
are all 'ere."
"What about the pictures ?" said Reggie.'
"Gorblime!" she gasped. "One of 'is picshers is
gone. 'Ere. 'E 'ad one 'angin' up 'ere. Yer can see
w'ere ve nile wos, guv'nor."
"Yes, I did see," Reggie smiled.
"Nah, w'at'd anyone want to tike that for?"
"I wonder. What was it?"
"Jest a blinkin' set o' footballers."
"A football team. Was he in it?"
"Not 'im, no. Don't know none of 'em. Don't
know w'at 'e 'ad it for."
"Any name to it?"
"I don't know. Yus. Some nime. Couldn't tell
yer. But w'at the 'ell does anyone want to pinch a
blinkin' photo of footballers for?"
"Quite so. Yes," Reggie murmured. "Don't you
worry. Thanks very much." And with professional
exhortations not to talk about it Bell got rid of her.


THE FOOTBALL PHOTOGRAPH 135
Then he stared heavily at Reggie. "And what's
going to happen next, if you please? I begin the day
with a murder and a ten-thousand-pound burglary and
come on to a stolen football photo."
"Yes. Yes. Very careful mind at work," Reggie
smiled. "Quite a pleasure to deal with him."
"Deal with him! He's dealing with us all right.
But we don't get near him. He breaks up every clue
before we find it."
"I wouldn't say that. No. I wouldn't say that.
Dangerous move destroying clues, Bell. He had to,
of course. He couldn't let us see that photo. But
he's told us he was in it."
"What, you mean the chap that did the murder was
one of this football team? That's only a guess, sir."
"Quite. Others possible. But the best guess is
that my little red-haired friend was in the photograph."
"Well, suppose he was. That don't help me, sir.
How many football teams get photographed every
year? You set me to look for a red-haired man with
a broken tooth; now you've got it he plays football.
I dare say. But it leaves me a nice long job."
"Yes. Yes," Reggie agreed cheerfully. "Better
look for a short cut. Somebody at the shop ought to
know where the porter had his drop of beer. You
might find out what football team was his fancy.
Good-bye."
The interesting thing about this case, he has been
heard to say, is that it provides some justification for
the existence of an expensive police force. He will
explain that he always thought he would want to have
the Department in his theory up to the neck or they
would not have gone through with it. In fact, he
took the case as a game of chess (Lomas says a game
of poker), which is not his habit. He was for once


136 MR. FORTUNE EXPLAINS
without emotions. And Bell and his men worked like
beavers, and Reggie saw his wife off to Scotland and
played with biochemistry and his marionette theatre.
After some days Lomas rang him up. "Is that
you, Reginald? Good. Come round, will you. Bell
thinks he's on to something."
Reggie went round. Bell was conferring with Lomas
more solemnly than ever. "Well, well. And are we
yet alive and see each other's face? How do you do,
Bell?"
"I've had a heavy week, sir. Now, take it from
the beginning. We've found a clerk who was working
after hours in an office by Durfey and Killigrew's that
Saturday afternoon. When he went home he noticed
some men hammering at the shop door. Thought it
was a bit queer, so he had a look at 'em. Didn't
look much because he saw Durfey's porter standing
by and supposed it must be all right. But he noticed
there were two of 'em, and one was a little chap with
red hair. Well, then, we've got on to a chap who's
caretaker at a block of offices round the corner. He
knew the porter. He came along between three and
four o'clock. There was nobody at Durfey's door
then, but he saw the porter hanging about in a door-
way opposite. Bit surprised to see him in uniform so
late on a Saturday. He called out something about
it and he thought the porter was a bit short with
him."
"Yes. He would be," Reggie murmured. "Poor
devil. So that's how he got murdered."
"All fits what you said," Bell nodded. "The
porter was there in his uniform so that nobody should
meddle with 'em while they were breaking in. If any-
thing was said about it afterwards I suppose he'd


THE FOOTBALL PHOTOGRAPH 137
have sworn it wasn't him, it was somebody in a sham
uniform. That's been done before. But this chap
came by who knew him and could swear he was out-
side while the burglary was being done. He got the
wind up and went in to warn his pals. Most likely
he wanted 'em to clear off without the swag to save
his face. Then there was a row and they did him in.
I dare say it all happened like that."
"' Some error and the thing got away with them,'"
Lomas chuckled. "Your game, Reginald. You told
us so and you told us right."
"No butter, thank you," Reggie murmured.
"What's the matter with our Superintendent? Your
manly brow is depressed, Bell. You make me uncom-
fortable."
"I'm not easy in my mind about it, Mr. Fortune.
I don't like a case to look so neat when I'm only half-
way through it. Pretty often I've found, if we've
got a theory all fixed up half-way, in the end it turns
out we made a big bloomer. You know that, too.
You're fond of having us on that way."
"Oh, Bell! Oh, my Belll How can you? I
never did. I only look beyond a theory when it don't
take in all the evidence."
"You're satisfied, Reginald?" Lomas nodded.
"So am I. This is good enough to go on with, Bell."
"I don't say it isn't, sir." Bell frowned. "But
Mr. Fortune talks about taking in all the evidence.
That's the trouble. I don't know if we have." He
turned to Reggie. "Mr. Lomas thinks I've got a bee
in my bonnet. But I put it to you, the chances are
these two chaps that were seen had someone else in
the job with 'em. A big jewel robbery has to be
worked out very careful, to study the place and fix up
the plans and to get rid of the stuff afterwards."


138 MR. FORTUNE EXPLAINS
"Of course there was somebody behind 'em," said
Lomas impatiently. "Some fence in a large way of
business. There always is. How often do we get
these rascals? Once in a score of cases. We'll stick
to the red-haired footballer, please."
"Yes, I think so," Reggie murmured.
But Bell was stubborn. "I'm not talking about a
fence, sir. What if there was another man actually
in the job, Mr. Fortune? It's like this. Yesterday
we had notice a man who Uved in Barkham Mansions,
Marble Arch, was missing."
"Quite a gentlemanly address."
"Yes, sir. He was quite the gentleman, they say.
But he was last seen that Saturday afternoon. When
our men had a look over his flat they found some queer
things. Harvey Stroud was the name he used, and
we don't know it, and we can't recognize his descrip-
tion. But he was in touch with a diamond merchant
in Amsterdam that does some very shady business,
and he kept an outfit that'd come in useful for burglary.
He's vanished absolutely. Him and his car. Ever
since that Saturday."
"Yes. Very interesting. What was he like?"
"Dark chap, going bald. Smiled a lot, showed his
teeth. Several gold ones. Tall and thin. Very spry
Any age."
Reggie shook his head. "I don't think so, Bell.
The other man in the shop had large flat feet. And
the gentlemanly Mr. Harvey Stroud don't sound like a
chap to hammer at a street door. He may have gone
off with the swag. I'd like my red-haired little friend
first, thank you."
"Quite, just my view." Lomas rubbed his hands.
"We'll get on with him, Bell/:
"Oh! Are you getting warm71 " said Reggie.


THE FOOTBALL PHOTOGRAPH
"I hope so. Bell's put in very sound work. But
he's never happy unless he has a certainty."
"I like to be sure, it's a fact," Bell grumbled.
Reggie looked at him with half-shut eyes. "Which
do you mean? Sure a man ought to be hanged, or
sure you can get him hanged? Well, what have you
got, Bell?"
"It's going like this, sir. We've got a man who
saw a motor-bike with side-car left in Broadlands
Rents that afternoon. You know the place. Light
vans and such get parked there ordinary weekdays,
nothing much on Saturdays. So he noticed it. And
he saw two fellows go off with it. Each of 'em was
carrying a workman's tool-basket. He thought they
looked like builders' men. But the one that rode the
bike was a little chap with red hair. Do you notice,
Mr. Fortune, these chaps that saw 'em can't tell us
anything about the other?"
"Yes. Rather a pity. Yes. But I don't infer
that he was the tall and spry and gentlemanly Harvey
Stroud. I should say he was somebody who looked
the ordinary British workman. Well, any further
trace of our red-haired friend?"
"He goes off on the motor-bike and we lose him.
But there's the football clue, sir." He stopped. "You
know this is all your case really. Everything we've
got is what you made for us."
"Oh no. No. Not my case. Not in my way at
all," said Reggie quickly. "It's a job for the whole
department."
"Quite, quite," Lomas agreed. "Building things
up."
Bell glanced at him. "Yes, sir," he said respect-
fully. "Well, this is what we've built up, Mr. For-
tune. The porter'used to have his dinner at a little


140 MR. FORTUNE EXPLAINS
eating-house round the comer. And they say there
he talked a lot of football, and his pet club was London
City. They got into the Final of the Cup, last year,
you know. Well, their outside left is a little red-haired
man, Percy Clark. Been with 'em a long time. Regu-
lar popular favourite they tell me."
"The football burglar. Quite a new type," Lomas
chuckled.
"And is Mr. Clark known to the police?" Reggie
asked.
"Not at all, sir. He's in the regular team, though
he isn't a professional. And you can take it First
League football players don't do much crime. They
train too hard."
"Mr. Clark plays as an amateur. Yes. And how
does he get his living?"
"He's got a business of his own, sir; motor and
cycle depot; specializes in motor-bikes."
"Well, well!" Reggie murmured, and Lomas
laughed. "It does all fit, doesn't it, Bell?"
"You mean he could ha' made that queer long
chisel they used in his own workshop. Yes, I thought
of that. But it is quite a respectable business, old
standing; his father had it before him."
"Yes. Yes." Reggie smiled. "What are his teeth
like?"
Bell breathed hard. "Ah. I reckon that's up to
you, sir. I've had some fellows look at him, but all
they can say is he has a scar on his face, healing.
Playing football, he might get that easy."
"Do they play football in August?"
"Oh yes, sir. Practice games. League season
begins before summer's over. What I was thinking—
his team has a practice game this evening—if you'd
come up and have a look at him."


THE FOOTBALL PHOTOGRAPH 141
"If you like. Anything I can do," said Reggie
meekly. "What about it, Lomas?"
"Safety-first idea, isn't it ?" Lomas shrugged. "I
should have said we have enough of a case to bring
the fellow here and ask him a few questions. But
there's no harm in looking him over beforehand. I
take it the thing turns on his tooth. If he's lost
the piece you found, then we've got him cold. If he
hasn't, then we shall have to work up something
more."
"I don't know about working up," Bell grumbled.
"We shall want something more. I thought of taking
the chap who saw the burglars at work up to the
ground to see if he could identify Clark."
"Oh no. No. I wouldn't do that," Reggie said
hastily. "It's not fair. Bell. The red-haired man he
saw was in ordinary clothes. Mr. Clark may look very
different stripped for football. Try him in a regular
identification parade."
"Very good, sir," Bell frowned. "You don't mind
my saying so, but you're uncommon careful to have
us do everything in the regulation routine way for you
in this case."
"It's that kind of case, you know." Reggie was
plaintive.
"Quite," Lomas approved. "Quite. You're per-
fectly right, my dear fellow."
The huge amphitheatre of the London City ground
was sparsely populated for that practice match. Two
men who strolled in just before the kick-off had no
difficulty in finding places against the rails. The
players ran on to the field and lined up. The red
head of Percy Clark glistened in the sun.
"Yes. Quite oily," Reggie murmured. "And the


142 MR. FORTUNE EXPLAINS
right red, thank you." He smiled. "Cut over the
eye nearly gone. Sturdy little wretch, isn't he?"
"He could have struck that blow ?" Bell said under
his breath.
"Oh lord, yes! Just the man. Short and power-
ful. I told you he would be. Quick on his feet, isn't
he?" Clark was making rings round the opposing
half. "That also. Oh, damn!" Clark had come
into contact with the back. They had some badinage.
"I didn't see," Bell muttered. "What is it?
Tooth there, sir?"
"No, it isn't. The whole tooth's gone. He's had
it out, confound him. And that is that." He turned
away.
"What do you want to do now, sir?" Bell said
when they reached the street.
"Carry on, carry on. You'll have to ask Mr. Clark
to come to Scotland Yard, and if he won't come—
take him."
'' I'll tell Mr. Lomas, sir."
"Oh yes. Yes. Let's be correct," Reggie smiled.
And everything was done in order as he desired.
That night two grave men called on Percy Clark in
the neat little house beside his garage. They asked
him to come and give Superintendent Bell a little
information. He laughed. He wanted to know what
about. They said the Superintendent would tell him.
He replied that he had no time to go running round
to police stations. They said he would have to make
it. He went with them.
"Cut it short, will you, old friend?" He greeted
Bell jauntily. "I'm a busy man."
"All right," said Bell. "You just tell me what you
were doing the afternoon of Saturday the 20th."
"I don't think!" Clark winked. "Want to pinch


THE FOOTBALL PHOTOGRAPH 143
me for something, do you? Nothing doing, old bean.
There's been too much in the papers about what a
chap gets by talking to the police."
"You can't account for your time that afternoon?"
"Not 'arf," said Clark. "I'm saying nothing, mate."
"If you're innocent, you're a fool," Bell frowned.
"You've got nothing against me. I know that.
Not being a fool, old friend, I'm not going to help you
fake up a charge. Got that? Now, what about it?"
"You'll be detained as a suspected person," said
Bell.
"What of?" said Clark.
"You'll hear when the time comes."
In the morning, Bell put him up for identification
by the man who had seen the burglars at work and
the man who saw two workmen go off in a side-car.
Both of these witnesses picked him out, both declared
that they had seen a little man with red hair like his.
Neither would say he was the man. His house and
his garage were searched and such a tool as the long
chisel which had been used in the burglary was found:
more than one queer tool of no lawful use.
Then Bell charged him with burglary and murder,
and he grinned and asked to see his solicitor.
Reggie was called out of his laboratory to the tele-
phone. "Well, Reginald, Mr. Percy Clark is going to
be put through it," said the voice of Lomas. "In
the police court to-morrow. Happy now?"
"Not happy, no. Tranquil. I thought you'd have
to." V
"Quite. You're satisfied? Good. So am I.
Come round, will you? The Public Prosecutor wants
to talk."
Reggie came into a room which seemed to be occu-


144 MR. FORTUNE EXPLAINS
pied by a large man in front of the fireplace, who
lectured.
"Oh, my aunt!" Reggie moaned. "Lomas—oh,
you are there. I couldn't see you for the noise. Hallo,
Bell! You look disgruntled." He turned at last to
Mr. Montagu Finchampstead, the Public Prosecutor.
"What's the matter with you, Finch?"
"He's explaining that he doesn't think much of the
case," said Lomas.
"Fancy that," Reggie murmured. "Haven't we
been correct, Lomas? How would Finch have done
it?"
"The question is not how I should have done it,
but whether the evidence you have will obtain a con-
viction. And"
"Is it ?" said Lomas. "I should say if the police
have good evidence a man was guilty of murder he
ought to go for trial."
"Good evidence, yes," Finchampstead fumed.
"There's practically nothing but Fortune's story."
"My what?" Reggie was hurt. '' I don't tell
stories, Finch."
"We have some other striking facts," said Lomas.
"A man very like this chap was on the scene of the
murder. He has the motor-bike equipment and the
burglarious tools which the murderer required. He's a
footballer, and a football photo was stolen from the
murdered man's room after the crime."
"A lot of detail," Finchampstead snorted.
"Of course it's detail," said Lomas. "Every case
is made up of detail: and when each scrap fits, the
cumulative force is strong."
"Juries don't bother about cumulative force,"
Finchampstead announced. "We come down to this.
The only clear evidence you've got is Fortune's state-


THE FOOTBALL PHOTOGRAPH 145
ment about the hair and the piece of tooth. And in
my opinion it's not satisfactory."
"Thank you for all these kind words," Reggie mur-
mured. "Why isn't it satisfactory? The murderer
left hair on the dead man's fist which is just the colour
of Percy Clark's. He left a bit of a front tooth, and
Percy has lost all that tooth."
"Just so. All of it," said Finchampstead. "Which
means that the bit you found is not evidence against
him at all. A man can't have something broken off a
tooth he hasn't got."
"How true, Finch! How brilliant!" Reggie
looked at him reverently. "But don't you see, dear,
that raises the little questions, when did he have that
tooth taken out, and why did he have that tooth taken
out? For he had his front teeth all present and correct
quite recently. I've found a smiling photograph."
"That's right, sir," Bell nodded. '* In the football
papers. And I've found customers of his who want
to swear he hasn't lost a front tooth at all."
"Satisfied now?" Lomas smiled.
Finchampstead scowled at him. "No, I am not
satisfied. I am bound to say the evidence is inade-
quate."
"Now, what exactly do you mean, Finch ?" Reggie
murmured. "That you don't think Percy was the
murderer or that you don't think you can make a
jury say he was?"
Finchampstead hesitated. "I don't mind owning
it's a queer case," he said reluctantly. "You show a
strong probability that he is guilty. But I have to
make a proof, Fortune."
Lomas laughed. "Just so. You admit it's a case
for trial."
"I agree we must go through with it." Finchamp-
K


146 MR. FORTUNE EXPLAINS
stead rose. "Don't forget, we have no idea what his
defence is going to be."
"No. Not a notion," Reggie murmured. "That'll
make it very interesting."
The conference brcke up. But Bell took Reggie
aside. "Mr. Fortune, do you believe this man's
guilty?" he said.
'' Oh yes. Absolutely. Not a doubt. Why?"
Bell drew a long breath. "Well, I'm glad. I did
think you were keeping out of it: leaving it all to us."
"Yes. That is so." He looked at Bell with half-
shut eyes. "You notice things," he murmured. "I
wanted you fellows to work up the case yourselves.
It makes you all nice and keen. I couldn't force a
prosecution. But Lomas can. And he has."
The arrest of a First League player for murder
was a fortune to newspapers in the depths of the silly
season. The great heart of the people was taught to
yearn over Percy Clark. Pages of stories, pages of
pictures, set forth his deeds on the football field, his
beauty and his charm. He became a popular hero
persecuted by the police.
The prosecution went on its slow prosaic way.
Before the magistrate an old solicitor of renown in
criminal cases appeared for Mr. Clark, played lightly
with the evidence against him and announced that he
would reserve his defence. Mr. Clark was committed
for trial.
When the case came on, a crowd fought to get into
the court, a crowd remained outside. The driest, hard-
est little Judge on the bench took the case. "Looks in
form," Lomas smiled. "He'll hang the fellow if he can."
"He will keep the jury to the evidence," said Finch-
ampstead with dignity, glancing at the fleshy advocate
who was leading for the defence.


THE FOOTBALL PHOTOGRAPH 147
But Mr. Justice Blackshaw had no chance for his
noted snubs. Sir Edward Pollexfen did not use the
melodramatic style which has made him the idol of
the criminal classes. He took the case as quietly as
the neat counsel for the prosecution. The dangerous
evidence of Reggie did not excite him, his cross-
examination treated Mr. Fortune with careless respect.
"Your evidence is that the murderer had red hair and
lost a portion of a tooth in his struggle with the dead
man. Very good. I suggest that many men have
red hair, Mr. Fortune."
"Yes. Not so many this shade of red."
"Still, a good many. You produce one hair and a
piece of a front tooth. You don't suggest that piece
is missing from any of the prisoner's teeth." .
"Not from any that he has now. He has had the
tooth in the position from which this piece came
removed."
"If he had lost that tooth before the murder, this
piece cannot be his?"
"If he had," said Reggie, and was told that was all.
Lomas looked at Finchampstead. "Taking it easy,
what?"
"Much too easy," Finchampstead frowned.
Reggie came from the witness-box to sit beside them.
"Well, well. I should say we're going to hear some
good hard swearing, Finch."
"I should say they have a good answer. I was
afraid of that, Fortune."
"Yes, yes. I know you were," Reggie murmured.
The defence continued to take it easy. The men
who had seen a red-haired little fellow at the time
and place of the murder were let go with the admission
that they could not swear to Percy Clark. The woman
telling of the stolen football photograph was only


148 MR. FORTUNE EXPLAINS
required to admit she did not know who was in it.
The customers of Clark who swore he had had all his
teeth till the eve of the murder were contemptuously
challenged. Bell's own evidence of strange tools in
Clark's workshop was dismissed with a few technical
questions to confuse the jury.
Pollexfen arose to open the defence with expansive
confidence. The jury must be amazed at the weakness
of the case which they had been brought to hear. In
all his long experience he had never known a criminal
charge supported by such scanty, flimsy evidence. It
would be apparent to them that no rational man could
find the prisoner guilty. But his client was not con-
tent to be acquitted for lack of evidence against him.
He claimed the right to prove his innocence. And he
would show that he could have had no part in the
crime.
"That means we're going to have an alibi," said
Lomas.
But they began with the tooth. Some of the other
players in Clark's football team swore that he had an
accident in practice the week before the murder and
stood out of training.
"Yes, I dare say they're telling the truth," Reggie
murmured. "He'd want time off to make his little
arrangements."
They testified that Clark had a kick in the face,
complained that it had loosened his teeth, told them
the front one had gone so shaky he had to pull it out.
"Thus avoiding any dentist's evidence," Reggie
murmured.
The prosecuting counsel, going gingerly, brought out
that they had no knowledge how the tooth was lost
except what Clark had told them.
And then came a man who said he lived at Gilsfield.


THE FOOTBALL PHOTOGRAPH 149
It is a little place fifty miles out of London, away from
main lines and main roads.
Reggie lay back and gazed at him with mild and
dreamy eyes.
The man said he was a retired grocer, and he looked
it. He had a habit of going out for a stroll and getting
a cup of tea at a wayside inn, the "Billhook." He
knew Mr. Clark by seeing him there pretty often. He
was at the " Billhook " on the Saturday of the murder.
He saw Mr. Clark there. Under cross-examination he
was sure of the date, but vague about the time. It
was tea-time: might have been four or five. "Or
six or seven?" counsel suggested. But he was sure
it was before the bar opened. The Court laughed.
"Pretty vague," said Lomas.
"Yes. Yes. Mr. Clark will want them to do better
than that," Reggie murmured, and contemplated the
sharp, impudent face in the dock.
The landlord of the "Billhook" came next, an
oldish, fattish man, sweating freely. He also knew
Mr. Clark. Mr. Clark often came to the " Billhook"
when he was out on his motor-bike. He came that
Saturday. Came for a bit o' lunch. Stayed on till it
was getting dark. Had a bit o' game with the darts
in the afternoon. He knew the date, he'd got it scored
up. Mr. Clark lost half a dollar to him and hadn't
paid yet. Again the Court laughed. And cross-
examination made nothing of the landlord. He was
anxious to oblige, in the manner of a publican, he
wheezed and he sweated, but he stuck to his story.
"So that's that," Reggie murmured, watching him
out of the box. "Now, what's little Blackshaw going
to do about it?"
Pollexfen's speech for the defence took that for
granted. He boomed assurance. The charge had


150 MR. FORTUNE EXPLAINS
collapsed; it was atoms, dust. The prisoner was
proved innocent before God and man.
And for the first time the little Judge had his chance
to snap. Some lovers of football were applauding.
He scarified them.
The reply for the prosecution was in a minor key,
ironic about alibis, sarcastic upon dentistry by hear-
say, bitter in emphasis on the anxiety of someone to
destroy the evidence that the murdered man had a
footballing friend.
Mr. Justice Blackshaw took snuff. The summing
up came in his .driest style. The jury would not be
misled by counsel's complaints that a grave charge
had been made without proof. They would observe
that facts had been given in evidence which were in
substance unchallenged and which pointed to the
prisoner's guilt. They would also observe that evi-
dence had been given to weaken the strongest part of
the case and other evidence which would disprove it
all. He made it plain that he did not think much of
the explanation of the tooth. He treated the alibi
with more respect. If they believed the witnesses for
the defence, the foundation of the charge, that Clark
had been at the shop at the time of the burglary, was
destroyed. They must consider that evidence care-
fully and the evidence as a whole.
"Fair little beggar, isn't he ?" Reggie smiled. "He
knows Clark did it all right."
"He knows what your evidence is worth," Finch-
ampstead growled. "That's a direction to acquit."
"I know. I know," Reggie murmured. He gazed
pensively at the man in the dock. The gap where
the tooth had been showed in a queer, sneering grin.
The jury did not consider long. They came back
with a verdict of not guilty, and at the words a cheer


THE FOOTBALL PHOTOGRAPH 151
rose from the back of the crowded court, rose louder,
to the impotent rage of the little Judge, as it was
swelled by a boom of cheering from the crowd outside.
"I told you so, Lomas," Finchampstead growled.
"You've made a nice thing of it. This is what comes
of relying on Fortune's theories."
"No, it isn't. It comes of doing one's job," said
Lomas. "Well, let's get away before they tear us
limb from limb. Where is Fortune?" But Mr.
Fortune had gone.
On the next day a young man on a motor-bicycle
stopped at the "Billhook" for lunch. His clothes
were loud, his speech Cockney. He confided in the
landlord that he was having his fortnight off: mooch-
ing round the country on the old jigger: rather thought
of putting up somewhere for a bit. The landlord,
who looked like the morning after a wet night, said
the " Billhook " had no beds. "Sorry. You got some
good beer. 'Ave one with me." The landlord had one
and another. "Prime stuff. I'll be coming this way
again, dad "—the young man winked. "Cheerio!"
He rode off and found a bed in Gilsfield. He was Mr.
Fortune's chauffeur, Sam, a young man of versatility.
The country round the " Billhook " is lonely, a pictur-
esque and barren region of sandhills which grew heath
by nature and have been made to grow larch and pine.
Here and there the ponds, which such country is apt
to produce, give variety to the vegetation. About this
time a botanist, complete with vasculum, was noticed
working over the heath. The solitary woodmen and
gamekeepers found him affable. He was Mr. Fortune.
Sam continued to mooch round and he often recurred
to the bar of the " Billhook," and the men who used
it agreed that he was a lad.


THE FOOTBALL PHOTOGRAPH 153
I'm afraid you'll have a night out. I want the ' Bill-
hook' watched to-night."
"All right, sir. I'd love to do the blighter in. The
beastly swipes I've drunk in his place I But what do you
mean, more telephoning? That message 'e 'ad"
"Oh yes. Yes. That was me. Good-bye."
As soon as it grew dark Sam went into hiding behind
a clump of gorse in the road above the "Billhook."
He saw the regular drinkers of that respectable inn
arrive and cheerily depart. At the legal hour the
"Billhook" closed its door and the light behind the
red blind of its bar went out. Two lights upstairs
announced that the landlord and his maid-of-all-work
had gone to bed. Then those lights also vanished,
and the inn was a vague mass in the dark.
The night was silent but for the whirr of bats and
an owl hooting. After a while Sam made out the beat
of a motor engine far away, a bicycle engine efficiently
silenced. It came nearer at a great pace, rushed past
him, stopped at the inn, and without a knock or a
word the door opened and the man and the bicycle
were inside.
Fcr a moment Sam thought he heard a car purring
down the road, then lost the sound. But soon other
faint sounds came. A man was nearly treading on
him, a hand felt for him, a torch flashed into his face.
"All right, son," a voice whispered. "I'm Bell."
The bulk of the Superintendent lay down at Sam's
side. "You've got a good nerve. Anything doing?"
"Not 'alf," Sam muttered. "Chap and his motor-
bike gone into the pub. Couldn't see him."
"Don't you worry."
"But what's up, sir?"
"Search me. No more talk now."
They lay there some while longer. Then a light


154 MR. FORTUNE EXPLAINS
came out of the inn, a stable lantern in a man's hand.
He was the landlord. With him walked a smaller
man, who carried a spade on his shoulder. They
turned off the road. "'Ere," Sam gripped at Bell,
"goin' down by the pond. That's where the old 'un
went this afternoon. What's the game?"
"Shut up," Bell muttered. He let the two go well
ahead before he stood up. Four other men rose out
of the ground behind him. They moved on towards
the pond silently. The lantern light was glimmering
over the water: there was a squelching, splashing
sound. The landlord stood in the pond a little way
from the bank, digging, and the other man held the
lantern. Something came away with a gurgling and
sucking, which took two hands to lift, was taken out
of the water and the landlord hurried away with it,
leaving- his companion to bring lantern and spade.
As they came, Bell turned his torch on them, and
other torches flashed out. They were held in the glare
while his men closed. "We're police officers," said
Bell, with a heavy grip on the landlord's arm. "Now,
what have you got for us?"
"Oh, police, are you?" It was the other man who
answered. "Going to make another bloomer, then?"
"I know you, Clark," Bell said.
"You bloomin' well do, Mr. bloomin' Superinten-
dent. An' you know you can't do anything more
against me. I've been found not guilty, I have, and
you can't touch me. I know my rights and I ain't
going to stand for any rough stuff. Come off it."
"And this is your alibi," Bell said mildly. "Well,
what's he giving us now?" He took from the land-
lord's shaking arms a big metal box. "Thanks.
Bring 'em back to the pub."
"Now, what do you think you're doing?" Clark


THE FOOTBALL PHOTOGRAPH 155
cried. "You've got no right to pinch me again. You
can't touch me. I tell you "One of the detec-
tives, hustling him along, advised him to stow the
gab. "You wait till I get to my lawyer, you bloomin'
stiff. I'll have the hide off you for this. I'll have
you turned out of the force."
"Want to talk now, Clark?" said Bell. "Let it
out. You hadn't much to say last time."
"I want to know what the bally charge is ?" Clark
growled.
Bell laughed. "Well, what is it?" He held up
the box. "Seems heavy."
They came into the bar of the " Billhook " and the
lamps were lit. Bell looked at his prisoners. The
landlord's fat face sagged pallid. Clark scowled.
"Going to give me the key?" Bell tapped the box.
"I dunno nothing about it," the landlord whined.
"I—I was jus' keeping it for"
"Don't you say anything, George," Clark said
quickly. "He'll only twist it against you."
"Yes, who were you keeping it for, George?" Bell
smiled. There was no answer. "All right. I dare
say we can tell you. Put 'em in there." He opened
the door of the bar parlour.
"Here, now, wait a bit. What's the charge?"
Clark protested.
"Detained on suspicion," Bell said.
"Oh yes, I don't think. You had that before."
"And now I've got some more," Bell said, and the
two were taken away. "Well, Forbes, what about it?"
One of his men was already opening the box. It
was full of a bundle in leather cloth. Out of that
came jewellery. Forbes spread out a printed list and
began to examine things. "This is Durfey and Kiili-
grew's stuff all rightr sir."


156 MR. FORTUNE EXPLAINS
"Good work," said Bell, and went to the telephone.
"That Mr. Fortune? Bell speaking. We've got 'em,
sir. With the stuff. They had it buried in this pond
here. What, sir? You don't mean ?" He
brushed his hand over his face. "Very good, sir.
I'll keep 'em here." He hung up the receiver. He
sat down heavily and lit a pipe. It took many
matches
Until dawn they waited in the inn, a long watch
broken by the complaints of Clark. With the light
came a car. Mr. Fortune and Lomas and the Chief
Constable of the County. "Hallo, Bell." Reggie was
brisk. "Nobody else in the place?"
"There's a woman servant upstairs, Sam says. I
haven't got her up, sir. She seems to have slept
through it."
"Yes. Been trained not to hear too much. Well,
one of your men had better take her off. We shall want
her statement. Don't let her see these fellows. I"
A lorry groaned past the door.
"Well, let's get on, what?" He turned away.
"When I want these two beauties I'll whistle."
Through the window of the bar parlour the sharp
red face of Mr. Clark could be seen peering after the
lorry. It carried some country policemen in uniform.
As near the pond as it could get, it stopped. The
policemen clambered down and hauled out a cumbrous
apparatus of iron and rope.
The Chief Constable strode up to the pond. "It's
not so big, Mr. Fortune. We'll soon make sure one
way or the other."
"Yes, yes." Reggie walked round the bank and
measured distances with his eye. "We're going to
make quite sure. They couldn't throw him further than
this. Begin from here and work towards that end."


THE FOOTBALL PHOTOGRAPH 157
The drags were put in and the constabulary hauled
and the black water grew turbid and yellow. The
ropes strained. "Got something," the Chief Constable
grunted. "Go steady, lads." Out of the depths of
the pond into the shallows came a shapeless mass of
cloth. Policemen splashed in and lifted on to the
bank something that had been a man.
Lomas turned away. The Chief Constable' pulled
out a flask and drank and passed it to his men. Reggie
knelt down by the body. . . . When he stood up
again he dabbled his hands in the pond. "Could you
blow a whistle, Lomas?" he murmured.
The Chief Constable did that. "Is it the chap you
were looking for?"
"Oh yes. Gold teeth, as per invoice. The late
Harvey Stroud."
"Was he drowned?" said Lomas.
"No, not drowned. Skull fractured. Injury to bones
of the face. Hit and jabbed by hard, heavy weapon.
Same like the porter. Ah, here come the operators."
Under the propulsion of Bell's men, Mr. Clark and the
landlord reluctantly approached. "Come along," Reg-
gie called. "Just want you to recognize the deceased."
The landlord caught sight of that shapeless face and
gave a gasping cry and swayed round, hanging on the
arms that held him.
"Yes. Your error," Reggie said. He contemplated
the little red face of Percy Clark. Its look of impudence
was fixed, but his jaws worked fast. "Still chewing
gum, Mr. Clark?"
Then Clark swore at him. . . .
That afternoon the Public Prosecutor was asked to
come and see the Chief of the Cruvinal Investigation
Department. He found Mr. Forfroie with Lomas.
"My dear old Finch," Reggie beamed. "Journeys


158 MR. FORTUNE EXPLAINS
end in lovers meetin'. And now we live happily ever
after. You've been so useful. How wonderful that is!
But how gratifyin'! Another nice case for you now."
"Good heavens !" Finchampstead exploded. "An-
other case of yours? I should have thought that last
exhibition was sufficiently ignominious. What is this,
now ? '*
"Percy Clark, dear. Yet once more, oh ye laurels,
and once more."
"Are you mad? You can't charge the man again."
"Not the same murder. No. This is another one.
And thus we will establish your shaken reputation,
Finch."
"My reputation I" Finchampstead gobbled.
"Yes, old thing. Yes, it was too bad." Reggie
soothed him. "But necessary, you know. All for
your country's good. We had to prosecute the beggar.
We had to make him show his hand. And you did it
beautifully, Finch."
"What does this mean, Lomas?" Finchampstead
groaned.
"He's quite right," Lomas chuckled. "He gener-
ally is, confound him. Don't you see, the prosecution
drove Clark into a corner. His only chance was to set
up that alibi. And the alibi gave him away."
"It was perjured evidence? I dare say. If you
hadn't been so hasty"
"Not hasty. No. Forcin' the game," Reggie
smiled. "When he put that fat landlord into the
box, he put the rope round his neck. We had it
sworn that he was a pal of the landlord's, and that
he'd been at the 'Billhook' on the evening of the
burglary. So I went down with my chauffeur to look
into the landlord. And we found another fellow came
to the ' Billhook ' that night. A tall, dark fellow who


THE FOOTBALL PHOTOGRAPH 159
came in a car, went into a back room with the land-
lord and Mr. Clark, and was never seen to go away.
His car was there days after. Well, you know, there
was a man reported missing from that Saturday who
had interests in burglary—Mr. Harvey Stroud. Bell
was always worrying about him. Bell thought he
might be the man who put up the job. It looked as
if he was. We knew the murder of the porter wasn't
according to plan. If Mr. Stroud came quietly down
to the ' Billhook' to collect the swag and found he'd
been mixed up in a murder, he wouldn't be pleased.
There might well have been a row. Another little
affair not according to plan. So I rang up the land-
lord and said, ' What's become of Harvey Stroud?'
Only that and nothing more. Just to see the reaction.
He reacted very nicely. He gargled. Then my man
saw him go out and wander round the adjacent pond,
just looking at things. And then he went back and
telephoned to Mr. Clark. Soon as the evening shades
prevailed, Clark buzzed down to the 'Billhook.' In
the night they went out and dug the swag out of the
pond. And Bell got 'em with the goods all present
and correct."
"We can convict them of the burglary, then?"
said Finchampstead.
"Oh yes. Yes. And the murder of Stroud. We
dragged the pond this morning. Harvey Stroud was
there with his head bashed in and his pockets full of
stones. And now your fat friend the landlord is
coughing up confessions."
"I always knew that rascal Clark was guilty,"
Finchampstead announced. "This is very satisfactory,
Fortune."
"Yes, I think so," Mr. Fortune murmured. "One
of my neater cases. Pure art. No vulgar emotion."


FIFTH EXPLANATION
THE ROCK GARDEN
MR. FORTUNE was lunching at that one of
his clubs where they understand mayonnaise.
This often happens when he is condemned to spend
June in London. The defect of that club is men speak
to each other. He was therefore not surprised that
big Blenkinsop stopped at his table: it only renewed
his gloom. Blenkinsop had a guest in tow, a plump
old fellow with white hair and owlish eyes which looked
queer above a red youthful face. He was introduced
as Sidney Brigg and a little flustered about it. When
Mr. Fortune settled down to a cigar upstairs he found
them on top of him.
Blenkinsop asked after his garden and Reggie
moaned that he had not seen it for weeks. Blenkin-
sop laughed. "You two fellows would go well to-
gether. Fortune. Brigg is a great gardener, too. Mad
about it. Wonderful place down in Wessex."
Reggie's eyes opened a little. "Jolly," he sighed.
"Oh, nothing wonderful at all," said Brigg eagerly.
"I—I do think I have a rather remarkable rock gar-
den. If you care about that sort of thing, Mr. Fortune,
I—I should be most happy if you'd come down to
my little place."
"Thanks very much. Like to." Reggie got on his
feet. "Good-bye. There's some bacteria waiting for
me hungrily." He went off to his laboratory and
160


THE ROCK GARDEN 161
Brigg and the rock garden faded out of his conscious
mind.
Two days afterwards they came back. Reggie was
at home dozing between tea and dinner and upon him
dozed Darius, his black Persian cat. They woke to
gaze reproachful at the parlourmaid who offered the
card of Mr. Sidney Brigg. "My only aunt!" Reggie
murmured. "Yes. I'll see him." And Brigg was
brought in. Reggie and Darius blinked at him.
"How are you?" Reggie held out a hand. "You
see why I can't get up." Darius rose with cold indig-
nation and descended to the floor.
"Too bad of me to trouble you like this really,"
Brigg said and stooped and stroked Darius, who gave
answer in a contemptuous curse. "Sorry, old fellow.
Yes, too bad of me." He looked up at Reggie. There
was something odd about his owlish eyes: anxiety in
them or fear. Reggie's foot pushed a chair towards
him. "Ah, thank you. The fact is—I'm off again
to my place to-night—I just wanted to fix things up
before I went—you're giving me a day or two, aren't
you ?—what about a date, now—better come along soon
—the garden is just at its best." He spoke fast and
in jerks.
"My dear chap I" Reggie murmured. "Thanks
very much, of course. But I've got my little problems
up here."
"Your police work?" Brigg answered quickly.
"Is there anything urgent?"
"Oh no. Not police. Bacteria. Much more inter-
esting. But exacting. Gardens always are at their
best when you can't be there. A sad world."
"You must give me a week-end, Mr. Fortune. You
really must. It was a promise, you know. And
really you'll find it most interesting. Every one
L


i62 MR. FORTUNE EXPLAINS
tells me my rock garden is something quite out of the
way." He dilated upon it, he babbled of gentians, of
anemones, of veronicas from the ends of the earth.
And it became clear to Reggie that he did not know
what he was talking about.
Darius had sat down in the middle of the floor:
with round golden eyes he contemplated the babbling
Brigg: he opened his mouth to utter a long, low wail.
Brigg jumped. "Ah, poor fellow," he said, and
bent to stroke him. Darius looked at the caressing
hand, bit it, rose and went to the door and ordered it
to open.
"Yes. Very interesting," Reggie murmured. He
gazed at Brigg, at the large, pale, haunted eyes which
reverted from Darius to him. "I could get away on
Friday if you'd have me."
"My dear sir, I shall be delighted." The red face
puckered into a boyish smile. "Just what I hoped
for." He gave elaborate directions. They must
come through Broading: anyone would tell them the
way to Five Thorns. He babbled on like a house
agent's advertisement. He was hard to get rid of.
When he was at last gone Reggie went slowly
upstairs to his wife's room. A smile out of the looking-
glass rewarded him. He sat down and contemplated
her as she dressed. "My dear child," she protested.
"Run away and change yourself."
"You're nice, aren't you, Joan?" he said gravely.
"Yes. I think so," said the face in the glass.
She turned. "What's the matter?"
"Wanted to look at you. I'm going away this
week-end."
'' Pig," said Mrs. Fortune. "What for?"
"I don't know. The fellow wanted me to go and
look at his rock garden. And, speakin' broadly, I


THE ROCK GARDEN 163
should say he hasn't got one." He told her about the
intrusion of Brigg.
Mrs. Fortune put the last gold pin into her amber
hair and turned. "What do you think he really
wants?"
"Me, darling," Reggie smiled. "That's the basic
fact. He wants me and he wants me badly."
"Vanity," said Mrs. Fortune. "Why should he
want you?"
"I haven't the slightest idea."
"He isn't being honest."
"Oh no. No. That's the interestin' complica-
tion."
"If he was really in trouble, and wanting you to
help, he would have told you what it was."
"Yes. That would be the natural process. I
didn't think he was quite natural, Joan. I should
say he's in fear. Fear of something he can't be sure
about. Kind of haunted."
"And he wants to get you down alone to this
country place. There may be something horrible."
"Trouble for somebody. Yes. That is indicated."
"Oh, of course, if you think someone's in trouble
you must fuss to help. But this horrid old man may
be making a trap for you."
"Yes. It could be," Reggie said slowly. "That
would be his error, Joan."
"You are just a small boy," said Mrs. Fortune.
"I know why you're going really. It's because Darius
liked him. Horrid cat."
"The darling!" Reggie was indignant. "You
have no reverence, Joan. No soul. Darius couldn't
bear him. Though he worshipped most respectful.
Darius don't like people jumpy. So I have to attend
to Mr. Brigg."


164 MR. FORTUNE EXPLAINS
"I hate being married to a philanthropist," said
Mrs. Fortune thoughtfully.
"You aren't"—Reggie was shrill. "I'm not,
Joan."
Mrs. Fortune made a face at him.
Thus with domestic strife he undertook the case
of the rock garden.
At this stage he regarded it with a completely open
mind. He allowed an equal possibility that it might
turn out to be anything from murders to indigestion.
His treatment of it, he will point out, showed that
caution which is his chief virtue as a man of science.
Blenkinsop was sought at the club and his desultory
mind turned over thoroughly. It seemed that he had
no deeper purpose than his usual fatuous desire that
everybody should know everybody. Old Brigg had
confided to him a craving to meet the great Mr. For-
tune and Blenkinsop had eagerly arranged it. He
knew all about Brigg. The man belonged to an old
Wessex family. His place down there had been in
their hands for generations. Brigg hadn't had it long.
He'd made his pile in the cotton trade before the
estate came to him. He was a widower then with one
daughter—very smart girl. Married again a few years
ago. Lovely woman, an actress or something. Old
Brigg found her down in the provinces and married
her right away.
"Have you been to his country house?"
"Oh yes. Several times. Fine old place. They
do you very well, too. And the ladies are worth
looking at. You ought to go."
"Yes, I think so,'' Reggie murmured.
The domestic affairs of Brigg seemed to him to offer
opportunities for various complications. Superin-
tendent Bell was asked to look into the past of Sidney


THE ROCK GARDEN 165
Brigg, and with a mind resolutely open Reggie went
down to look into his present.
The big car came to a pleasant country of woodland
and down. At the end of the afternoon they ran into
the quiet little grey town of Broading, and Sam the
chauffeur drew up by the dreaming policeman in the
market-place to ask the way to Five Thorns. When
he woke up he was zealous to oblige.
Sam nodded and drove on. "Well, well," Reggie
murmured. "Always wise to be in good standing
with the police, Sam. We've got it on record we
arrived here, anyway."
Sam looked round with a hint of a grin on his
Cockney face. "All right, sir. I thought somebody
'ad got 'is number up."
"I wonder," Reggie murmured.
And they saw Five Thorns. Its roof rose close
under the bastion of a bare hill-side, where springs
broke out to make a pool, gleaming silver through
the green darkness of surrounding trees.
Beyond the pool and the wood the house stood,
a mass of grey stone built by some eighteenth-
century Brigg whose ideal was solemn comfort. The
wide lawns about it smiled in the sunshine bright
with Victorian gardening: geraniums, calceolaria,
lobelia.
"Well, well," Reggie murmured. "Home, sweet
home. That's what I did not think, Sam."
As the car drew up, a woman hurried round the
corner of the house and stopped short. It was to be
inferred that the sound of a car had brought her
expecting someone and Reggie was not what she
expected. She was a vivid creature, if her colours
were put on by nature.
From the other end of the garden came Brigg. He


166 MR. FORTUNE EXPLAINS
beamed, he gushed, he was officious, and the woman
vanished.
Reggie was taken to a large, much-furnished bed-
room, and, relieved at last of the attentions of Brigg,
who seemed to want to valet him, sat down to con-
template it. It had everything, as Brigg had labor-
iously pointed out, that any man could think of
putting in a bedroom ; its colours were a pleasant blue
and grey; its air was fresh, but there was a gloom
about it. The light outside was brilliant. Reggie
moved to the window and looked through the sunshine
to the trees about the pool and the green wall of the
down. But the sunlight did not come into the room,
had not come and would never come. The windows
looked north.
"Keeping me on ice," Reggie murmured. "What
shall be done to the man whom Brigg delights to
honour? He shall be put in a room without sun.
By accident or design? I wonder." Sam tapped
at the door and came in. "Hallo. Found your
quarters?"
"Yes, sir. Floor above this. Looking the other
way." Sam stiffened under his dreamy eyes. "Any-
thing doing, sir?"
"Run away and make yourself at home. Be
affable, Sam. We just want to know, you know."
Reggie went down to tea. The drawing-room did
not look north. It was full of sunshine.
The woman who had hurried to meet his car sat
with her back to the light. Brigg bustled forward.
"Here's Mr. Fortune, Gladys."
"So pleased you could come." Her tone was
careful and lifeless. A thin hand was limp in his.
"Sidney thinks the world of his garden. I hope
you'll like it. It is rather a dear place."


THE ROCK GARDEN 167
She did not seem to mean that or to mean anything
in particular. She was without interest in him.
Reggie considered her with benign curiosity. Those
vivid colours, of course, were not provided by nature.
Even with the light behind her she was too red and
too white. But her hair might have grown that glossy
black and perhaps the darkness about them that
made her eyes look so big was natural. Pity she
used all that paint. A well-made face before it was
made up. She had a certain originality, too. She
was years out of fashion. She let nature determine the
length of her hair and the black mass of it was bound
in a knot on her neck. Her red dress gave her a
waist and amplitude above and below and fell long.
"Strange survival," Reggie said to himself. "Nine-
teenth-century vamp."
But her conduct was insipidly, timidly respectable.
She was attentive to both men, not very quick and
with a touch of shyness or humility, but anxious to
oblige, to agree, to have them satisfied and pleased.
Brigg did his share. He kept her in the conversation
and he made the most of what she said. He was an
admiring and kindly husband. Yet Reggie felt that
everybody was working hard.
Brigg looked at his watch. "Do you know where
Dorothy is, dear?" he said.
"She went out with Mr. Howard in his car."
Brigg grunted. "She won't be in to tea now, I
suppose. My daughter, you know," he explained to
Reggie. "We've got a fellow staying here, friend
of my wife's, with a contraption he calls a sports
car. Dorothy's fond of motoring. Well, you'll see
her at dinner. What about a turn in the garden
now?"
"Oh yes," Reggie smiled. "I must see the famous


168 MR. FORTUNE EXPLAINS
rock garden without delay." He turned to Mrs.
Brigg. "Something rather wonderful, isn't it?"
She looked at him with puzzled eyes. "I don't
understand about it myself. It's—it's very curious.
Sidney's awfully interested."
Brigg laughed. "That's really what brought him,
Gladys." Brigg dapped him on the shoulder. "Come
on, sir." Mrs. Brigg did not come.
They walked, as it seemed to Reggie, over miles of
lawn studded with masterpieces of bedding out and
carpet bedding. They inspected a good old orchard.
They came through an expanse of model vegetables to
acres of glass with all the kindly fruits of the earth
out of their season.
Reggie emerged breathing like a fish. Reggie
mopped a weary brow. "Wonderful place," he
moaned and gazed pathetically at Brigg. "Did you
say you had a garden somewhere?"
Brigg was not offended. He was not amused. He
remained nervously earnest and anxious to please.
"You mean the rock garden," he said. "Yes, of
course. Yes. That's the real interest. I just wanted
to show you what we can do down here. Now we
must go up this way "They turned back to reach
the house from another side.
Reggie glanced at him again. He seemed to suffer
from excitement.
"There it is, do you see, there."
Reggie looked where he pointed. Up the side of the
house rose the rock garden.
"Well, well," Reggie murmured. '* Yes. That's
very remarkable." He felt Brigg watching him
intently. "I never saw anything like it."
The mound of the garden was set close against the
house wall—that sunless northern wall from which


THE ROCK GARDEN 169
his bedroom windows looked out. It spread only a
few yards wide at the base but was built up, hiding the
wall, to about a man's height.
"Yes. Very interesting. Did you make it
yourself?"
"No, it wasn't me," said Brigg quickly. "It's
been there half a century. My cousin, who had the
place before me, was a great gardener."
"Was he?" Reggie murmured. He made a polite
inspection of the mound. It was mostly rocks and
labels, as if it had been constructed yesterday for a
new house.
The plants were not only small but sad, disliking
their sunless habitation. Most of them had not been
there fifty years or fifty days. "You've done a good
deal to it yourself?" Reggie asked.
"Well, yes, I have taken a bit of trouble with it,"
said Brigg and stopped suddenly as if he had made a
blunder. "I mean to say, I got very interested in
these little things, you know." He pointed out, as if
they were rarities, saxifrages and sedums and anemones
which every rock gardener grows. "See those asters,
they come from the Alps and that rhododendron, too.
They're very iarp. And that aquilegia, it's Siberian,
you know. And the primulas just above, they grow
on the Himalayas. It is interesting, isn't it?"
"Yes. Yes. It is." Reggie looked at him. The
old fellow was babbling nonsense: if he got a plant's
name right, he was wrong about its origin: a wild
jumble of catalogue descriptions. Queer state of mind
in a man who was keen about his garden. For he
had stuck some rare things into that sunless mound.
Brigg laughed nervously. "Rather wanted to
make something new of it, you know. Something a
bit different."


170 MR. FORTUNE EXPLAINS
"Well, you have," Reggie murmured. "Some-
thing quite out of the way," and he went over that
garden plant by plant. It was not adapted to inspec-
tion, being built in the manner of a mountain. But
Brigg encouraged him to clamber. His interest
delighted Brigg.
When he went back to his room to dress he found
Sam in waiting. "And what have you found?" He
dropped into a chair.
"Nice 'omely 'ouse, sir. Very pleasant. Old ser-
vants running it, to please 'emselves, which they do
you very well, and giving master and missus a first-
class character. Looks all right to me."
"Does it?" said Reggie and gazed at him with
large, melancholy eyes.
Sam's comic face sharpened. "Got on to some-
thing, sir?"
"Oh, my hat, no. Run away. Run away and go
on talkin' to 'em."
Reggie undid his more constraining buttons and sank
deep in the chair, in the dishevelled condition he
prefers for deeper thought. He desired urgently to
arrange the absurd facts. . . .
When he came down he found Mrs. Brigg with
another man. They were apart with the ostentation
of people who do not want to be caught together.
She introduced him to Mr. Ormond Howard and he
found himself looking at a man not so young as he
had been but dapper, like a middle-aged hero of
musical comedy. Mr. Howard talked about nothing
and found himself most amusing. He was a very bright
young thing.
Another one came in, but she was young: straight
and angular as a boy and with a boy's swagger. It
did not suit her abundance of paint and powder.


THE ROCK GARDEN
171
She was whistling one of the commoner tunes of the
moment. "Hullo, old thing"—she patted Mrs. Brigg
on the head—" had a good day?" and she turned
to Mr. Howard. "Give me a gasper, Ormond."
"Where have you been, Dorothy?" Mrs. Brigg's
eyes had a queer anxiety.
"All round the jolly old world." She blew smoke
rings. "That's some bus Ormond's got. What did
we work up to, boy? Eighty plus?"
"Go easy with it," Howard chuckled. "Only
seventy. While she was on the ground."
"I wish you wouldn't," said Mrs. Brigg.
"Oh, cheerio!" Dorothy laughed.
Brigg bustled in. "Ah, you're all down." He saw
Reggie contemplating life from a corner. "You've
met Mr. Fortune, Dorothy?"
"Looked him over, papa," said she and did so with
amusement.
"I'm so sorry." Mrs. Brigg started up. "My
stepdaughter, Mr. Fortune."
"Now I know you, what about a cocktail?" said
Dorothy.
"I'm not young enough." Reggie shook his head:
for he considers the cocktail one of the gravest errors
of the human race.
"Poor old thing. Watch the children play."
Howard drank with her and they went in to dinner.
Whatever was wrong in the house, it had not upset
the cook. Her ideas were simple but wholesome, her
results mellow. The claret was a bland and opulent
L^oville. Part of Reggie's mind was diverted into a
benign meditation whether a sound dinner of the
second class, a dinner without imagination, is not the
most soothing. The other part tried dutifully to talk
to Mrs. Brigg, which was difficult. She tried, too, but


172 MR. FORTUNE EXPLAINS
she seemed to have no subjects. When he fell back
on the sure and certain hope that a woman who had
been on the stage would talk about that, she became
dumb.
The ladies departed. Brigg praised his port, which
deserved it. From a little casual talk the voice of
Howard asserted itself. He seemed to be telling the
story of his life. . . .
He wanted Mr. Fortune's opinion: he would like
to tell Mr. Fortune about old somebody: and then
there was a funny business at so-and-so; and so on.
It became clear to Reggie that pumping operations
were in progress. . . .
Howard was anxious to know whether Mr. Fortune
knew anything about his past and what he knew.
It was done neatly enough. Its result was to bring
over Reggie's round face a sleepier innocence, to make
his conversation more vaguely irrelevant. If ever
man had reason to believe that he had failed to interest
another, it was Howard.
He was well satisfied. He brought his autobiography
to an end and they took their cigars in to the ladies.
Wireless was in full blast. Reggie sought the remotest
corner: it is a form of noise which produces in him
resentful melancholy: but he found it convenient
then: he desired a little meditation on Mr. Howard.
The man was afraid of him. Well. Always a useful
start. It must be assumed that Mr. Howard knew
his reputation.
It could be inferred that Mr. Howard had reasons
for fearing the attention of the police. Anything
more was a guess. And what could the fellow be up
to? Making love to that minx of a girl? There they
were together, his permanently waved head very close
to her sleek one, babbling.


THE ROCK GARDEN
173
Brigg said he was a friend of Mrs. Brigg's. She
must have brought him into the house. Perhaps he
was using the girl as cover for an affair with the woman.
Mrs. Brigg looked about half-dead, pretending to play
patience and watching them. Suppose Brigg thought
the fellow was playing tricks. Good reason for kicking
him out: very queer reason for bringing a medical
expert down to look at him. No. Some unknown
factor in the problem.
Howard and the girl started up, declared themselves
tired of the wireless, ragged a little and went off to play,
as they announced, billiards. Mrs. Brigg said she was
tired. Brigg switched off the wireless, fussed over
her and advised bed. She went. Brigg stared at
Reggie. His owlish eyes had a queer intensity. It
seemed to Reggie that he was ready to bring his
trouble out. "Care for a game?" he said. Reggie
shook his head. "All right. Come and smoke a
pipe in the library."
It was a sombre room, though Brigg put on a lot of
lights. Books covered the walls except for the fire-
place and one dark-curtained window. The furniture
was Victorian and ungainly, but there were chairs of
comfort. An ugly room: Reggie wondered why it
was all wrong, looked about him and discovered that
the plan was bad. It was too big for one window and
the one was in a corner. "Whisky and soda ?" said
Brigg.
"Just soda, thanks," Reggie murmured. Brigg
made a mess of it. Brigg talked a lot of muddled
apology about that and stopped suddenly and sat
down and stared at Reggie. He seemed to be waiting
for something to happen.
Reggie's placid nerves stood to attention. He
cocked a leg over the arm of his chair and turned in it


174 MR. FORTUNE EXPLAINS
so that he could see both curtained door and curtained
window. And to explain his inspection of the ugly
room he murmured that Brigg had some jolly old
books. It took Brigg some time to make an answer
to that startling remark. Then he said he didn't
know, he supposed there were some good things, he
wasn't much of a judge; they weren't really his, his
cousin had made the library, and in spasms he gave a
catalogue.
His pale, owlish eyes turned from Reggie to the
books in the corner far from the window.
Reggie looked that way, too. The shelves stood
solid from floor to ceiling, built into the wall, full of
books. "Something special there ?" he said sharply.
"Nothing at all. It's Darwin and Huxley—that
sort of thing—my cousin rather went in for science.
All that corner is science." But Brigg's eyes were
frightened.
"The scientific department. I see. Do you use it
much?"
Brigg did not seem to hear. "I say, Fortune—do
you find the room rather dark?" he asked in a low
voice.
"No. No. Plenty of light. Just comfortable."
"Oh, very well. If you're comfortable," the voice
sank to a whisper. Then Reggie could hear his
breathing. "Fortune—what was that ?" he gasped.
"I don't notice anything." Reggie's eyes searched
the room, saw no movement in the dark curtains, no
change anywhere.
"You don't hear it?" Brigg whispered.
And Reggie heard no sound but the man's uneasy
breath. "I only hear you," he said and waited,
watching Brigg's face. It was pale and drawn.
"What do you hear?"


THE ROCK GARDEN
175
"The tapping," Brigg whispered. "There!" He
pointed with an unsteady finger to the books in the
corner.
"In the scientific department?" Reggie came out
of his chair with one quick, silent action. "No, I
hear nothing, Brigg." He went to the corner, put an
arm into the shelves and felt them and the wall behind.
All was solid.
"Can't you hear anything really ?" Brigg muttered.
'' I can't. No," said Reggie gently. "What's it
like, Brigg?"
"Just tap, tap, tap. Listen, Fortune. It gets
louder. Ah!"
"And what was that?"
"You did hear I Like a cry, isn't it? That
always comes."
"But I didn't hear it," Reggie murmured. He went
silently to the window and slipped between the curtains
and looked out into the half-dark of the summer night.
He saw the mound of the rock garden.
A hand clutched at him. Brigg's breath was on
his face. "Did you see her?" Brigg whispered.
"No. No. Who was she?"
"I don't know. I can never see her face. It's
like a white blur. Under that bonnet; you know."
"Oh! She wears a bonnet."
"Something like that. And a cloak, that's dark,
and a sort of big skirt to the ground. She just glides
along."
"Not like anybody you ever saw elsewhere?"
"Nobody at all."
"And she giides away after the tapping?"
"Yes, after the cry. Sometimes I've seen her
standing there by the rock garden. She stays till the
cry and then goes away."


176 MR. FORTUNE EXPLAINS
"Ever been out to her?"
"I did yes, two or three times, but she faded away
into nothing. I've never got close."
"Anyone else ever seen her—or heard the tapping?"
"I'm not sure," Brigg hesitated. "I spoke about
it to my wife, I brought her here one night. She said
there was nothing. But I'm not sure. She wouldn't
come again. I've never spoken of it to anyone else,
but I know they haven't noticed anything."
"It only comes in this room: and only at night?"
"Yes, that's it."
"When did it begin to come, Brigg?"
"About a month ago I heard the tapping first."
"Any special reason why you should begin to hear
things?"
"You mean it isn't real? Fortune, honestly, didn't
you hear anything at all, didn't you see anything?"
"No. No. Nothing. I'm sorry."
"It isn't real, then. Do you think I'm going
mad?"
"Oh no. No, I think it's very curious and inter-
esting."
"But if there isn't anything—if it isn't real—and I
could swear I heard it and saw it"
"What is real?" said Reggie gently. "My dear
chap, I don't know. I can believe in things I don't
hear and I don't see. Lots of things are curious.
Same like the small boy said of Jonah and the whale."
"But you didn't feel anything?"
'' I didn't say that. No. I didn't say that. I felt
rather queer. Uncomfortable and worried. Kind of
depressed."
"My dear Fortune I " Brigg clung to his arm. Brigg
was delighted. "That's exactly how it affects me."
"Yes." He looked at Brigg with curiosity. "I


THE ROCK GARDEN
wonder why. Well, well. A little placid thought is
required. Does it come again to-night?"
"Oh, not again, no. Never twice the same night,"
said Brigg quickly.
"Then bed is indicated. Things look different the
morning after. You may as well sleep, you know.
I shall be adjacent."
And even at this stage in the case he still preserved
an open mind. He is emphatic about that. He went
to bed, as he points out, ready for anything. He
inclined to believe in the sincerity of Brigg, but he
admitted a possibility that by way of a bit of fantastic
humbug Brigg might be working up to something
horrid. If Brigg was sincere, he allowed that several
explanations were equally available. The old boy
might have worried himself into delusions and hallu-
cinations. Somebody who wanted to upset him
might have put the idea of the tapping and the woman
into his head. Either way, quite a common case.
Yes. But there were other possibilities. The noise,
the cry, the woman might be simply real. Not that
night, but perhaps some night before. And having
started seeing ghosts he didn't stop. A living woman
playing ghost? The wife then.
"I wonder." Reggie sank deep in the chair in his
bedroom. In his large experience of the abnormal
he has not met a ghost. But he had seen fear take
hold of Brigg if ever a man felt fear. "Yes. That's
where I began," said Reggie drearily. "There is
something queer about the beastly room. Feels like
death."
The door opened. He sprang to his feet and faced
to it. "Oh, my lord I " he laughed. '* Hullo, Sam!
Come in."
"Anything doing, sir?"
M


178 MR. FORTUNE EXPLAINS
"I don't know. Not what you'd call a nice house
for the simple mind."
"Very pleasant in the servants' 'all."
"Is that so? Good. Now you're goin' to make a
night of it."
'* What's up, sir?"
"You are. I'm not. I'm goin' to bed. You're
goin' to stay here bright and wakeful, and if you hear
anybody movin' or any noise you'll wake me. Which
I hope to Heaven I shall be asleep." He began to
shed his clothes. "When decency permits, open the
door a bit, so you'll hear any sound. See."
"That's all right, sir. You go bye-bye. I'm on."
But nothing happened in the night.
The only person at breakfast who showed signs of
lack of sleep was Mrs. Brigg. Her painted face was
haggard, the rings darker beneath her eyes. She
did not eat. She divided a nervous watchfulness
between her husband and Howard. Howard was
bright and noisy with Dorothy and they got up to-
gether. "Are you two going off again ?" said Brigg.
"He says he can get eighty out of the jolly old bus.
Want to see him do it. There's a bet on, old dear."
Dorothy kissed the top of his white head. "Cheerio!
Be good." They departed.
And Reggie also left the table. "Shall we have
a turn in the garden, Fortune?" said Brigg eagerly.
"A little later. Yes. I'm just goin' into Broading
with a letter to express." He ran upstairs.
As Howard came to the garage, a camera held behind
the half-open door clicked and clicked again. He
did not hear it. Reggie was whistling. When he
arrived the whistling was deep in the interior and
Reggie offered only his rear to inspection. "Hallo!
Are you going off, sir?" Howard said.


THE ROCK GARDEN 179
"Just to see about some letters. After you."
"Half a momentina." Howard backed his two-
seater out. "Bye-bye." As he turned, the camera
looked out of Reggie's coat and took another shot.
In the post office at Broading Reggie did not send a
letter, he made a trunk call. "Give me Superin-
tendent Bell. Hullo, Bell. Fortune speaking. 'Morn-
ing. I'm down here with the man Brigg. Have you
got anything?"
"Nothing to signify. Well known in the City and
Liverpool. Lived quite open. Most respectable party.
First wife died long time ago. Pneumonia after
operation. That sounds all right."
"Yes. I think so. What about number two?"
"She was an actress, second class. Leading lady
provincial companies. Acted as Mavis Lloyd—maiden
name. Nothing known against her. She was a widow.
Been married to a chap called Bertram. Algy Bert-
ram. Didn't live with him long. He was a bad
egg-
"Actor, too?"
"'M, yes. He'd call himself an actor in the police
court. Professional handsome man. In the black-
mailing way."
"I see. Nice husband to have about. Are you
sure he's dead?"
The telephone buzzed and crackled. "That's all
right, sir," said Bell's voice. "You can take it he's
dead."
"Well, well," Reggie murmured and gazed at the
telephone receiver with curiosity.
** I didn't get that, sir."
"All right." Get this. I'm sendin' up a roll of films
by train. Meet it at Paddington two-five. It con-
tains three snapshots of a man passing as Ormond


THE ROCK GARDEN 181
I don't want to talk about it before my wife. Let's
go for a stroll. I don't want her to be worried, you
know." They went and Mrs. Brigg sat up and watched
them go. Then she hurried into the house.
"Well, well," said Reggie and lit a cigar. "You
said you didn't know any special reason why you
should begin to hear things?"
"You mean it's all a delusion. There's something
wrong with my health. But I was feeling perfectly
well. I am now." The owlish eyes stared at Reggie
with innocent alarm. "Honestly, Fortune. I can't
be going out of my mind?"
"Oh no. No. I wasn't thinking about health. I
mean, had anything happened; or anything new come
into your life?"
"No, really. There hasn't been anything at all."
The old fellow looked like a bewildered boy.
"Well, take it another way. When you first
heard things—was there any stranger in the house?"
"No, there wasn't. We were quite by ourselves.
We don't have many visitors. I'm sure we were
alone. Howard had been here for a few days, but he'd
gone again."
"Well, well. Thus we eliminate the possibility of
tricks."
"But it can't be a trick. You didn't hear it. You
didn't see it. It only comes to me."
"And Mrs. Brigg."
"I'm not sure," said Brigg uneasily. "She won't
admit it. But I think she's felt something. You
know you said you felt uncomfortable, Fortune."
"Yes. That is so. Feeling of trouble somewhere.
And anxiety.. Take another possibility. Do you
know any reason to fear anything might go wrong in
your affairs?"


182 MR. FORTUNE EXPLAINS
Brigg stood still. "What do you mean?"
"Well, I mean sometimes a fellow's mind puts a
notion of trouble into a queer sort of shape."
"But that's making it out a delusion again."
"Oh no. No. A notion that's true, though the
shape's fantastic."
"You're thinking of my wife," said Brigg, "aren't
you?"
"I'm thinking of everything. But it's a woman,
you see."
"It's not my wife. The clothes, you know. They're
old—last century—fifty or sixty years old."
They walked on. "Yes. That's a very interesting
point," Reggie murmured.
"Of course, in a way I am a little worried about
my wife," said Brigg. "She doesn't look well, does
she? I made her see the doctor. He says there's
nothing at all wrong. And being anxious about
her health—that can't account for this, can it?"
"No. I should say not. No. We thus eliminate
Mrs. Brigg."
Brigg started and laughed uncomfortably. "Oh, I
say. You have rather a heartless way of talking,
Fortune."
"My dear chap!" Reggie linked arms with him.
"Oh, my dear chap. I'm quite human." They had
come beyond the garden to the wood which hid the
pool. "Allurin' place. That light on the water,
greys and greens rippling. Kind of gentle. Well,
well. The problem bein' thus simplified, we return
to the rock garden." He turned Brigg round and
strolled back.
"What could the rock garden have to do with
it?"
"I haven't the slightest idea," said Reggie. He


THE ROCK GARDEN 183
looked sideways at Brigg. "It was you made a fuss
about the rock garden."
"Oh well," Brigg laughed nervously, "that was
just to induce you to come down, Fortune. I was
afraid you wouldn't take it seriously if I told you
what was worrying me. I'm sorry. Too bad. I
didn't know how sympathetic you are."
"My dear chap! No flowers, by request. I didn't
mean your babbling about it to me. If you want to
know, I never believed in the rock garden. I thought
you were telling the tale. The fuss I'm thinking
of is digging it all up and planting it fresh. Why?"
"Well, you see "—Brigg was embarrassed—" I sup-
pose it sounds silly—it was the noise coming just
there—as if the rock garden was haunted—I thought
there might be something queer about it. I had my
men take it all down and make it up again."
"Oh I And they didn't find anything queer?"
"Nothing at all."
They reached the rock garden. Reggie gazed at
it with dreamy eyes. "Well, well," he murmured.
"You have some idea about it?"
"No. No. Only difficulties. Primarily, why is
it? Why is it there? Quite irrational."
"Irrational!" Brigg exclaimed. "There's no
reason in anything, is there?"
"Oh, my dear chap! Don't you believe that.
There's got to be. There's going to be." The gong
boomed out. "Oh yes. And meanwhile there's
going to be lunch. Life is not wholly drear."
Mrs. Brigg was waiting for them. She had resolved
to be gay. "I thought you had gone off for ever,"
she challenged her husband.
He tried to play up to her. "Were you afraid of
that?"


184 MR. FORTUNE EXPLAINS
"Oh, one never knows, does one, Mr. Fortune?"
"I expect you do," said Reggie.
"Don't you think he could do without me?"
"I see he couldn't," said Reggie.
"Oh, he never tried!"
"Of course I tried," said Brigg. "But I found
I couldn't. That's why you're here, Gladys."
"I'm sure you did very well without me."
"That was before I knew you existed."
"Thank you. Have you been telling Mr. Fortune
all about it?"
Brigg was embarrassed. "The story of his life?"
said Reggie quickly. "Oh no. No. He's been quite
nice and interestin', Mrs. Brigg. Talkin' gardens."
"The rock garden?"
"Yes. The rocks come in. Rock garden people
are always a bit assertive." He contrived to lead
Brigg into some mild chaff that made easier conver-
sation, but Mrs. Brigg fell out of it. Brigg tried to
bring her in again by a question about where the
young folks had gone to.
"I don't know. I don't suppose Dorothy knows
herself."
"Oh well, I expect Howard does," Brigg laughed.
"He knows most things."
His wife looked up quickly. "Do you want him?"
"Oh no, I don't want him. He's no gardener,
Fortune."
"No, I suppose not," Reggie murmured. And Mrs.
Brigg left them. She seemed to Reggie's taste abrupt.
He lit a large cigar and wandered out and sank into
a chair on the lawn, from which he contemplated
dreamily the rock garden.
"What have you got in your mind ?" said Brigg.
"The primary problem," Reggie mumbled. "What


THE ROCK GARDEN 185
is the reason for its existence? And why does it
exist there? Climbin' up the wall—which is unusual
—and up a north wall—which is absurd."
"You mean it doesn't get enough sun?"
"It can't get any. Look at the plants. They don't
understand it at all: they droop: same like me."
"Rapley told me they'd never do any good."
"Did he, though? And who is the intelligent
Rapley?"
"The head gardener. He's been here a long time.
He said I should never make anything of it. He
couldn't think why the squire had it made. That's my
cousin. The old fellows always call him the squire."
"Well, well. And you can't think either?" Reggie
turned to look at him.
"I never thought about it. But I can't, of course.
I hardly knew him. He was a much older man than
me. My father's first cousin. I was in business, and
he lived all his time down here. I only came to the
place once or twice. He didn't care about visitors."
"Well, well," Reggie murmured. "Minds innocent
and quiet take this for an hermitage. I wonder."
Brigg was ruffled. "There's nothing unusual in a
widower with no children liking to shut himself up
alone."
"Oh I He was a widower."
"Certainly. I never saw his wife. She died when
I was a boy."
"After which he built his rock garden in an impos-
sible position where a Victorian woman comes and
cries to you of nights. I wonder."
"You mean it was something he did makes the
place haunted."
"I didn't say that. No." Reggie looked at him
with half-closed eyes. "There may be other factors,


186 MR. FORTUNE EXPLAINS
Brigg. But why did he make the rock garden by that
room? And why has the room only got one window?"
"Good heavens, how should I know ?" Brigg cried.
"The house is built like that."
"It is. But it wasn't. That room was designed
for two windows and the other one used to be where
the rock garden is: where you hear the tapping.
Why was that window built up?"
"Built up? That's all guess-work, Fortune.
There's nothing to show. How can you tell?"
Reggie smiled. "I looked. I'm rather careful,
you know, Brigg. Not ingenious but careful." He
stood up. "So I think I'll talk to the intelligent
Rapley."
But of that he made nothing. Rapley was found
at tea in his cottage by the pool and talked freely.
When reduced to facts, what he said was only that
the rock garden was there when he came and the old
squire liked to be left alone.
"The intelligent Rapley thus failin' us," said
Reggie, " is there anyone who was here when the thing
was made?"
"He's the oldest servant on the place. And if it
was made before his time it must be fifty years old
—as much more as you like."
"Yes: say fifty plus: I should say the ghostly
clothes you describe belong to the 'seventies. That
would fit."
"Good heavens, Fortune! You don't believe the
woman I see is buried there?"
"No. No evidence." Reggie looked at him with
dreamy eyes. "But when did the wife die?" Brigg
couldn't tell the date. It must have been more than
fifty years back. "Any evidence in his papers?"
said Reggie sharply. Brigg couldn't remember—he


THE ROCK GARDEN 187
left very few—nothing personal—there might be a
note of her death in the Family Bible.
They went into the library. Even at the end of a
summer day it was gloomy and chill there. Brigg
brought out a big seventeenth-century Bible. Some
pages at the beginning were covered with writing in
dog Latin. It went back two hundred years and
more. Secundum morem majorum—according to the
custom of his ancestors some Brigg of Queen Anne's
time wrote about his family in that sacred book with
his own hand. Reggie turned the pages. Carolus
Brigg natus erat apud Quinque Rubos 15 mo die Aprilis
A.D. 1840. "Charles Brigg born at Five Thorns 1840
—that's the hermit squire? Yes." In ecclesiam
SanctissimcB Trinitatis apud Sarum uxorem duxit
Annum Sophiam Moreton 20 mo die Octobris A.D. 1870.
"Married Ann Sophia Moreton Holy Trinity Church
Salisbury 1870. And then—just another date 11 mo
die Julii 1874."
"That must be when she died," said Brigg.
"It could be. Yes. He doesn't say so. When
other people died, he put mortem obiit or ob.—but not
for her."
"I suppose he couldn't bear to write it, poor old
man. Don't you see, it's just as I thought. She died
in 1874. I was ten."
"Yes. He put 1874. And some time in the
'seventies he built up his library window with a rock
garden. And in 1929 you see a woman wearin' the
clothes of the 'seventies and she cries to you. I
wonder."
"You're not suggesting foul play?"
"No. No. But I'd like to know what happened
at that window in 1874."
Brigg thrust his hand through his hair. "Fortune,


188 MR. FORTUNE EXPLAINS
don't you see it's all fancy? You don't believe in
ghosts haunting the scene of crime. You're a scientific
man."
"Yes. I am scientific," said Reggie sharply. "I
believe in evidence."
"But if there was crime, why should the ghost only
be seen by me—and why have I never seen it till
lately? I've been here years. I've not done any-
thing. You can't get an explanation by looking for
crime."
"I'm not. I'm looking for the truth," said Reggie.
"My dear chap, we'd better have it, even if it hurts."
"I see that," Brigg said uneasily. "If we could.
The mystery is horrible. Fortune—you won't say
anything about this to my wife?"
"My dear chap! Oh, my dear chap!" Reggie
murmured.
But that evening was otherwise uncomfortable.
At tea Mrs. Brigg's resolution to be cheery failed.
Whether she was frightened of her husband's con-
sultations or disturbed by the prolonged absence of
Dorothy with Howard, Reggie could not decide. She
gave signs of nervous strain. He fled to dress for
dinner early.
Sam was in his room. "Made up your sleep?"
said Reggie.
"That's all right, sir. Wanting me again to-night?"
"Yes. I think so. Got anything to tell me?"
"Don't know as I 'ave," Sam considered. "All
very 'omely and friendly. I did 'ear master and
missis 'ave separate rooms."
"Yes. Yes. That might be relevant. What's the
servants' hall think of Mr. Howard?"
"Just a bit sniffy. Quite nice about it, but can't
think what she can see in 'im, don't you know."


THE ROCK GARDEN 189
"Meaning Mrs. Brigg—or Miss Brigg?"
Sam winked. "Either," said he.
When Reggie went downstairs he found a state of
agitation. Howard and Dorothy had not returned.
Brigg was arguing to his wife that there was nothing
to worry about, being himself visibly worried. She
did not answer, she let him go on telling her over
again that they had not noticed the time and they
had had trouble with the car. She sat looking at the
ground and her fingers plucked at her dress and
twitched. . . . An hour late they went to a dreary
dinner, which only Reggie ate. . . . After that, Brigg
supposed he had better see if he could get any news of
them. He looked at Reggie pathetically and Reggie
went with him to the telephone. "Get the police
headquarters," Reggie said softly. "Tell 'em"
Mrs. Brigg came up behind them. "What are
you going to do?" she cried.
"Describe the car and ask if it has been seen on the
road," said Reggie. "That's all."
"Yes, that's all, my dear," said Brigg anxiously.
"You see they may have had an accident."
"An accident!" she said. "Oh no!"
But while he was asking, the car came. Dorothy
ran into the hall. "Hallo, old things. Most awfully
sorry. Beastly bus. Beastly day. Been right off
the map." She went straight upstairs.
Brigg disentangled himself from the telephone.
"Dorothy, what's been the matter?"
"Bus wouldn't go. I'm all right. Bye-bye. I've
had dinner. Dead to the world, that's all. Cheerio,
old dear." She vanished.
Howard came in, more than ever the bright young
thing. "Hallo! hallo I hallo I Anxious parents and
what not. Frightfully sorry and all that. Engine


190 MR. FORTUNE EXPLAINS
trouble, don't you know. The jolly old carburettor
wouldn't function. Had to dine the fair lady out in
the wilds. Sorry you have been tmroubled, what?"
Mrs. Brigg was staring at him.
"I wish you wouldn't do this sort of thing, you
know," said Brigg.
"Absolutely. Abso-altogether-lutely. Not my idea
at all," Howard laughed. "But here we are, here
we are, here we are." He yawned. "The fair lady
is right, methinks. The downy couch for mine." He
tripped upstairs. "Nighty, nighty."
"Ah well. That's all right, anyway," said Brigg.
"You look tired, Gladys. Better go to bed, too."
"Are you coming?" She looked at him strangely.
"I shan't be long. Good night, dear." She hurried
away. Brigg turned to Reggie. "Do you care to
try this again?"
"Do you feel like it?" Reggie was surprised.
"Yes, I do. It's curious. I rather want to."
They went into the gloomy room. "As if I ought to
come, you know," said Brigg.
"I see. Yes," Reggie said gravely. He made
trivial talk. . . . Slowly a sense of discomfort came
over him. He watched Brigg's attention wander.
"You hear it again?"
"She's tapping. Don't you hear ?" Brigg whispered.
"Not me. No." Reggie shook his head.
"Ah! The cry!" Brigg muttered and Reggie
started up. "You heard it?"
"Yes. I heard that," Reggie said. Brigg ran to
the window and peered through the curtains. Reggie
went to the door and opened it silently a little. Up-
stairs there was a creak of movement. A door closed.
Brigg came out of the window curtains. "I saw
her again, Fortune," he said. "She seemed to hold


THE ROCK GARDEN
out her hands. She's gone. Just as she always goes
—faded into nothing." He gave a little miserable
laugh. "Oh well, I'm a fool, I suppose. I felt as if
there would be something more to-night. But it's
just the same." He sat down heavily. Reggie mixed
him a mild whisky and soda. He seemed to want it.
And they went to bed. Of that also Brigg was in need.
Reggie found Sam on the alert. "Did you hear
anything downstairs, sir?"
Reggie nodded.
"That was Mrs. Brigg. She went to Howard's
room—bit of talk—like muttering—then that sort of
cry.
"Has she come out again?"
"Oh yes, some time ago. Went back to her own
room. All quiet since."
"I wonder," Reggie murmured. Slowly, and fum-
bling, he lit a pipe, then switched off the light and set
the door ajar and settled down in a chair. . . . The
house had long been quiet when another door was
opened. A patter of quick footsteps went along the
corridor, came back, passed downstairs. The hall
door was opened and closed.
Reggie climbed out of the window, hung by his
hands and dropped to the ground by the rock garden,
and Sam followed him. He moved silently round the
house. The lawns glistened cLn in the half-dark of
the summer night and across the lawns a woman ran
and vanished. "It was 'er," Sam muttered. "Mak-
ing for the road, ain't she? Wot's the game?"
But Reggie did not make for the road. He ran
through the garden to the gloom of the wood. He
saw Mrs. Brigg pass into it, saw her again on the
verge of the pool, a vague shape, poised. And then
there was a faint moaning cry on the air. It came, not


192 MR. FORTUNE EXPLAINS
from her, but from the garden. "My oath!" Sam
gasped. "Wot's that now?" She heard it, too.
She turned from the pool, started away, stumbled and
fell.
Reggie ran on. "About here," he panted. Her
face showed white on the black water.
"I see. You lemme get her, sir." Sam pushed
him away and waded in. Her body was lifted limp
to the bank. "Queer start," Sam muttered. "Tried
to drown herself all right. But she can't be dead so
quick."
Reggie's hands worked upon her. "Not dead. No.
Fainting. She's done something to her ankle. When
that cry startled her. Fracture, I think. The pain's
knocked her out. Or the shock."
"Queer, ain't it, sir? She was just chuckin' herself
in and that cry stopped her like."
"I know. She was stopped. Praise God. Well,
well. Now we carry on. There's a cottage some-
where here. Gardener's cottage. Go and knock
'em up. Say Mrs. Brigg went out for a stroll and
she's broken her ankle—can't move her to the house
—want a bed for her. Come back with a hurdle or a
gate."
So Rapley and his wife were roused and in their
cottage Mrs. Brigg was put to bed. As consciousness
came back to her came pain and wild fear. She knew
no one or did not dare to know. She stared and
moaned and asked mad questions and screamed and
laughed. Sam was sent off to take his car into Broading
for narcotics and a nurse and Reggie banished Mrs.
Rapley and kept watch while dawn broke upon
delirium. . . .
He was back in his room wondering drearily whether
he could sleep an hour if he lay down. An agitated


THE ROCK GARDEN
knocking introduced Brigg. "Fortune! My wife's
gone."
"Oh no. No. She went out walking in the dark
last night. I saw her cross the garden. She had
a fall. I found her and took her to Rapley's cottage.
She's in bed there. I'm afraid her ankle's broken.
It'll be all right, but she's had a lot of pain. I've
got her to sleep now. There's a nurse with her."
"She went out in the night?" Brigg gasped.
"Why?"
Reggie contemplated him for a moment. "Well,
I should say she's been haunted, too," he said.
"Can I see her?"
"Oh yes. Yes. You can't talk to her. She'll sleep
for a bit yet. When she wakes—well, just be nice
about it." Brigg stared at him and hurried away.
Then Reggie took his time about dressing. When
he came down he found Dorothy and Howard at
breakfast. They displayed signs of tension. His
portentous solemnity treated their existence as negli-
gible. Silence prevailed while he drank his coffee
and ate his egg. Then Dorothy cried, " Mr. Fortune,
have you seen my father this morning?"
"Yes. Yes. He's gone out," said Reggie, and
found some fruit salad.
'' Why?"
"Well, that's rather difficult to say," Reggie mur-
mured. "I think you'd better ask him."
"Is my mother with him?"
"Did you want her?" Reggie looked up.
"Yes. I do. I want to speak to her and she's
not in her room and nobody knows where she is."
"So I've heard." Reggie turned to Howard. "No
ideas?"
"Not an earthly," Howard grinned.
N


MR. FORTUNE EXPLAINS
"Well, well. We'd better talk it over, then."
"Charmed. Any old time." Howard lit a cigarette
and lounged to the door.
"Now," said Reggie. "In the library." He rang
the bell.
"Oh, right-ho. Ha.'f a momentina." Howard went
out and upstairs.
"My chauffeur, please," said Reggie to the butler,
and when Sam appeared took him out into the hall.
"Mr. Fortune!" Dorothy followed them. "I
want to speak to you." Sam slid away. "You
think that man had something to do with my mother
running away?"
"Yes. It could be," Reggie murmured.
"And you want to get it out of him?"
"Yes, that was rather the idea."
"Then I can help you. Let me tell you about
yesterday." Howard came downstairs with an
envelope in his hand. She turned and led the way
into the library.
"Hallo! hallo! Little lady going to assist?"
Howard put up his eyebrows.
"Yes, I am. I'm going to tell Mr. Fortune"
"One moment. One moment," said Reggie.
"Howard, I suppose you know who I am?"
"Some sort of doctor, what?"
"Yes. Often consulted in criminal cases. That's
where I come in."
"I don't get you, old bean," Howard yawned.
"Late last night Mrs. Brigg had an angry conver-
sation with you. This morning she's disappeared.
The police will want to know what you've done with
her."
"Me? I've done nothing with the woman. If
she's gone, I suppose she's bolted."


THE ROCK GARDEN 195
"Why?" said Reggie sharply.
"Great Jimmy I Why do women bolt? Fed up,
another man, or what not."
"That's a he," Dorothy cried. "I know why
mother was angry with him, of course. It was because
she saw he was playing tricks with me. He was.
Mr. Fortune, I don't believe there was anything wrong
with his wretched car yesterday. He faked it to get
me stranded with him at that inn out on the downs.
Then he proposed we should stay there. Yes, he
thought I should fall for that. Oh, I've been a fool!
I was a fool not to tell them last night. But I was
so sick, so sick." She stamped her foot. "I thought
I'd turn him out in the morning and nobody need know.
But mother must have guessed and told him off and
then "She looked miserably at Reggie.
"You are a fool, aren't you?" Howard snarled.
"You think stepma didn't want me to have you?
Why do you think she asked me here and kept me here?
You little fool, she'd have hugged herself if we'd gone
off together."
"She wouldn't," Dorothy cried. "She wouldn't,
Mr. Fortune. Look. I found that under my door
this morning."
"I see." Reggie took the letter. He saw why
Mrs. Brigg had pattered along the corridor of the sleep-
ing house before she went out to seek death.
"' Dorothy,' "he read. "' For God's sake don't let
that man Howard ruin you. He means that. Forgive
me, dear. Mother.'"
He looked at Howard. "Yes. Mrs. Brigg doesn't
seem to have liked you. What have you done with
her?"


196 MR. FORTUNE EXPLAINS
"Done nothing. The woman must have gone off
her head."
"Yes. That'll be a little difficult to explain to
the police. They'll want to know why she's made
away with just when she warned her daughter against
you."
"I suppose she's made away with herself," Howard
muttered.
And Reggie laughed. "Do you hear yourself
-elling that to a jury?"
"No, I don't, laddie." Howard started up.
'Because it won't ever get to a jury. It won't get
to the police. I know too much. See? You mind
your step."
Reggie shook his head. "Oh no. No. Not at
my time of life. I'm not to be bluffed, Howard. We
now ring up the local police and Scotland Yard."
He rose leisurely.
"Bluff my foot. You bring the police on to me
and you'll make old Brigg hang himself. The woman
wasn't his wife."
"No, thank you." Reggie moved away. "Nothing
doing."
"You fool, look at that," Howard cried, and thrust
upon him a photograph of a group. Beneath was
printed The Gay Girl Number One Company,
Blackpool, 1926, and the names of the people.
There was a tap at the door and the butler came with
a card for Reggie. He picked it up and waved the
man away. He looked at the photograph. He looked
at Howard and he gave Howard the card. "Well?"
he said.
Howard tossed the card down and came up to him
and pointed to the photograph. "See the date?"
he said. "1926. When did Gladys Bertram marry


THE ROCK GARDEN
197
Brigg? 1925. See that chap in the front row, Algy
Bertram? That's her husband. He was alive in
1926. He's alive now. Want to put the police on
to me, laddie?"
"So that was it," Reggie murmured. "I see."
He sat down again and pored over the photograph.
"Thanks very much." He smiled at Howard.
"That's the bit of evidence I wanted. Makes a nice
case now. Quite a good fake, isn't it? Miss Brigg,
would you mind? Just ask Superintendent Bell to
come in here?" She ran out and Howard made a
dash for the window and was gone. Reggie strolled
to the window and with mild amusement watched him
run. He made for the garage.
"'Morning, sir." Bell marched in. "Where is
this Mr. Howard? Lady said he was with you."
"One moment. One moment. So you did recog-
nize the snapshots?"
"That's right, sir. Much obliged. We know him.
But we don't call him Howard."
"No, I dare say not. No. And what do you
want him for?"
"Bit o' blackmail. Money under false pretences.
Several little things. Where is he?"
"Just a moment. About the man Bertram. You
were a little coy, Bell. Are you sure Bertram is dead ?''
"Absolutely. We know all about it."
"Date, please. Place. And cause of death."
"I see." Bell nodded. "Your Mr. Howard's been
playing tricks about that. Algy Bertram got killed
1922. By a chap he was trying to blackmail. It
was kept quiet. Nice and quiet. We don't want
any talk now."
"Oh no. No." Reggie smiled. "That was rather
my idea."


198 MR. FORTUNE EXPLAINS
"We'll manage that all right. Now, sir, where
have you got this fellow Howard?"
"I haven't got him. He's gone. In his little car."
"What, sir? And you've kept me talking here?
That's too bad, Mr. Forture I I didn't think it of
you."
"Oh, my Bell!" Reggie took his arm and walked
him out. "My Bell! No harsh words. I was only
bein' careful. As you want him for his own sweet
sake, you shall have him. All arranged, quite nice."
They came to the door where Bell's car stood throbbing
and Sam conferred with the chauffeur. "Sam, how
is Mr. Howard's car feeling?"
"That's all right, sir," Sam grinned. "The Super-
intendent will pick 'im up between here and Broading.
That car won't get up a 'ill to-day. Nice drop of
water in the petrol."
Bell jumped into his car and was driven away.
"And that's that," Reggie murmured. "Now you
can go to bed, Sam." He wandered back into the
library. He looked about that gloomy room with
dreamy eyes. "I wonder," he sighed.
Dorothy stood before him. "Mr. Fortune," she
said in a low voice, " what does it all mean? Where
is mother?"
"She's in the gardener's cottage. She broke her
ankle last night, wanderin' out in the dark."
'' In the dark?"
"Yes. Yes. You've all been rather in the dark,
haven't you?"
"That man!" She shuddered. "He must have
driven her mad."
Brigg came in. "Fortune! She's been talking to
me. She's so strange!"
Dorothy ran to him and kissed him. "Oh, my dear!"


SIXTH EXPLANATION
THE SILVER CROSS
WITH the simple purpose of asking him to dinner
Mr. Fortune strolled into the room of the
Chief of the Criminal Investigation Department.
He was received with enthusiasm. "The very
man!" Lomas chuckled. "Now we'll tell you all
about it, Superintendent. This is Mr. Fortune. Sit
down, Reginald. Momentous case for you."
Mr. Fortune moaned gently. Mr. Fortune blinked
at him and saw also a solemn, fattish man. "Super-
intendent Billson of Downshire," Lomas explained.
"Very jolly country," Mr. Fortune sighed.
"I've heard of Mr. Fortune," said the Super-
intendent with reverence.
"Now, Reginald, what's that?" Lomas held out to
him a little flat piece of grey metal. It was in the
shape of a cross, but the arms curved down at the
ends. It was marked with a faint irregular pattern.
"Is it some kind of religious thing, would you say,
sir?" Superintendent Billson said eagerly.
"No, no, I shouldn't say that." Reggie studied it.
Billson was pained. "I thought being a cross as
it were"
"Lots of crosses aren't Christian, you know,"
Reggie mumbled. "This wasn't."
"What is it, then, sir?"
Reggie studied it. "Well, it's silver. It was made
202


THE SILVER CROSS 203
as a bit of jewellery. Probably a charm also. Possibly
charged with magic. By South American Indians.
Pretty far south, I should say."
Billson listened with his mouth open. Billson
slapped his thigh. "That's good enough !" he cried.
"That's got him, eh, Mr. Lomas?"
"I should say so. Very neat little clue, Billson."
Reggie blinked at them again. "Yes. Now tell
me what I've done," he said plaintively.
"You see, Reginald," Lomas smiled, "Billson
doesn't want to have a row with the Church."
"Very proper sentiment," Reggie murmured. "It
never pays. My sister married a bishop."
"Quite. Omitting these family tragedies—Billson
has a bit of a case against a parson, but he didn't
want to make a charge unless he was sure of a convic-
tion. So he came to consult us about the evidence."
"Very touchin' faith." Reggie turned the. silver
cross over. "And the evidence is this?"
"There's more than that, sir." Billson was not
pleased. "Mr. Lomas didn't put it quite right, if I
may say so. The parson in the case is a queer fish.
He's never got on with the other clergy or the country
people or anybody but a few what you might call
devotees. You see, if we put up a case against a
man like that without we can prove it absolutely, it
looks as if we were trying to down him because he
set the big folks' backs up. We'd be making him a
martyr and fall down over it, and that sort o' thing
gets the police a bad name. That's how the Chief
Constable looks at it, so he said to come and ask you
gentlemen at Scotland Yard about this trinket. Now
you've recognized it, we've got our evidence. You'd
be ready to swear it came from South America, Mr.
Fortune?"


MR. FORTUNE EXPLAINS
"Oh yes. Yes. If and when necessary. And the
next thing, please?"
"I don't think we shall want any more from you,
sir. That'll about settle the Reverend Neath."
'* What's the charge?" *
Lomas laughed. "Oh, very grave, Reginald.
Theft. Matter of twenty pounds."
"Twenty-five, sir," said Billson severely. "It was
like this, Mr. Fortune. The Reverend Neath came
into our country matter of five years ago. He was
what you might call an odd job parson, taking duty
when men went sick, doing a bit of mission work.
He'd been a missionary—in South America, do you
see?" Billson winked. "It was given out his health
broke down out there, but some says he quarrelled
with the missionary society. Anyway, there he was
in Downshire looking for what he could get. After
a bit he got made Vicar of Fotton. That was the
Bishop. Not much catch, believe me. Sort of place
nobody will take. Big parish, big church, tumble-
down house and just enough to starve on. But the
Reverend Neath would take anything, and people
said the Bishop wanted to get him tucked away some-
where off the map. So there he's been in Fotton
getting into trouble all round same as he always did."
"Yes. How is that?" Reggie murmured.
"Every way there is. He's one of these haughty
parsons. He's a holy saint and anyone else is a simple
worm—that kind of thing. Our Downshire people
won't stand for it. And it don't come particular well
from the Reverend Neath. He's up to his neck in
debt. I don't want to be too hard on him. He hasn't
got a decent living in Fotton. Still, you can't say
it's right for a parson to bilk all the tradesmen. That
don't get him liked. Then, he's always asking people


THE SILVER CROSS 205
for money, in the parish and out of it. Begging letters
all over the county. Only not what you'd call
begging—demand notes, the Chief Constable says.
The other day Mr. Neath goes up to the big house in
the parish—that's Fotton Hall, Sir Ernest Smart has
it now. New man, made his money in London,
drapery or something. He isn't what you'd call a
gentleman but a pleasant little chap. Well, of course
him being the squire of the place, the Rev. Neath's
quarrelled with him. He don't know why Mr. Neath
came up to the Hall; he didn't put himself out to
see the fellow, and being kept waiting a bit Mr. Neath
went off saying nothing to nobody. Well, you could
take your oath he came to ask for money. Never
comes there for anything else, Sir Ernest says. It was
Saturday. All the men about the place that don't
live in, gardeners and farm hands and such, get paid
weekly. Sir Ernest has a way of paying 'em himself.
He's like that. He had the money ready in the room
he uses as his office, just on the desk. When he came
in to pay, he found he was twenty-five pounds short—
three fivers, the rest currency notes. He sent for the
police. When I looked into it, I found the only
stranger who'd been about the place was the Rev.
Neath and he'd been left to himself in a room just by
the office an hour or more. And searching the office
I came on that little cross. I thought it was a religious
thing, such as a parson might have. But it isn't
ordinary, so the Chief Constable told me to try it on
you gentlemen at Scotland Yard. Lord, you made
me jump when you said South American, Mr. Fortune.
That gets him fair and square. He was years in South
America missionizing. I reckon there's not another
man in Downshire would have a bit o' South American
jewellery on him."


206 MR. FORTUNE EXPLAINS
"No, no. It isn't likely," Reggie murmured.
"So that's done for him, you see," said Billson.
"I wonder," Reggie murmured.
"Eh?" Billson's mouth came open. "What do
you mean, wonder?" And Lomas laughed.
"Well—speakm' by the light of reason—I should
say it pointed elsewhere."
"But look here, sir," Billson protested, "you said
yourself nobody but him would have such a thing."
"Yes, yes, that's one of the fishy points about it.
It makes the case too easy."
"I don't follow, you," Billson grumbled
"Oh, sorry. Oh, the other fishy point is that it
makes the case too difficult."
Lomas chuckled. But Billson grew red. "Look
here, sir, I don't know what you mean. I hope you're
not playing the fool with me."
"My dear fellow! Oh, my dear fellow!" Reggie
purred. "I'm wholly serious. I think you've got
on to a very interesting little problem. It attracts
me.
"Very happy, I'm sure," said Billson with sarcasm.
"But what's all this about the silver cross making
it too easy and too difficult?"
"Think! If you believe the parson dropped it in
the office, that links him up with the theft of the
money nice and neat. But if you do believe he dropped
it, you have to believe a man who looked into an empty
office, picked up some money and went off with it,
managed to drop a special kind of trinket on the spot.
That's very difficult. Why should he drop anything?
He wouldn't turn out his pockets. There wasn't any
struggle. Why should he drop just the thing which
would point to him? Too difficult, Superintendent."
Lomas put up his eyeglass and surveyed Reggie.


208 MR. FORTUNE EXPLAINS
Billson was properly impressed. And they got rid
of him.
Then Lomas said, " What's the attraction, Reginald?
Paltry business, isn't it?"
"It could be," Reggie- sighed. "How does it
strike the higher intelligence, Lomas?"
"Two possibilities, of course. Either the parson
did take the money, or some of his many enemies
are trying to get him into trouble. Quite a common
trick. But it's a trivial case either way."
"Oh, my aunt!" Reggie moaned. "Trivial! If
it looked like murder, you'd be on your toes. Because
it may be a fraud to ruin a man's life, you don't bother."
"I have nothing to bother about. There isn't
evidence to hang a dog."
"Not yet, no."
"Well, where's your interesting little problem,
then?"
"The motive. What's the motive that's made it
suddenly worth while to ruin the Rev. Mr. Neath?
He's been in Downshire five years making enemies all
the time. But there was nothing scandalous against
him. Then it comes—bang! What's happened?"
"Good gad!" said Lomas. "That's sufficiently
fanciful, Reginald. Take the thing one way—the
poor devil's gone deeper and deeper into debt till he
was driven to steal. Take it the other way, he's
run up at last against somebody spiteful who didn't
stick at a trifle to pay him out. Common enough
case either way."
"Yes, yes. Very lucid. Very reasonable," Reggie
sighed. "And probably with elements of truth. But
it might be more than spite, Lomas."
"Oh, certainly. It might be a plot to kill the King.
Yet I remain calm. My dear fellow, you're a wonder


THE SILVER CROSS
at seeing through brick walls—but a little fond of
seeing what isn't there."
"I don't." Reggie was indignant. "I don't see
anything. I keep saying so. That's what bothers
me." He stood up. He looked down at Lomas with
disgust. "Sometimes I hate you," he murmured.
"Well, well. Oh—you're not worth it, but Joan told
me to ask you to dinner on Wednesday. There's the
Walewska coming. We want somebody to prattle
to her."
"Delighted."
"I'm not," said Reggie. "Good-bye."
But that dinner went merrily. Not till Lomas was
going, last of the guests, did he have a word with
Reggie alone. "By the way, Reginald—you'll be
glad to hear the Downshire case is cleared up. They've
traced some of the stolen notes to the parson."
"Yes, I know. Billson 'phoned me. I thought
they would."
"Good gad!" Lomas chuckled. "Splendid.
Never admit an error, Reginald."
"When I make one, I do," said Reggie. "I'm not
an official, Lomas, I only struggle to keep 'em straight.
I'm going down."
"Good gad!" said Lomas again. "Poor old Bill-
son!"
Reggie gazed at him with dreamy eyes. "No, I
don't really hate you," he decided. "You're so
reliable. Like my cat. He will always sit on the same
chair. It's soothin' in an uncertain world."
The morning saw him arrive at the office of the Chief
Constable in Avonbury. Chief Constables are a species
which he does not love, but Colonel Tresham was
neither military nor official: in manner like a nice
big dog, in mind simply human as Superintendent
o


2io MR. FORTUNE EXPLAINS
Billson. "Very kind of you to come down, Mr.
Fortune. I know it must be a small affair to you, but
I value your advice very much. It's a distressing
case to me, however I take it."
"Yes, yes, that's how it got me."
"This poor fellow—well, whatever he's done he's
had a hard life of it. And a clergyman, too! Any
sort of charge is ruin. Billson tells me you didn't
expect we should get evidence to prove him guilty."
"I didn't say that. No. I thought you would.
I said wait till you've got it."
"I see. Well, we have got it now, I'm afraid
There seems to be no loophole. Very painful affair.
I have it from the Bishop himself he thought Neath's
character quite blameless."
"Oh, Mr. Neath has friends, has he?"
"I couldn't say friends. Neath's a most difficult
fellow. The Bishop owns that. Always would go
his own way. Never listened to reason. Thought
everybody a miserable sinner. A sort of saintly
tyrant. That's the best the clergy themselves can
say of him. Nobody is his friend. But some of them
do respect him highly. What can I do? The Bishop
admitted to me if there is evidence the case ought to
be tried."
"Yes, yes, you'll have to go through with it—if
the man who lost the money means to prosecute."
The Chief Constable shook his head. "There's no
doubt about that. Smart will prosecute. I can't
say 1 blame him. It's his duty. And of course he'd
be glad to get Neath out of Fotton. Nobody would
want Neath for the parson of his parish."
"But Sir Ernest Smart is specially hostile?"
The Chief Constable meditated. "I don't know
if that's fair, Mr. Fortune. I'm bound to say he's


THE SILVER CROSS an
been quite correct all through. Ah, here's Billson.
I sent him over to Fotton to fetch the parson. It
seemed to me we ought to give him a chance to explain
himself."
"Oh yes, rather, let's have him talk."
Billson saluted Reggie with gloomy satisfaction.
"I've got him, sir. Very stiff he is. A rum un, I
give you my word." And he brought in the Rev.
Jacob Neath.
A dark, haggard face, a gleam of fierce eyes. That
was the first notion Reggie had of Mr. Neath. And
it remained with him as important. Whatever was
the truth of the man, plainly he believed himself a
fighter and of forlorn hopes—a fighter, back to the wall.
For the rest, a queer fellow. He had a mat of iron-
grey hair short and touzled. He was lean and ungainly,
all arms and legs. His clerical black was shabby,
shiny, stained, white on the seams, frayed at wrist
and heel.
"Please sit down, Mr. Neath," said Colonel Tresham.
Mr. Neath waved the courtesy off with a grimed,
rough hand. "I stand to answer to you, Chief Con-
stable," he said solemnly. And Reggie's eyelids
drooped. He does not like the theatrical off the stage.
The Chief Constable was also uncomfortable. "As
you please, sir. I have to put some facts before you
and ask you to explain them."
"I render unto Caesar the things which are Caesar's.
I obey the law."
"Er—quite so. That's right. I only want you
to do yourself justice. This is a very serious matter.
On the morning of Saturday the 15th a sum of money
was stolen from Sir Ernest Smart: three five-pound
notes and ten pounds besides taken from his office
at Fotton Hall."


212 MR. FORTUNE EXPLAINS
"If this is true, I am sorry for the thief. I am
glad that the loss falls on one who can bear it."
"You were at Fotton Hall that morning, Mr.
Neath."
"That is certainly true. I went to ask alms of the
knight for my poor. He received me not and I came
empty away."
"Did you go into the office?"
"I do not know what room the knight calls his office.
I sat awhile in an outer chamber till it was clear he
meant an insolence, then I left his house."
"We have the numbers of the five-pound notes
which were stolen. This week you paid two tradesmen
in Avonbury, Smith the butcher and Grey the tailor,
and you paid with stolen notes. Can you explain
that, Mr. Neath?"
Neath quivered, raised his hand, took a step forward.
Then his hand fell. "God forgive you," he said.
"You know not what you do. Thus I answer you,
Chief Constable: if what you say is true, I know
nothing how it has come to pass. These moneys which
I paid came to me as a free gift from some unknown
hand. I received them in an envelope which was
delivered by the postman."
"Oh, just the notes?" Reggie opened his eyes.
"No letter?"
"Sir, there was no word of writing. Only a scrap
cut from a newspaper wherein it was reported that
Smith the butcher sued me for a debt. Thus I was
assured the money came from some kind hand to the
relief of my necessities."
"Have you kept the envelope?" said Reggie.
"The envelope? I know nothing of it. It is gone."
"I'm sorry, Mr. Neath, very sorry." Colonel
Tresham shook his head. "I hoped you would be


THE SILVER CROSS
able to explain. I am bound to tell you this is quite
unsatisfactory. You must expect Sir Ernest Smart
will prosecute you for theft. I ought to detain you.
But if you'll give your word to remain at Fotton,
I'll do nothing more till I have consulted him."
"Do your duty, I ask nothing else," said Neath.
"I shall not shun the charge nor avoid it. God's
will be done." He went out.
"What's to be done with a man who takes things
like that?" Colonel Tresham groaned. "He makes
you feel you can't believe a word he says."
"I know. Very improbable invention."
Colonel Tresham thought it over painfully. "Just
one thing does occur to me, Mr. Fortune. Suppose
Neath didn't take the money himself: suppose it
was given him by somebody and he only found out
afterwards it was stolen. Then I suppose he would
rather go to prison himself than betray the thief."
"He might, yes," Reggie smiled. "Sounds like
the plot of a good old melodrama, doesn't it? And
he is rather like that, our heroic parson. But who is
your philanthropic thief, Colonel? Who did pinch
the money for Mr. Neath to pay the butcher? He
ought to be in an asylum."
"I know it sounds silly." The Colonel shook his
head. "After all, any way you take it, there's been
some very silly work done. Think of Neath paying
bills here on the spot with the bank-notes. Crazy!"
"Yes. Assuming Neath knew they were stolen,
it was crazy. But if he didn't know, it was merely
natural. And he didn't strike me as a crazy fellow.
I should say he has quite a sound brain."
The Colonel war startled. "Well, I'm glad to hear
you say so. I feel as if I was persecuting a poor fellow
not responsible for his actions."


MR. FORTUNE EXPLAINS
"Oh, he's responsible all right," said Reggie cheer-
fully.
"But surely he was very odd with us? And we
can't ignore he's always been notoriously eccentric."
"The play-acting touch ? - Yes. He sees himself
as a sort of saint and prophet. I should say he is.
Awkward fellow to live with. But not crazy. Saints
aren't. Highly sane."
The Colonel struggled with this shocking idea.
"Well, may be. But I don't seem to understand
what you really think about the case, Mr. Fortune?"
"No, no, nor do I. Nothing very definite. I
should say it hadn't occurred to Mr. Neath the notes
he got were stolen till you suggested he was the thief.
I thought he was going to knock you down then."
"Oh, that was put on, wasn't it?"
"I shouldn't say that. No. But I think now he
knows they were stolen he has a guess who stole 'em.
And he don't mean to say."
"Why, but that's coming back to my idea of what
you call the philanthropic thief. And you laughed at
it!"
"My dear Colonel I I like it. I said it went very
well with Mr. Neath's little ways. We'd better look
into it. Let's go and see Sir Ernest Smart."
"I shall have to see the fellow, of course," the
Colonel grumbled.
"You don't love him, do you?" Reggie smiled.
"I wonder. By the way, let's take that silver cross."
"Certainly. I thought you advised us not to rely
on it. That's why I didn't say anything about it to
Neath."
"Oh yes. Yes. Very wise. But we might say
something about it to Smart."
Fotton Hall is a spacious Georgian house. The


THE SILVER CROSS 217
spluttered and got into her way. "Here, Lou, I'm
busy. Not now, there's a good girl."
"Busy!" she cried. "I know!" She glared at
him. ■ She was very much his daughter, small, plump
and fierce. "Colonel Tresham! You've come about
Mr. Neath. What is it?"
"Well, if you want to know they've caught Neath
with the notes," her father cried. "That's what it
is, my girl."
"It isn't true!"
"Oh yes, it is. The parson's booked for gaol."
"Don't you dare say it!" Rage played tricks
with her voice. "If you put him in the dock, I'll
never speak to you again."
Sir Ernest flinched. "Look here, Lou, this is no
way to talk. We don't want a scene."
"I've finished. You heard what I said? That's
all there is to it." She made for the door.
Reggie stretched out a meek hand. "One moment.
Miss Smart. Do you happen to know this thing?"
In his palm lay the silver cross.
"Of course I know it. It's mine. Where did you
get it?"
"It was found in this room after the money was
stolen."
"I dare say I" She laughed. "And he gave it
to the police?" A jerky nod pointed to her father.
"No. No. The police found it for themselves."
"Well, it's mine." She faced her father again.
"You can guess when I dropped it, can't you?
Better tell them." And she whirled out and the door
banged.
"I'm sorry, gentlemen." Sir Ernest was shaken.
"I'm afraid my girl has rather a quick temper."
"Oh, quite natural, quite human." Reggie purred.


2i8 MR. FORTUNE EXPLAINS
"And takin' up her suggestion—can you guess when
she dropped it?"
"I suppose so." Sir Ernest wiped his mouth.
"The fact is she was in the room here with me just
before the money was stolen. We had a bit of a mis-
understanding and you know she does get rather upset."
"Oh yes. Yes. About Mr. Neath?"
"No, sir, nothing whatever to do with Neath. If
you must know it was about her going off for the week-
end, which I didn't want, but she got in a fine taking
and I dare say she might have dropped anything.
Anyway, if she says it's hers, it is, and that's that."
"And did she go off for the week-end?" Reggie
purred.
"Yes, she did. She went straight away. Anything
else you want to know?"
"Well, yes," Reggie smiled. "Yes. Quite a lot."
Sir Ernest stared. "I can't tell you any more I
give you my word."
"Then you'd better not prosecute just yet." Reggie
stood up. "Good-bye."
"I'll do what I think right, sir," the little man
cried.
"Oh no. Don't do that," said Reggie anxiously.
"Probably fatal." He took Colonel Tresham out.
The Colonel came meekly. The Colonel settled
down in the car and gazed at him. "Well, Mr.
Fortune, you have a way with you," he said. "I
thought nothing would stop that little brute savaging
the parson. But you've got him so scared he'll hush
it up now."
"I wonder," Reggie murmured.
"It is an extraordinary case. It keeps on opening
out. That silver thing—we could make nothing of
it—then you told us it was South American and we


THE SILVER CROSS 219
thought it convicted Neath—thank goodness you
kept us quiet—and it turns out to be evidence against
the girl."
"Oh no. No. Evidence of a connection between
Neath and the girl. That's what worried father:
our getting that out."
The Colonel frowned. "What? I don't follow."
"The thing that holds up father is he don't know
what's coming next. No more do I. Very interestin'
problem."
The Colonel pondered. "I should say what stops
him is he sees it was the girl sent the money to
Neath."
"It could be," Reggie murmured. "She didn't
say so. She's had plenty of time to say so."
The Colonel smiled. "Girls are like that, what?
She's had a row with father, probably about this
parson. She's got a weakness for him. Quite common,
isn't it? And she plays this silly trick to help him
and don't want to own up. Sentimental nonsense, of
course. But with a young woman and a romantic
persecuted parson, anything can happen."
Reggie moved in his seat. Reggie gazed at the
Colonel with dreamy interest. "Yes. Quite a lot.
Yes. A queer case. As you were saying. It keeps
on openin' out. Always something else in the land-
scape. Very exhaustin'. I want my lunch." He
sat up. "My only aunt! I do want lunch. Can
one eat the lunch of Fotton?" Colonel Tresham
said there was a decent inn. "Lead me to it. I
am without form and void. The mind does not
function." He murmured Latin to himself. "Ani-
mula, vagula, blandula"
Colonel Tresham looked at him with concern.
"What's that, sir?"


THE SILVER CROSS
221
"I suppose that silly chit is in love with the parson,"
said the Colonel.
"It could be," Reggie mumbled. The look of pain
in his bewildered eyes sharpened. "But that man's
straight, you know. There's something "—his hand
made a queer, groping gesture—" something nasty."
The Colonel stared at him. "You go beyond me,
Mr. Fortune."
When they knocked at the vicarage door Neath opened
it. "So I" He drew himself up. "You have your
orders from the knight. You are bidden summon
me to stand my trial."
"Oh no. No. Nothing like that," said Reggie
gently. "I've been thinking about what you said.
And it's brought me asking you to help us."
"You speak fairly. If you mock me, the shame be
on your own head."
"Yes, I'm content," said Reggie.
"Why, then, come in. I send no man away who
asks help of me." Neath took them into a dilapidated
room. The ceiling was dingy and cracked and flakes
of plaster from it lay on the carpet, a carpet with
pattern and colour trampled into threadbare drab.
The wallpaper was stained and faded and here and there
hung loose. Rickety home-made shelves held a few
books. The other furniture was a table and four
wooden chairs. "Be seated, sirs," said Neath in a
grand manner. "What help can I give you?"
"I hope you can help us to discover who sent that
money to you."
"I have told you I do not know," Neath frowned.
"I'm acceptin' all you told us. But that can't
end the case, Mr. Neath."
"I can tell you no more. I fear nothing. Shall
not the Judge of all the earth do right?"


222 MR. FORTUNE EXPLAINS
"Yes. Yes. I believe that, too," said Reggie
gravely. "But it has to be done through men. And
it's my job to puzzle out what is right in the business.
So I ask for your help."
"You speak well, young man." Neath's harsh
face showed some kindliness. "My heart is warmed
to you. But you speak of right according to the law.
I have a higher duty. See you, sir, the knight testifies
these moneys were stolen from him. Of that I do not
know, but since it is made clear they came to me and be
claims them I must render them to him again and will
do so as I may. But who was the thief, I cannot
tell and it is not for me, a priest, to seek him out.
For you serve the law but I the gospel."
"Yes. It may be. But you can't leave it so.
While we don't know who the thief is, other people
bear the blame."
"The blame of men! Of men who know not
what they do. Sir, I care nothing for that. I fear
nothing."
"I wasn't thinking about you," Reggie said sharply.
"There's something beyond you, Mr. Neath. Who
sent you the money? And why was it sent?"
For the first time Neath was shaken. "Surely for
a relief of my necessities?" he stammered.
"Was it? Or was it to ruin you and drive you out
of Fotton?"
Neath wiped his hps with a ragged handkerchief.
"I dare not think so."
"Do you think you have no enemies?"
"Every priest who does his duty has enemies."
"Yes. And who are yours?"
Neath started up. "Get thee behind me I" he
cried.
"Oh no. No. I'm not tempting you. I say if


THE SILVER CROSS
223
there has been a trick played to disgrace the Vicar
of Fotton it's your duty to expose the man who is
striking at the Church."
Neath's face worked. "Sir, forgive me a cruel
word. I am humbled. You have been more righteous
than I. Yet it is utterly true, I know nothing,
nothing can I say. What would you have of me?"
"Well, I should like to have the envelope in which
the notes came," said Reggie.
"The envelope? I cannot tell. Without doubt
I destroyed it." He turned to the cold fireplace
where waste paper lay scattered.
"Wouldn't be there now, would it ?" said Colonel
Tresham. "You had the money a week ago."
• "Did I?" Neath looked blank. "Indeed, yes.
I received it on the Monday. I remember. I thought
it so kindly a providence coming quickly after the
knight had denied me. But the envelope may be
here yet. The woman who serves me has many cares
in her own household, poor soul, and spares me but
a few hours. This room is seldom cleansed." He
turned the papers over hopefully. "No, it is not here.
That is strange. There are some even older. Ah,
did I keep it, perhaps?" He hurried to the table and
tugged a drawer. When it came at last a mess of
papers jumped out. "Why, yes. Certainly this is
it. There is still a note inside. No doubt that is
why I kept it."
Colonel Tresham grunted. Reggie took the envelope.
"One pound note: and a bit of the local paper about
your county court case: cut out with a penknife: enve-
lope post office make with embossed stamp: posted on
that Saturday at Leamore: addressed in laborious
script: with a fountain pen: ostentatiously disguised
writing. Yes." He looked up. His round face had


224 MR. FORTUNE EXPLAINS
the innocence of an inquiring child. "Where is
Leamore?"
"An adjacent village, sir," said Neath.
"Small place between here and Tremley," said the
Colonel.
Neath turned away. Reggie's plaintive eyes gazed
at his back. "In your parish, Mr. Neath?"
"Yes, sir, Leamore is in my parish." Neath fussed
with his papers.
"I suppose the parish is rather large?" Reggie
murmured.
Neath did not answer. "You go right up to Tremley,
don't you?" said the Colonel.
"That is so. The parish contains a great space."
"Would you look at this script again ?" Reggie said
meekly. "Does it suggest any writing you know?"
Neath took it gingerly. "It appears the writing
of one who studied not to be known."
"And now you can think of no one who wants to
ruin you?" Reggie said slowly. "No one who has
a reason? Some shameful reason?"
"Sir, sir, I have done no wrong," Neath cried. "God
knows my heart."
"I'm not thinking of you," Reggie said sharply.
"I'm thinking of the man who tried to get you con-
victed of theft. What else has he done? Why does
he want you out of Fotton?"
"I can tell you nothing. God is my witness, I can
tell you nothing."
Reggie bit his lip. "You know this is very unsatis-
factory, Mr. Neath," Colonel Tresham complained.
"Sir, I am not to satisfy you. I do as I must.
Go."
The Colonel began to talk loudly, but Reggie said,
"Good-bye, Mr. Neath," and took him away.


THE SILVER CROSS 225
The Colonel plumped down in the car and started it
at a rocket speed. "Quite so. Yes." Reggie's feet
came down to the floor again. "Irritatin' creatures,
saints."
"Confound the fellow, he knows all about it," the
Colonel growled.
"He knows who did the trick. Yes. I wonder
how much more he knows. There's something nasty
behind. And if he knows of that a saint ought to
tell."
"The fellow's a play actor being noble and
romantic."
"My dear chap! Oh, my dear chap. Not romantic,
no. He's as hard as nails. He's keeping strict to his
rules. He means to do what he thinks right, whoever
goes to hell. Very awkward temperament—for the
police."
"Well, I don't know," the Colonel grumbled.
"What do you want to do?"
"Go back to Avonbury. Employ your active and
intelligent police to discover who lives at Tremley."
"You mean Leamore. The letter came from Lea-
more. But there's nothing to be made of that. Lea-
more is next door to Fotton: any of the Fotton people
might post there."
"Is that so ?" Reggie murmured. "Very interest-
ing. But I did mean Tremley. It was the name of
Tremley made him jump." He smiled. "Turning
up just by chance. A bit of luck. I think I've earned
it." And the smile passed. "I want some, Colonel,"
he said drearily.
When they came to the office in Avonbury a small
car was at the door. "Well, well," said Reggie. "So
this is where she was going."
They told the Colonel Miss Smart was waiting to see
p


226 MR. FORTUNE EXPLAINS
him. She began to talk as she came into the room.
"What's my father going to do?"
"I can't say, because I don't know," the Colonel
snapped.
"Well, what are you going to do?"
"You've no right to ask these questions, Miss Smart.
And I shan't answer."
"All right, if you're afraid! Well, listen, then.
I've got something to tell you. I've been to see Mr.
Neath. I told him if my father prosecuted him for
stealing the notes, I should go into the witness-box and
swear I took them and sent them to him. There I"
Colonel Tresham glared at her. "But that was very
naughty of you," Reggie murmured.
"Don't like it, do you?" she laughed ferociously.
"Well, wait. Mr. Neath told me that I mustn't.
There I Now do you see the kind of man he is?"
"Yes, I think so," Reggie smiled. "And do you
always do what Mr. Neath tells you?"
She flushed and she was red before.
"I'm not being rude, you know. That's one of the
problems in the case."
"What do you mean?" She came nearer.
"If you told us just the truth, it would be more
use to Mr. Neath than playing tricks. You didn't
send him the money. But you did have a quarrel
with your father that morning. Was that about Mr.
Neath?"
"No, it wasn't," she said eagerly. "Mr. Neath
wasn't mentioned. It was about Lord Westow."
"What on earth has Westow got to do with it?"
said the Colonel.
"I didn't say he had." She was uncomfortable.
"I don't know. Well, I'm going to tell you every-
thing. If they try to hurt Mr. Neath, it shall all come


THE SILVER CROSS
227
out. Lord Westow has been asking me to many him.
I—I didn't mind him, but I don't care about him and
my father wanted me to. So I asked Mr. Neath what
I ought to do."
"What, is he your confessor or something?" said
the Colonel with disgust.
"No, he isn't. He doesn't hear confessions. Any-
way, there wasn't anything to confess. But I wanted
him to advise me because—because he's a good man.
Can't you understand that? And Mr. Neath said I
mustn't."
"Said you mustn't marry Westow? Oh, did he!"
the Colonel snorted.
"And did you tell Lord Westow Mr. Neath was
against him?" said Reggie.
"Of course I didn't. I just told him I couldn't.
That's all I said to father. And father was furious."
"Oh yes. Is it possible they suspect Mr. Neath
influenced you?"
"I don't know. Father's been quarrelling with Mr.
Neath ever since he came to Fotton."
"And Lord Westow, too?"
"Oh, Lord Westow just sneers about him."
"Lord Westow also noticed you know Mr. Neath.
Yes. About that silver cross—did anybody know
Neath had given you that?"
Again she blushed. "How did you know?"
"My dear lady! Oh, my dear lady!" Reggie
murmured.
"Yes, he did give it me. It doesn't matter. But
nobody knew. I didn't wear it to show off, of course.
I can't think how I lost it."
"In the agitation with your father that Saturday
morning. What was the agitation about, Miss
Smart?"


THE SILVER CROSS
229
"Do my best, sir." Billson strode out.
"It beats me what you expect to find by fussing
round Tremley," said the Colonel.
"Me too," Reggie murmured. "The mind is blank.
But there is something to find: and it's nasty: and
it must be at Tremley. Tremley was what made
Neath jump, and he don't jump easy."
The Colonel made a scornful noise. "I don't
understand all this talk about something nasty behind.
It's just a fancy. There's no sort of proof."
"Oh, my hat!" Reggie groaned and wriggled in his
chair. "Don't you feel it?" He looked at the
Colonel with large, sad eyes.
"I do not, sir. I see nothing to make such a fuss
about. I agree it looks as if somebody put up this
business to get Neath in a mess. Smart, perhaps, or
Westow, or both. Westow could have got the notes.
He was in the house. A dirty trick enough. But
you can see motives for them. This fool of a girl is
crazy about Neath. He put her off marrying Westow.
He"
"Yes. Why did he?"
"Well, suppose he's in love with her himself."
"Oh, my aunt I" Reggie moaned. "My only
aunt! Don't you see? Neath isn't human. He's a
saint. If he told her she mustn't marry Westow, it
was because he knew something that damned the man."
"I don't know what Neath would think damns a
man. It might be nothing at all. And it was some-
thing he was afraid to tell us."
"Afraid?" Reggie laughed. "My dear chap!
Oh, my dear chap I He was never afraid in his life."
"Why couldn't he tell us then ?" the Colonel fumed.
"Because he's a saint, confound him." Reggie
stood up bit by bit. "Makes me feel old and sinful.


MR. FORTUNE EXPLAINS
Well, well. Let me know when Billson has anything."
He wandered out.
It was late that night and in his room at the " Lion"
Reggie was drinking his night-cap of simple seltzer
when the Colonel and Billson came to him. "Oh,
Peter I Don't look at me like that I" he moaned.
"What have you found?"
"God knows what it is," said the Colonel. "You
were right, Mr. Fortune. There was somebody at
Tremley Westow used to go and see. Neath, too. A
woman. And she's dead. She died the week before
this business with the money." He stared at Reggie
with a certain ferocity. "Is that what you expected?
It beats me. The further we go into this cursed case,
the more queer stuff we find and not a sign of an end
to it."
Reggie did not answer. "She was dead before,"
he murmured. "I was afraid "He drew a long
breath.
"Afraid of what?" the Colonel cried.
"Afraid it was going to be my fault. Well, well.
I haven't missed anything then."
"Missed anything!" said the Colonel. "I should
say not. You've been seeing things we couldn't see
all the time You seem to have expected this woman
dying at Tremley. It's uncanny."
"Oh no. No. I didn't expect her. I didn't know.
I don't know now. But it was plain something nasty
had to be kept hidden, and there was something queer
about Tremley."
"That's all very well, but how are you going to work
out the case?"
"I don't know." Reggie was shrill. "I don't
know anything. I keep telling you. Let Billson
talk. Who was she, Billson?"


THE SILVER CROSS
231
Billson cleared his throat importantly. "Well, sir,
about five years ago a lady came to live in Tremley.
There's a good little house there used to be a gentleman
farmer's. This lady took it. Mrs. Vernon by name,
supposed to be a widow. Not so young but a good-
looker. Always lived very quiet, but from time to
time Lord Westow used to go and see her. They
talked a bit in the village—you know what the country
is—it don't seem to me there's anything you could say
for certain wasn't respectable. Still, he did go and the
lady not being in any county society it's queer: all
the more her settling herself down there right off the
map. Since Mr. Neath came to Fotton he's been over
to see her now and then. There's nothing in that.
He visits every house, rich and poor, where they'll let
him in. However, there it is. She was living kind of
secret and nobody much went to the house but these
two. Well, she's been in bad health and Dr. Newsom
of Fotton has attended her. Fortnight ago she was
found on a hill above the village lying pretty near
dead. The chap that found her says she looked
ghastly. She was that pale he thought she was gone,
but her eyes kind of stared in a shrunk up way, and
there was a sort of rattly breathing. They carried her
down to her house. They say she was all cold, kind
of blue, and yet sweating." Reggie stirred in his chair.
"Well, sir, they got the doctor to her, but by what I
can make out, she never came to. She died the same
day. The doctor gave a death certificate all right and
they didn't think anything of it in the village, she
being known to be ill."
"Oh yes. And what did the doctor put on the
certificate 5"
"I couldn't tell you, sir. They talk about heart
disease. It would look all right, for what I see. Dr.


234 MR. FORTUNE EXPLAINS
"Oh yes. Do you know who she was?"
"I know nothing of her private affairs."
"I wonder," Reggie murmured and gazed at Dr.
Newsom with cold curiosity. "Has Lord Westow
ever consulted you about her condition?" Dr.
Newsom was not in a hurry to answer. "Yes. Be
careful."
"I don't understand you, Mr. Fortune. Certainly
Lord Westow has asked me about her health from
time to time—when I've met him—very natural in
his lordship—he was an old friend of hers—nothing
more."
"What medicine did you send her?"
"I—I—really, Mr. Fortune, you must know nothing
could cure the disease."
"Yes. You'd better assume I know. The question
is, what did you give her?"
"Nothing of any importance. Occasionally—just
to relieve her—she had difficulty in breathing some-
times—you will admit it's the regular practice—I sent
a draught with a little morphia."
"Oh yes. You sent her morphia. Anybody suggest
that to you?"
"Of course not. I hope I know how to treat my
own patients. Certainly she did complain a great deal.
I—really I couldn't say. I believe Lord Westow may
have asked for something to soothe her. I don't
know. What—what do you imply, Mr. Fortune?"
"Didn't it occur to you that her symptoms, when
you found her dying, were the symptoms of morphia
poisoning?"
"It's impossible!" Dr. Newsom wiped his face.
"I can't believe it. I never sent her any but the
smallest doses. I've gone over my stock of morphia.
I can account for it all."


236 MR. FORTUNE EXPLAINS
"Yes, I think so," Reggie murmured. "Not a
nice man, the Lord Westow. She went up on a bit
of a hill, you can see the towers of Westow's baronial
hall from it. She used to go up there quite a lot.
And that's where she was found, Lomas."
"Poor thing." Lomas shrugged. "A bad business."
"What do you suppose he was to her, Mr. Lomas?"
"My dear Colonel I" Lomas shrugged again. "I
can only tell you he's been financing her for years.
The money paid into her bank down here came from
his in London."
"And the scoundrel got tired of her and finished
her off," the Colonel snorted.
"The old story. This Smart girl came in sight with
pots of money and his lordship decided to be off with
the old love."
"Have your men traced him yet? I warned you
he'd gone off."
"No news yet. We'll get him. Now, Reginald,
you want her body."
"Yes, please. As soon as you can."
"I have the exhumation order."
"We're only waiting for that," said the ColoneL
"I've made all arrangements."
"Good. You can get to work."
The Colonel rang for Superintendent Billson.
Lomas lit another cigarette. "No doubt youll
find morphia, I suppose?"
"Oh no. No. Clear symptoms. That fat fool of
a doctor knows she was poisoned."
"Do you suppose he gave Westow the stuff that
killed her?"
"It could be." Reggie frowned. "He's a complete
ass. No, I should guess Westow worked on him to
get a little morphia given and some more was obtained


THE SILVER CROSS 237
elsewhere. There's some suggestive bits of bottles in
the rubbish at her house. And morphia having been
given Westow could rely on the ass to write a death
certificate."
Superintendent Billson came in. "About that
exhumation, Billson," said the Colonel. "Get on with
it at once."
"Very good, sir." Billson hesitated. "The
Reverend Neath's here, sir, wishing to see you."
"What's he want?"
"I couldn't say, sir. But being as she's buried in
his churchyard"
"Oh, all right. Bring him in."
"Coming now, is he?" A puzzled smile twisted
Reggie's face. "I thought we should hear from Mr.
Neath before all was over. But now—I wonder."
"What did you expect to hear?"
"I hadn't the slightest idea," Reggie murmured
and slid low on his chair.
Neath stood before them: lank, shabby, proudly
erect. And it seemed to Reggie that the man was
even more worn and harassed than at first. But still,
sunken deeper in the dark face, his eyes glowed fierce.
He was still fighting. "Chief Constable "—he made a
formal bow—" I have to speak with you. Shall I
speak before these men?"
"If it's about your case, they know as much as I
do," said the Colonel. "You've met Mr. Fortune.
This is the Chief of the Criminal Investigation Depart-
ment, Mr. Neath."
"Sirs, your servant. It is nothing which touches
me. It is in the matter of the woman Vernon. Do
they know of that also?"
"I'm in their hands."
"Say not so. You are in the hands of God and


238 MR. FORTUNE EXPLAINS
answerable unto Him. But if these men command,
to them I speak. Sirs, I have heard from the man
Billson that there is a design to dig in my churchyard
and discover the body of this poor woman. I must
ask you what you intend against her?"
"You know, you've no right to ask anything about
it," said Lomas blandly.
"But suppose I say we're going to find out if she
was murdered," said Reggie. "Any objection, Mr.
Neath?"
"Be assured I have right to ask, sirs, and duty.
This is your purpose then, to dismember her unhappy
body and pry into it for poison"
"Who said anything about poison?" Lomas
snapped.
"Peace, sir, let me speak. I know not what is
in the power of your science. But to this search into
her body I will tell you one objection that forbids it.
What you find shall prove nothing, but delude you
into doing wrong upon wrong."
"Oh, you know she was poisoned, then," said
Lomas.
"You'd better tell us the other objections," Reggie
murmured.
"I am here to speak. This I say to you. If you
should dig up her body and take it to your laboratories,
you will do a cruel and useless outrage to the dead form.
If you should drag out the secrets of her life, you
would blacken her fame among men to take a ven-
geance on a sinful man which is not just."
"You see, we have to do what we're doing, because
you wouldn't tell us what you know," said Reggie.
"It's not my blame, Mr. Neath. I must find out the
truth as I can."
"I blame you not. Blame me not either. I had


240 MR. FORTUNE EXPLAINS
tell of him and Mrs. Vernon. And now you choose
to clear him of a charge of murder. I doubt if I should
have done that. Would you, Lomas?"
"Sir, sir, speak not so lightly." Neath was shocked.
"Confound the fellow," Lomas cried. "He goes
scot-free. And it's a million to one he tempted the
poor creature to death by supplying her with morphia."
"Not a nice man. No," Reggie smiled. "I'm
sorry."
"Sirs, sirs, be content." Neath held up his hand.
"He shall go to his account. 'Vengeance is Mine,'
saith the Lord, 'I will repay.'" And with that he
left them.
"Yes. Once I said I should be happy to meet Lord
Westow," Reggie murmured. "I hope I never shalL"


242 MR. FORTUNE EXPLAINS
brushes and brooms, which he took round the country-
side in a decrepit motor-van. But his night work
was more respected. He was a poacher of high
standing. The only covert of Platt's which he had
not worked that season was far away from the house,
nestling in the eastern slopes of Yardley Down. That
dark mass of sandstone and heather-clad sand is lonely
in summer sunshine. You may climb about it by the
hour and see neither house nor man, for the old home-
steads of the ridge are hidden among the trees in the
hollows, and only one bad, steep road crosses it.
Smallpeice turned his car into a friendly farm track,
put out the lights and went on afoot.
Through the dark of the winter night he saw with
disgust a light moving on the road. He obliterated
himself behind a patch of gorse. The light drew slowly
nearer and he saw it came from a bicycle lamp. He
made out the shape of the cyclist, a stiff way of riding,
a policeman's uniform. After a little way the man
turned and rode slowly down the hill again. The
heart of Smallpeice was filled with profanity. It was
his own village constable Napper, and plainly the
man was bent on patrolling the bounds of the covert
where he designed to work. He lay and made dumb
oaths.
But not for long. A car whirred down the hill, a
closed car driven fast. In its headlights the policeman
stood out a moment, a sharp, black shape. Then he
was gone in a crash and the car rushed on and away.
Smallpeice sucked his teeth. His first impulse may
have been to give help. But he was a thoughtful
man. It became clear to him that there would be a
painful difficulty in explaining his assistance at a mid-
night disaster to a policeman in the neighbourhood of
pheasants. He withdrew. Thus the bicycle and the


244 MR. FORTUNE EXPLAINS
Nature has not given Lord Platt a sympathetic face.
An aggrieved criminal once called him "old cod's
head." It is too true. Reggie came into the hall to
see the paper boy under examination, a sweating,
gurgling boy who could not be clear where he found the
policeman.
"Boy's a fool," Platt's big mouth snapped. "Body's
on the road somewhere between here and the station;
anywhere in three miles."
"Oh yes. I expect he can find it. Come along,
young man." Reggie got into his coat.
"Do I have to see him again, sir?" the boy gasped.
"He's horrible."
"You've only to stop the car when we come to the
place. There, sit by me. Which way is it?"
"Below the down, sir. Down in the marsh."
"He means at the bottom of the hill, in the flat on
the west side." Platt got into the car.
"Yes. I thought he did. Are you coming? Good.
The judicial mind don't usually begin at the begin-
ning."
"The judicial mind," said Platt—and breath left
him as Reggie whirled the car out of the lodge gates.
"Ugh I The judicial mind does not usually receive
the facts uncorrupted."
The car left the woodland behind and turned across
bare flat country of sodden pastures. The boy's hand
clutched at Reggie. "Yes, I see. All right. Just
as you found him, what?" The boy nodded and
gulped and turned away.
Reggie stopped the car. A bicycle and a body lay
in the road, some distance apart. The front wheel of
the bicycle was buckled. The body had suffered
worse. It lay upon its face and its face was a crushed
wound.


346 MR. FORTUNE EXPLAINS
bad condition, narrow and winding unreasonably.
"The hypothetical car was driving fast."
Platt put out his long upper lip. "It can be done,
Fortune. You did it."
"Yes. I had something to hurry for. And I knew
it was on this road. What was the hypothetical car
doing?"
Platt explained that cars sometimes came that way
to avoid the high-road traffic.
"In the dead of night?" Reggie mumbled. "Yes.
It could be." He turned away and again drifted about
the road.
Two cars and an ambulance arrived. An Inspector
of police saluted Platt. "Very good of your lordship
to take so much trouble. We've lost no time." He
saw the dead man's face. "My God!"
"Oh yes. Do you know him?" Reggie said.
The quiet voice at his elbow startled the Inspector.
He swung round and stared at Reggie's plaintive,
inquiring face with disgust. "Know him?" he said
thickly. "Of course I know him. But he wasn't ever
found like that?"
"No. No. I turned him over," Reggie murmured.
The Inspector glowered at him. "Oh, did you I
What do you want to meddle for? He didn't ought
to have been touched."
"Inspector Brightman," Platt rebuked him, "this
is Mr. Fortune."
"How do you do?" said Reggie amiably.
"Good day, sir," the Inspector growled. "You'll
excuse me. I've got our own doctor here."
"You will be well advised to consult Mr. Fortune,"
Platt frowned.
"Very good, my lord. I'll tell the Chief Constable
what you say." The Inspector sniffed. "He likes


THE BICYCLE LAMP 249
"Oh, I must look at this post-mortem. There's
some other little things. Then I'll have to talk to
the Chief Constable. Is he a nice man, Platt?"
"I have not found him so. A mule. A military
mule. My dear Fortune, I shall be happy to assist
in dealing with the limited intelligence of Colonel
Kitchell. I will go into Northam with you." His
face made the motions of sucking which used to alarm
the Bar.
When Reggie strolled into the mortuary at Northam
he found Dr. Lace already at work. He did not inter-
fere. In gentle silence he endured the doctor's demon-
stration of what had happened to skull and brain,
and if he did not listen he watched keenly. But in
the later stages of the lecture his attention wandered.
He became interested in anything but the dead man's
head: other parts of the body, the hands, the feet,
the clothes and boots; and to the hands he returned
with plaintive curiosity.
Dr. Lace completed his demonstration. "You will
probably agree that is conclusive, Mr. Fortune. The
injuries are such as would naturally be inflicted by the
violent concussions resulting from collision with a fast
car. You are satisfied?"
"Not satisfied, no. Several odd facts."
"I do not observe them, Mr. Fortune."
"No. I was afraid you didn't. For instance, I
should say there was more than one injury to the
head."
"That is certainly possible. But quite natural.
His head may well have been struck by the car, then
dashed to the ground. Several injuries are common
in these cases."
"I have seen a few cases, you know." Reggie
contemplated the doctor with half-shut eyes. "He's


THE BICYCLE LAMP 251
"Let the man speak for himself. Are you satisfied,
Doctor?"
"Completely. I have already pointed out to Mr.
Fortune there can be no doubt of the cause of death."
"Well, well I" Reggie sighed. '* And the place,
Doctor?"
"The place, Mr. Fortune?" Dr. Lace stared.
"The place of death was obviously where the body
was found."
"Oh no. No. That's where it obviously wasn't,"
Reggie murmured. "The one thing that is obvious."
"You amaze me "the doctor protested.
"I should think so!" said the Chief Constable.
"Now, Mr. Fortune, I'll deal with you, if you please.
I don't know why you thrust yourself into the case"
"We can't have this, Kitchell," Platt snapped.
"Mr. Fortune is the medical man who first saw the
dead body. It's his duty to inform the police of what
he found. If you take offence you expose your own
incompetence."
"I'm not here to be lectured, my lord. When I
want an expert from Scotland Yard I'll ask for him.
Till then he has no right to meddle with my work."
"Why this passion ?" said Reggie mildly.
"I don't want an expert coming here to make mys-
teries out of a perfectly plain case."
"Oh no. No. You only want a little common
sense. Has Platt told you about the bicycle lamp?"
"He's told me you couldn't find the broken glass,
so you want to make out Napper was killed somewhere
else."
"Good. You grasp the simple thought. What
about it?"
"I attach no importance to it whatever," the Chief
Constable announced.


252 MR. FORTUNE EXPLAINS
"Oh, my hat," Reggie murmured.
"Kitchell!" said Platt. "Endeavour to under-
stand the position. Mr. Fortune will give evidence at
the inquest"
"Will he? The police won't call him, I can tell you."
"That will make your conduct still more suspicious,"
said Platt with relish. "Mr. Fortune will state that
the glass broken from the bicycle lamp was not on
the road where he found the man. The police will at
once be asked whether they have tried to discover
where the accident occurred. If the answer is that
the Chief Constable declined to investigate, it will be
clear that you have done your best to conceal how the
man met his death."
The Chief Constable spluttered. "You've no right
to say a thing like that, my lord. One of my best
men—killed in the execution of his duty, too"
"Oh! Oh, was he ?" said Reggie quickly.
"Of course he was. Out on his night patrol. What
do you suppose he was doing?"
"I don't suppose. I don't know anything about
him. You said he was one of your best men?"
"So he was, sir. I've got his record here. Came
to us out of the Army. He'd been through the war.
Conduct in the Army, first class. Recommended to
us by Colonel Clairmont, his commanding officer.
Absolutely clean sheet with us."
"Was he married?" said Reggie.
"No, sir. Single man." The Chief Constable stared
at him. "Most respectable fellow. You must have
known him, my lord. He was in your village. No
complaints, I believe?"
"I know nothing but good of him," said Platt. "I
consider that a reason for discovering how he was killed."
"Well, damn it, so do I," the Chief Constable cried.


254 MR. FORTUNE EXPLAINS
"Well, what are you suggesting then?"
"I haven't the slightest idea," said Reggie.
"I suppose you think you're being helpful, Mr.
Fortune," the Chief Constable snorted. "It's more
like making game of us."
"No. No. You don't amuse me," Reggie sighed.
"I'm rather frightened of you."
'* Of me, sir?"
"Of both of you. You're so anxious to hush it
up.
"That is intolerable, Mr. Fortune!" the doctor
cried.
"That's too bad," said the Chief Constable. "I
keep asking what you suggest and you can't tell me.
You only make difficulties."
"Not make 'em. No. The difficulties are there.
You're tryin' to hide 'em."
"What on earth do you advise, then?"
"Oh, I should advise Dr. Lace to keep to the facts,"
said Reggie wearily. "I should advise you to look
for some more. Look for the glass. Look for some-
body who knew Napper well. Look for anybody else
who's missing."
"Anybody else?" the Chief Constable gaped.
"Nobody's missing at all."
Reggie stood up. "Well, well," he sighed. "Yon
wouldn't know, would you? Good-bye."
He took Platt away and put him into the car and
drove off. The streets of Northam are full of country
business. He drove in ample swoops, dreamily: in
what Mrs. Fortune calls with a shudder his lyric man-
ner. Platt shuddered. It was not till a clear high
road lay before them that he dared to speak. "For-
tune, what did you mean by the last hint?"
Reggie moved in his seat. "I wanted to shake 'em


256 MR. FORTUNE EXPLAINS
"No. No. That's one of the difficulties," Reggie
murmured. "But we've called to ask after 'em. You
ask, Platt."
The door of the trim cottage was opened by a police-
man who began to snub them, recognized Platt, and
saluted his lordship. "Are you in charge here? Just
a word with you, then." They went into a neat
kitchen and Platt sat down and the policeman stood
to attention. "I came to see if I could be of any
service to Napper's family."
"Beg pardon, my lord, he had no family. Not as
is known. He wasn't a Lamshire man. Colonel Clair-
mont 'brought him here. He never talked of having
people. The Inspector told me to search if there was
letters from relations of his for to inform them of his
death. But I can't find nothing of the sort. Only
his Army papers and such."
"Lonely fellow," said Platt. "Who kept house for
him?"
"Nobody, my lord. He did for himself. Kep' the
place nice, too."
"Jolly little house," Reggie purred. "Jolly garden,
too. He wouldn't want to leave all this."
"Ah," said the policeman profoundly. "Poor
chap. Cruel, sir, ain't it?"
"Yes. Yes." Reggie wandered about the room.
In its tidy comfort there was nothing personal but a
few souvenirs of the war. "I suppose he just lived
for this place?"
"That's right, sir. When he wasn't on duty you'd
be sure to find him here. Generally working in his
garden. He fair loved that."
"Good chap," Reggie smiled. "His one hobby,
what?"
"Yes, that's right, sir. Just the garden—and the


258 MR. FORTUNE EXPLAINS
And the car went slower still up the narrow, steepening
road. When they were a mile or more from the vil-
lage, when the tilled land ended in heather and wood,
Reggie stopped. "Any more houses ?" he asked.
"Nothing more on the road."
"Civilization here ends. Yes. Now we'll look for
things serious and particular." He ran the car on to
the heather and they got out and walked on. "One
of our prehistoric roads," Reggie complained. "Not
much used by that curse of the modern world, the
motor-car?"
"Very few cars come up here."
"No. No. I should say not. And that's very
curious. The decease of Constable Napper is ascribed
to a car. But the road where the body was found
and the road which Constable Napper probably took
are roads not adapted to cars: especially nocturnal
cars."
"I admit your point," said Platt. "But surely the
damaged bicycle points to a collision."
"Oh yes. I think the bicycle was in a collision. I
should say there was a car. That's why I'm porin'
over this rough and rocky road. But if you can tell
me what that car was out for you would interest me,
Platt."
"A gang of poachers often work with a car nowa-
days."
Reggie moaned softly. They had come to the top
of the down. He stopped and looked about him. A
wide prospect opened beyond the brown heather, dim
miles of field and hedgerow melting to a violet haze
where the land rose into the sky. "Yes. Good and
soothin' to the troubled soul," Reggie murmured.
"Why are people, Platt? The world's nice without
'em."


THE BICYCLE LAMP 259
"My coverts are a little lower down," said Platt.
Reggie sighed. "Well, well. The horrid fact of
life intrudes." He directed his eyes to nearer things.
"Hullo. Somebody does live here." He pointed to a
wisp of blue smoke, a mellow roof coming out of the
trees in a hollow.
"One or two old houses about. That's Clairmont's
place."
"Oh!" Reggie's vague eyes turned to him. "The
patron of Constable Napper. He lives up here. You
didn't tell me that, Platt."
"His house is not on the road. It didn't occur to
me. An old place in its own grounds. My coverts
are above on the other side. You see?"
"Yes. Yes." Reggie wandered on and tncy came
to the place where Isaac Smallpeice had lain in hiding.
Mr. Smallpeice had left few traces. The remnants of
chewed tobacco by his lair in the bracken escaped
Reggie's intent gaze searching the road. Some way
lower down the yellow November sunlight glinted on
the rough surface. "Ah," Reggie stooped. . . .
"Three pieces of a thick convex lens . . . once com-
posin' the front glass of a bicycle. Thus verifyin' the
provisional hypothesis." He wandered to and fro,
peering at the channelled sandstone of the road. "Yes.
Further evidence—an oozy mess, which was oil—and a
dry stain, probably blood. Observe these exhibits,
Platt. You may have to swear to 'em."
"I shall be equal to that." Platt thrust out his
lip. "The inference is that this is where Napper met
his death. A very ingenious piece of work, Fortune.
And annoying to Colonel Kitchell."
"Yes. Yes. Assumin' the glass fits—this is where
the cycle, with cyclist, crashed. No evidence how.
The primeval road bears no traces of a car. But prob-


THE BICYCLE LAMP 261
His eyes opened wider; he glanced back at the build-
ing and turned and wandered over the heather in little
expanding circles. He found one scrap of paper
charred but not burnt, thin stiff paper on which was
printed in brownish pink what looked like the naked
legs of a child.
With great care he put that in his pocket-book.
Slowly he moved away and, completing the circuit of
Colonel Clairmont's grounds, came back to the road.
Then he' turned up the hill again and paused at the
entry of the curving drive which led to the house and
looked in and still more slowly climbed to the place
of the mess of oil and the stain. There he sat down
in the heather once more and lit a cigar and, as his
uncanny way is at times of deeper thought, smoked
with his eyes closed.
He was thus occupied when he heard footsteps.
His eyes opened to see a man marching fast up the
hill. "Don Quixote, I presume," were the words
which came into his head, for the man was tall and
lean and his gaunt face had a look of forlorn nobility.
What he said was " Good day, sir."
The man stopped and stared at him. "Good day
to you. You have found a pleasant place to rest in."
"Yes. Large long view. Peaceful for the spirit."
"I am glad you find it so." The man turned to gaze
at the blue distance. "Do you know the down, sir?"
"No. No. I'm a little pilgrim and a stranger here.
Same like the hymn says."
The man looked at him again. "Really? A pil-
grim?" The lean, handsome face was bewildered.
"Really a stranger. Metaphorically a pilgrim.
Seekin' the truth. A distressin' vocation, sir. Present
job, waitin' for the police. Also distressin'. And not
necessarily compatible with the other."


THE BICYCLE LAMP
263
Reggie took Clairmont's arm. "Look. That's the
oil from Napper's lamp. That's his blood. Did you
hear anything?"
Clairmont did look. "His blood?" he said, and
looked at Reggie. "How can you be sure?"
"That was blood," said Reggie quietly. "If he was
smashed up by poachers, there must have been some
sort of row. Did you hear anything?"
Clairmont could be seen thinking. "I heard
nothing that I can recall, sir," he said at last. "I
will ask my servants. If I should find that they have
anything to tell, I'll inform you, Kitchell. As you
know, I was much interested in Napper."
"Of course. Thanks very much," said the Chief
Constable, and Clairmont saluted them gravely and
marched away.
"Nothing doing there, I'm afraid. There's no
reason why they should have heard anything away
in Clairmont's house. Still, I'm inclined to accept
your theory, Mr. Fortune. Very acute."
"I haven't a theory." Reggie was shrill. "I only
say the bicycle was smashed here."
"No doubt about that, is there? Those bits of
glass fit his lamp. And there's the oil and his blood.
He was killed here. That means poachers. They had
a car. So they carried off the body and dumped him
down in the marsh to cover their tracks."
"And if Fortune had not pointed that out to you,
you would have arranged a verdict of accidental
death." Platt thrust out his lip. "Very efficient,
Kitchell."
"I should have done no such thing, my lord. I
should have looked for the car that killed him. I've
still got to look for that car. Now I know it was used
by poachers."


264 MR. FORTUNE EXPLAINS
"Which simplifies the matter," said Platt dis-
agreeably.
Reggie looked from one to the other with pained
surprise. "Does it? Was it ?" he murmured plain-
tively. "You fellows are so quick." He fell on
his knees and scraped the blood-stained sand on to
paper.
"You want to test that?" The Chief Constable
frowned.
"I want to test anything I can." He went to a
case in his car and put the scrapings away and returned
to work on the mess of oil.
"Not sure, eh?"
"Sure?" Reggie looked up. "Oh, my hat !" and
he laughed and worked on.
"All right. When you're ready, I'd like to go back.
I have to get to work."
Reggie took him back to Northam at a disinte-
grating speed and in the same style went on with
Platt. Uncertain about the knees, Platt arrived in
his hall and sat down and gasped for whisky and soda.
"I want my tea," said Reggie plaintively. Piatt
waggled his hand at the butler. "Weak tea," Reggie
purred. "Oh, and could there be muffins?"
"Good God !" said Platt with emotion and absorbed
his whisky. "I thought this maniac driving was
caused by perturbation of mind."
"Maniac? My dear chap! Oh, my dear chap!
I was driving with great self-control. I always do.
Only you and the Chief Constable are in such a hurry
and I like to be in the movement."
"You're not satisfied with the evidence?" Platt
looked at him keenly.
"The evidence is all right. What there is of it.
It's the theories that frighten me."


266 MR. FORTUNE EXPLAINS
you know, I did expect a little more interest in the
matter from Colonel Clairmont."
"Clairmont? If he heard nothing, and he might
very well have heard nothing, he could have nothing to
tell us."
"Yes. Yes. Acceptin' that—as he was the patron
of Napper, when he heard that Napper was killed at
his gate instead of miles away as announced, he might
have been more interested."
"He was amazed."
"Yes. I thought he was surprised we'd got there.
But he hadn't much to say."
"What should he say?" Platt was annoyed
"My dear Fortune, if you have in your mind any
suspicion of Clairmont, I can tell you it's preposterous.
I know him thoroughly. He's a man of the strictest
honour."
"Yes. Yes. Fine type. I thought that. Do you
know anything about his household?"
"His wife's dead. There's one son. A pleasant
fellow. Some sort of artist. Etchings and woodcuts
and that sort of thing. He's not at home now. A
good deal away. Clairmont lives alone, with a few
women servants and a gardener or so, all with him for
many years. You can put the Clairmont household
out of your mind."
"I see. Yes," Reggie murmured, and did so. Foe
the rest of that evening he talked of Latin hymns and
the charm of puddings and the ideal cat.
But in the morning he said that he must go and
verify the blood, and he went to his laboratory by way
of Scotland Yard. He drifted into the room of the
Chief of the Criminal Investigation Department, pink
and dreamy, like a child just out of bed.
"Reginald I" said Lomas severely. "Shed that


THE BICYCLE LAMP 267
look of innocence. What have you been up to
now? One of these days a Chief Constable will
arrange your quiet decease. And I shan't blame him.
This poor man in Loamshire don't know where he
are."
"Well, well," Reggie beamed. "Has he found that
out? Good."
"He has not. He blethers. Yesterday morning
he rang me up very loud and frenzied to complain that
you were meddling with one of his cases and he wouldn't
have it. In the evening he was on the 'phone again
to say he was devilish obliged to you. I am not.
Why will you give Chief Constables fits? Very bad
for trade."
"One of your larger cigars is indicated," said
Reggie, and took it. "Yes. Heard all about it,
Lomas?"
"Oh lord, yes. And more," Lomas groaned.
"What do you want here? It's going to be a straight
case of a poachers' murder, isn't it?"
"I wonder." Reggie blew smoke rings. He brought
out the paper on which were the finger-prints of the
dead man. "Tell your fellows to see if that chap is
on their records."
Lomas gave the orders. "Who is the suspect?"
"He isn't exactly a suspect. He's the corpse."
"Good gad I " Lomas gasped. "But the dead man
is the village policeman. They all knew him."
"Yes. Identification unanimous though casual.
But he hadn't got a face."
"My dear fellow, they must know the general look
of the man."
"Oh yes. The dead man must be the same sort of
size as Constable Napper. The clothes were a fair
fit. He may be Napper. But I don't think so. It's


THE BICYCLE LAMP 269
"Yes. Yes. I don't, anyway. Very perplexin'
to the simple mind."
"I hate to hurt you." Lomas smiled. "But it
sounds to me like a parody of your own methods.
You always want to be subtle. You've done it this
time. A masterpiece of the imagination."
"Oh, my Lomas!" Reggie was hurt. "How can
you? Imagination! I never did. I haven't any.
And here! I'm just toiling timid after facts."
"What are you trying to prove?" said Lomas
patiently.
"I'm not. I don't want to prove anything."
Behind the cigar smoke his eyes were dark and vague.
"It don't feel like that, you know. I'm only looking
for the truth. Followin' the gleam. Same like
Merlin in the poem. The light retreated, the land-
scape darkened "He crooned verses.
"My dear fellow!" Lomas protested. "This is
fantastic. Come out of dreamland. What has the
burnt note to do with anything?"
"I haven't the slightest idea," Reggie beamed.
"It don't make any sense. That's what's so inter-
esting. The hypothetically defunct Napper had a
patron. Military man like the late Don Quixote.
Colonel Clairmont. Old Platt says he's the soul of
honour. And Platt don't like his fellow-creatures too
much. Clairmont lives on a primeval desert hill.
And it was up there the bicycle smashed and the
hypothetical poachers slew the hypothetical Napper.
I went wanderin' round Platt's grounds. There's a
kind of empty cottage away from the house. Just
by that somebody had been burning papers. Burnt
fluff on the heather, the sort of stuff that flies up the
chimney. And there was this bit of a note. Well?
Apply the higher intelligence."


270 MR. FORTUNE EXPLAINS
"As you say, it makes no sense. Your virtuous
soldier had been burning papers and there happened
to be a French note among them. A common kind
of accident. What on earth do you want to read into
it?"
"Nothing, dear. Nothing," Reggie beamed. "I'm
quite peaceful myself. It's the kind of case that feels
all right. Sort of finished." He patted at his smoke.
"Everything settled. If only the policemen would
let it alone. But they mean to hang somebody.
That's why I want the truth, Lomas."
"They won't hang anybody without evidence."
"Oh, Peter!" Reggie gasped. "What simple
faith!"
An Inspector came in and reported that the paper
was certainly part of a hundred-franc note: the
finger-prints were not on the register of criminals.
"There you are." Lomas tossed back the note and
the prints. "Nothing in it. You want a rest, Reginald."
"Yes. Yes. You are exhaustin'." Reggie stood
up. "I'm goin' to the laboratory. Effects have
causes there."
But first he went to his club and wrote a letter to
M. Dubois of the Surete- in Paris and that letter he
registered.
In the morning he rang up Platt and asked for the
latest news from the battle-front. "I have just been
stimulating Kitchell," said Platt. "The imbecile
informs me that the police have a clue."
"Oh, my aunt I" Reggie groaned.
"I agree with you. Has anything come of your
investigation?"
"No. No. Blood is blood and oil is oil. As
expected. Platt—don't hustle your police. Warn
me quick if they do anything."


THE BICYCLE LAMP 271
"Have no anxiety. Who can hustle a mule?"
"I am anxious," said Reggie. "If they do any-
thing they'll do it wrong."
On the next morning came an answer from Paris:
Dear Friend,—
Your two pieces much interest my colleagues.
First, the morsel of scorched paper. It is from a
counterfeit note of a hundred francs; a good forgery,
but without doubt forged. Second, the finger-prints.
They are of one known to us as Georges Bouchard,
who was arrested in 1920 for forging bonds. But
evidence failed. He was not believed a Frenchman.
You will understand that my colleagues will be greatly
obliged if you can give information where he operates
at present.
Always
Dubois.
"No, I can't, old man," Reggie murmured, and lit
a pipe and for a long time sat smoking. Then he
sought the telephone again to ask Platt if anything
had happened. "The unspeakable Kitchell still has
a clue," said Platt. "I prod him in vain."
"Don't prod." Reggie was shrill. "I told you not."
"My dear Fortune, if you have any fresh informa-
tion which affects the case you should produce it.
Otherwise these incompetents must be made to proceed
on the plain evidence."
"It isn't plain," said Reggie. "It's all wrong."
The telephone made queer noises. "Do you pro-
pose to explain?" said Platt.
'' No. No. Better not."
"You accept a grave responsibility in attempting
to impede the inquiry."


272 MR. FORTUNE EXPLAINS
"I know. I've had lives in my hands before this,
Platt."
"The law must take its course." Platt was angry.
"If you act outside the law I can be no party to it.
You should know that."
"I do. That's why I tell you nothing. Except
this. You're doing wrong, Platt."
"We shall not understand each other," said Platt,
and rang off.
Reggie looked at the telephone with disgust. "Oh,
you lawyer," he moaned.
It was on the next morning that Reggie saw in his
paper the headlines: Dead Policeman—Man De-
tained. The paragraph beneath contained no more
news than that. He was already ordering his car
when the Chief Constable telephoned to ask him to
come down to Northam.
Once more he came into Colonel KitcheU's room
to see him in a state of inflammation and Platt making
mouths. "Well, well," he said wearily. "And what
have you been doing now?"
"I don't seem to please his lordship whatever I do,"
said Kitchell. "I'd be glad of your opinion, Mr.
Fortune. Look here. You're satisfied Napper was
killed up there on the down by the covert? Is that
right. You'd swear to that?"
"I said the observed facts prove Napper's bicycle
had an accident there. That's all."
"Well, that's quite fair. That's all right. Then
the only thing it points to is some poachers working
the covert got at him. Do you agree to that?"
It could be. It's the obvious inference. It's not
proved, you know."
"Yes, I do know. But I've nothing else to work
on. And his lordship has been at me all the time to


274 MR. FORTUNE EXPLAINS
see, there is a case against this rascal Smallpeice. We
can feel pretty sure he's guilty. But when it comes to
a jury—what do you think?"
"Oh, my dear fellow!" Reggie smiled. "Don't
ask me. Here's the judicial authority. How would
you charge the jury, Platt?"
"I should tell them there was no case," Platt
snapped. He thrust out his lip and glared at the
Chief Constable. "None."
"Well, there you are," Kitchell said. "You see
it yourself, my lord. It isn't my business to make
evidence against the fellow. I tell you what I'll do.
I'll detain him over the inquest to see if anything
turns up. Will that satisfy you?"
"Don't talk of satisfying me, sir," Platt barked.
"If you have no case against the man, you've no
right to detain him. Good morning."
Reggie nodded to the infuriated Kitchell. "A
gleam of reason," he smiled, and followed Platt out
into the street. "And that being that," he said
sweetly, " were you going to ask me to lunch?"
Platt did not answer. He was staring at a car from
which descended the lean form of Colonel Clairmont.
"Come to stir up the police, Clairmont ?" he sneered.
"Very necessary."
"Platt I" Clairmont caught at his arm. "Is this
true? They tell me a man's been arrested—that poor
devil Smallpeice."
Platt stared up at him. "Have you any objec-
tion?" he snapped.
"But there is no evidence, there can't be!"
"You shouldn't talk like that, you know," said
Reggie gently.
"Certainly there is evidence." Platt put out his
lip. "The police would not detain a man without


THE BICYCLE LAMP 275
some cause. You are aware of that, Clairmont?"
His face sharpened.
"But you don't want to argue about it here," said
Reggie. "Colonel Clairmont, let's go home quiet.
There's no danger to this chap now. It could all be
managed."
"Managed!" Clairmont said tremulously. "Who
are you, sir? I remember. It is Mr. Fortune. I beg
your pardon. I suppose you know everything."
- "Perhaps I guess," said Reggie gravely. "Go back
home, sir. We can talk there."
"My God !" Clairmont groaned. "Home! Come,
then. Come, Platt." He climbed into his car again
and drove away.
"So this was your mystery." Platt frowned at
Reggie.
"You're playing with lives, Platt," Reggie said in
a low voice. "Be kind, man, be kind."
"I shall be just," Platt snapped.
"God help you," said Reggie.
It is believed that never has he driven so slowly
as in that procession behind Clairmont's little car.
He has said that the drive lasted through wretched
ages. •
When they came to the house on the down, Clair-
mont stood at the door looking through the wintry
sunlight at the woods and the mellow haze. He drew
himself up and with studious courtesy brought them
into his study. There he sat down at a writing-table
and fumbled with papers.
"Platt," he said. "I have no right to ask you to
believe me. I give you my word I never intended this
man Smallpeice should come into danger. Or any
man. I did not think it possible."
"He isn't in danger, sir," said Reggie quickly.


276 MR. FORTUNE EXPLAINS
"Before you tell us anything, take that for certain.
Platt will tell you there is no evidence to convict him"
Platt put out his lip. "I shall tell you no such thing,
Clairmont. The man Smallpeice is under grave sus-
picion. The police believe him guilty."
"But they can't prove it. And they never will
prove it," said Reggie sharply. "That is the state
of the case, sir. It can end there."
"You have no right to say so," Platt snapped.
"Clairmont, you have no right to depend on that.
If you know something which will clear him, it is your
duty to speak."
"I can't be silent," Clairmont said. "It's not in
my mind. Mr. Fortune, I see you mean to serve me.
I thank you, sir. But I mustn't rely upon you. This
man Smallpeice is not to be in danger for my comfort.
Platt, I am content to leave myself to your judgment.
Do as you think right. I will tell you the truth of
the thing now. Smallpeice has done nothing, knows
nothing. I hoped no one need ever know anything.
It was not Napper who was killed. It was my son.
I killed him."
"Do you know what you're saying?" Platt cried.
Clairmont's gaunt face smiled. "Indeed I know.
You may believe that. You thought Will was an
artist, etching, making woodcuts and lithographs. So
did I. You know he had the cottage made into a
studio. What he did in it was forgery: forgery of
foreign notes. I found that out only last month while
he was away. I waited for him to come back. He
came at night. Napper was out on the road watching
your coverts, Platt. Will's car ran him down. Will
did not stop. That was like him. He came on to
the studio. But I heard. I was there to meet him.
I told him what I knew and he laughed at me and I


THE BICYCLE LAMP 277
struck him—there in the studio—you think I am mad?
—he told me it was a good trade and he was going on
with it—I took one of the cursed stones he used in
his trade and beat him down and killed him. What
else could I do? My own son, the last of us giving
himself to that! Then Napper came."
"You mean Napper hadn't been hurt?" Platt
frowned.
"Napper's hands were cut and his head. When
he picked himself up he followed the car and he found
us. And then I had to tell him. He has known me
twenty years. He has known Will since he was a
boy. He was ready to help. And it came to him—
it came to me—how we could hide it all. We changed
their clothes. Napper said the face shouldn't be
known." Clairmont stopped and shuddered and
looked at them. "Napper took him away in the car.
And I burnt all his forgeries. We thought the thing
would end with people believing the body was Napper
killed by an accident in the road and so the truth
could be hidden and no one suffer. Now"
"Now !" said Platt sharply. "Where is this man
Napper gone?"
"He is gone where I shall not tell you." Clairmont
lifted his head. "What he did, he did under my
orders. You cannot wish to punish him, Platt."
"It is not what I should wish. It's a matter for
the law. You know what you have done. You
confess murder and say Napper is guilty as an
accessory."
"He is guilty of nothing," Clairmont said. "It
is I. And I have done right. Will is better dead
than living so. I hoped to conceal the disgrace." He
looked at Platt with tragic eyes. "I hoped our name
would end clean. Have I failed, Platt?"


278 MR. FORTUNE EXPLAINS
"Good God, man, you don't suppose I can keep
this secret!" Platt cried. "There's such a thing as
justice, Clairmont."
"Very well." Clairmont rose wearily. "You will
do what you think right. I bid you good day, gentle-
men." Reggie held out his hand. Clairmont took
it in a firm grasp. "You have been kind, sir. Let
it be as it is."
"I advise you to send for your solicitor without
delay," said Platt.
And Clairmont laughed.
Platt walked briskly to the car. Reggie was some
time after him. He started the car and drove slowly
up the winding drive, stopped at the turn to the road.
A shot rang out. "Ah." He turned and looked at
Platt. "And that is that. Are you happy now?"
"What do you mean?" Platt was disturbed.
"What is it?"
"He's shot himself. You told him to."
"God forgive him," Platt muttered.
"Yes. Yes. That's all right. God forgive you."
Platt scrambled out of the car and ran back to the
house.
When Reggie came into the room again the servants
were there huddled together and Platt bent shaking
over the chair by the table.
Clairmont had sunk limp into it and blood ran down
his haggard, scorched face. An old Army revolver
lay in his hand upon his knee. Platt's tremulous little
hands fumbled about him.
"What can you do?" Reggie said, and brushed
the little man away. ... "Yes. He made sure,
Platt." And then to the sobbing servants: "Your
master is dead. Go away and be quiet, like good
souls. I'll do what has to be done." He got them


EIGHTH EXPLANATION
THE FACE IN THE PICTURE
TAKING one thing with another, Mr. Fortune
decided that he had better go to Paris. This
often happens in April.
The case of the malingering professor and the beetles
had bored him much. Spring came in late that year
and between the daffodils and the lilac his garden was
bleak. The colour of Paris tempted him.
In sunshine and limpid air he strolled along the
quays. A quick, light step came after him, a bulky
man drew level; he found himself looking up at the
large face of M. Dubois of the Suret6, a face of renown
in the world of crime. "My dear friend I I was sure
of it. I knew that back! What a pleasure to see it
again! You come to Paris for business?"
"Oh, hush! That's a horrible idea. I came to
feel alive."
Dubois chuckled. "Aha, Paris in April, it is
delicious. You are alone? That was wicked not
to bring madame. But you must lunch with me
and tell me all your sins."
"Rather. Yes. My wife's in Italy. I want a con-
fessor. Just now I was feelin' strong enough to look
at the pictures. What's the Salon like this year?"
"Not so bad," Dubois shrugged. "Come then, I
give myself the morning."
They turned into the Grand Palais. There was the
281


282 MR. FORTUNE EXPLAINS
earnest crowd of the first days, working its conscientious
way round the walls, taking the duty of criticism
seriously. Dubois also began with zeal at the begin-
ning. But Mr. Fortune does not look at pictures like
that: and these pictures did not compel his attention.
It seemed to him that he had seen them in many
Salons, portraits of the successful, arrangements oi
pretty models, landscapes trying to look strange, done
with all the tricks of the trade but without a reason,
except that pictures must still be painted, why they
should be done. He drifted on. It was in one of the
less fashionable corners that Dubois found him again.
"Pardon, my friend. I desert you."
"My fault." Reggie looked dreamily at a queer
picture. "I was just wandering."
"You are not interested?"
"Oh yes. Yes. Most instructive show. You take
your pleasures so seriously in France. I've heard
more principles of art than I thought there were."
"You have been listening to the English—or the
Americans."
"My dear chap I Oh, my dear chap I We haven't
any principles. We say we don't like a thing because
it isn't like something else. Just to show our culture.
But you always have a rule about it." He drew closer
to the queer picture. "What's the rule for that?"
Dubois stared at it, shrugged, made a grimace.
"None. It has broken them all." The picture was,
on the first glance, a stiff pattern in dark grey and
pale yellow, rays of yellow straight up and down in
front of sharp, angular masses of grey. "A problem
of geometry: illustrated in colour," said Dubois with
contempt.
"I wouldn't say that," Reggie murmured. "No.
I wouldn't say that." His eyes saw the two colours


THE FACE IN THE PICTURE 283
take many shades in such a conflict of light and dark
as comes when the sun is fighting through storm clouds,
and the sharp pattern passed into a darkness which
had form, the light came from far and in the heart of
the light was a face. Very queer picture.
"Conic sections by the two-colour process." Dubois
worked on at his joke.
Reggie sighed. "Look at the face," he said.
"I do not know him. He is perhaps the god of
the sun."
"It could be," Reggie murmured. Built up of
light, the face was a part of the pattern, yet a face
distinct, of a Greek beauty but pitiful with a knowledge
of sorrow and kind. "Yes. I wonder."
"What, you wonder why it was painted? Oh, my
friend I To be modern, to be startling. Or else it is
mad."
"Not quite normal, no. Do you know the fellow
who did it?"
Dubois looked at his catalogue. "One named Artus.
Maurice Artus. I believe I remember. He is of the
young ones. But not quite so young as he used to
be. He begins to arrive, they say. I did not know
he did horrors like this."
He turned the pages of the catalogue. "Aha I
Here is another picture of M. Artus. 'Harvest.' Shall
we try?"
"One moment. What does he call this?"
"This nightmare geometry? He calls it' Diversions
in Hell.' " Dubois shrugged. "He has no excuse at
all then. He is not even serious with his horrors.
Come, let us see if he has painted anything in his
other picture."
He had. There was nothing obscure about that.
It showed that M. Artus could paint with an easy


284 MR. FORTUNE EXPLAINS
command of his craft. The man had a mind, too.
The picture was in grey tones but sharp and clear:
a squalid farmstead in a barren country, a peasant
and his wife harnessed to a cart of sodden sheaves,
old folk, bent and straining. Out of the cunning
craftsmanship came a hard vision of the ugliness of
old age and the misery of its futile suffering.
"Harvest I " said Dubois. "Yes, he has a talent,
this young one. I could believe there is nothing of
more force in the Salon. Observe, my friend." He
began to demonstrate according to the principles of
art.
"Yes. As you say,'* Reggie murmured. "Sort of
picture that's painted tu say how clever it is and make
you wish you had never been born."
Dubois looked at him with tolerant affection.
"Dear friend, you are English after all. You want
art to make you feel comfortable."
"Yes, that is partly the idea," Reggie agreed. He
turned away from the "Harvest "; he looked back
wistfully at the other picture of M. Artus.
"Ah, that, no," said Dubois and took his arm.
"That is only an advertisement to make people say
what a wonderful fellow is M. Artus. This is his real
endeavour. But come, you shall have your comfort-
able art. Lunch, my friend."
The chestnut trees in the Champs Elys6es were lifting
their first white candelabra of blossom. Azaleas were
golden and fragrant about a little glass restaurant.
Dubois took a table in the corner which had the best
of their scent and colour and with a curly-haired round
waiter in reverent attention gave himself to creative
thought.
The asparagus in the buttered eggs was happily set
off yet kept its private charm, and Reggie said so.


288 MR. FORTUNE EXPLAINS
to classify the woman. That complexion and that
figure were not of any stock French pattern; the hotel
address suggested she was foreign, but she was quite
at home in Paris by herself and, foreign or French, a
woman so young and pretty did not often go seeing
the sights alone. She looked into the painting as if
she wanted to know how things were done, but she
was surely not a student ; she had the clothes, the air
of leisured wealth. She had not come to see the queer
picture. She took it on her way round the room, and
she was looking at it some moments before she found
anything in it. She did not know that it was by
M. Artus. When she turned up his name in the
catalogue it told her nothing. M. Artus did not
interest her. She did not go on to his other picture.
No acquaintance with M. Artus—and yet his queer
bit of work meant a mighty lot to her.
She looked a sensitive woman, but not a woman to
be knocked over by emotions. What hit her? The
thing had uncommon power, something more than
power; it showed the man's conflict, suffering, mystery,
in a light of tragic faith that was great or mad. Yes.
"A state of soul," as the chatterers said. The fellow
who did it had a soul, and rather a strange soul. But
what was it knocked her out? The face? Some
memory? That face could not be in the likeness of
any man, it was a vision, an ideal, a dream.
And M. Artus said it belonged to "Diversions in
Hell." But she did not know M. 4rtus.
Reggie felt inadequate. He devoted his mind to
the cheery elegance of the Bois, met Madame de Jan,
who knew all Europe before he was born, and was
carried off into a world of conversation.
On the next day he was recovering from salons of
antique vivacity in his bath when the telephone rang.


THE FACE IN THE PICTURE 289
Dubois wanted to know if he might bring another man
to dinner. "It is an old friend who has happened.
You permit? Thousand thanks."
The man whom Dubois brought to the tiny hall of
that restaurant which Reggie loves best had a swagger
and a pair of fierce moustaches. He might have been
a cavalry officer. He was much impressed to meet
M. Fortune and expected M. Fortune to be impressed
by meeting him. But Reggie had no notion who M.
Beaucourt might be. And Dubois beamed.
They went into a little room all white and mirrors
and the noise of the street faded away. In religious
quiet they were served. M. Beaucourt read the menu
and his purple face became bland. Reggie made
exploratory small talk and it emerged that M. Beau-
court was a painter. Dubois chuckled. Reggie talked
about the Salon carefully and discovered that M.
Beaucourt painted fantasies. Reggie remembered, of
course: Reggie had been charmed: Reggie praised
them with a fine freedom from detail. M. Beaucourt
sipped his claret. "La, la la. It is my little trade.
You are too kind, M. Fortune. Come, let us not talk
of my nymphs. They are too simple, poor children.
They are not company at dinner."
"One is modest," Dubois smiled. "It is the first
effect of the claret. I have noticed this before.
Certainly one ought to be modest with Margaux.
It is the most gracious of wines. And this is perfectly
succeeded. But for my part I desire no more charming
company than one of your nymphs." He kissed his
hand.
The three gentlemen were then charmed by the com-
pany of a brill in rich sauce and there was an interval
of devotion
"No," said Beaucourt. "A nymph would be an
T


THE FACE IN THE PICTURE 293
Beaucourt ate a grape. "Do you know, you are
the second person who has asked me that to-day."
"Well, well," Reggie murmured.
Beaucourt smiled. "Permit me, my friend—
do you perhaps know Miss Everard—Miss Alice
Everard?"
"No. Do you?" Reggie opened his eyes.
Dubois leaned across the table. "Miss Alice
Everard—that says nothing to you, my dear Fortune?"
"Well, I thought you two fellows were nursing
something for me," said Reggie sadly. "Not quite
nice of you." He shook his head at Dubois. "So
this is it, what? You've found a lady in the case.
Miss Alice Everard? I never heard of her. Slight?
Fair? Like an early Italian Madonna?"
Beaucourt slapped his hand on the table. Beaucourt
muttered something about thunder and a paper bag,
a mild amazed oath. "But it is she! A Lippo
Lippi Madonna, yes. And you never heard of her."
He turned to Dubois. "Explain me that, then. Is
it that he is clairvoyant? You put him before that
cursed picture and he sees Miss Everard, whom he
has never heard of."
"My faith, it is very possible—by what they say*
of him." Dubois smiled, but his eyes were serious
anough. "A sixth sense, is it not?"
"No, it isn't. It isn't sense at all." Reggie was
shrill. "It isn't possible. I saw the woman when
I looked at the picture because she was there. And
I'd seen her once before. She was the woman in blue
in the restaurant, Dubois."
"The devil! I remember," Dubois cried. "I
said to myself she has had things in her little life,
that one. Well, and then you went back to the Salon
—to this horror of a picture again—it is wonderful


MR. FORTUNE EXPLAINS
how that holds you, my friend—and she was there
looking at it. Well! Afterwards?"
"It hit her. It hurt her. I thought she was going
to faint. But she got away. That's all."
"And what do you deduce from that, my friend?"
"Well, I should say it made her remember something
in her life which was rather ghastly. But it wasn't
M. Artus she remembered."
"Was it not!" Dubois cried.
Beaucourt smiled. "After all, you do not divine
everything, M. Fortune. It is a little comforting.
Yes, she finds herself very interested in Artus. She
has come to me asking for an introduction."
"Oh yes. Yes. She'd want to know what he
meant by it," Reggie murmured. "Have they met?"
"Not yet. I do not know the fellow to bring him
strangers without warning. I have written to propose
myself and Miss Everard. And now I wonder if I
have done right. I ask old Dubois here—and he brings
me to tell you all about it."
"Oh, she ought to meet him if she thinks so." Reggie
opened his eyes. "Why not? Anything noxious
about Artus?"
Beaucourt shrugged. "Nothing more than others.
It is a vigorous animal, a son of the soil, with some
polish but gross. But I would not wish to give him
Miss Everard to eat. You see, I find myself a little
paternal. She was once a student of mine, it is perhaps
ten years ago ;she was then as she is now of an adorable
delicacy, and still I find her an exquisite child." He
shrugged. "In the studio, she was nothing, a pretty
little style, that is all. She took her painting with
great earnestness, poor child; she worked long, two
years I think, before she gave up. She was charming
in her failure. Fortunately, it did not matter. She


296 MR. FORTUNE EXPLAINS
I. M. Artus will have heard of me. But an English
amateur of painting, that does not frighten him. At
least you will lighten our Beaucourt's paternal respon-
sibility. Be paternal also, my friend. She is charming,
is she not? Go."
So the next morning Reggie went to Beaucourt's
studio. Miss Everard was there already. It seemed
to him that the shocks of the picture had left marks.
Her delicate face was more eager, more wistful. Beau-
court introduced him. "My friend M. Fortune,
English like yourself, mademoiselle"
"Mr. Fortune?" Her blue eyes were wide: it
was evident that she had heard of him and his presence
frightened her.
"And also," Beaucourt went on, "an admirer of
the work of our Artus."
"Oh, really? Oh, do you know him?" she said
in a hurry.
"A pleasure to come," said Reggie.
"M. Fortune saw that picture of his in the Salon—
the vision of the unseen "—Beaucourt smiled—" his
'Diversions in Hell,' and was much interested, like
you, mademoiselle."
She was white. "That interested you?" She
looked at Reggie. "And why, sir?"
"Well, I was curious about the man who could feel
like that. I wanted to find out what it meant."
"To ask what a picture means!" Beaucourt flung
up his hands. "Oh, my friend, what a question to
put to a painter I Mademoiselle knows better."
But Miss Everard had nothing to say. Her breath
came fast. She looked tired and afraid.
"You thought it was rather a wonderful thing?"
Reggie said gently.
"I—I—oh, it—it's very modern, isn't it?" she


THE FACE IN THE PICTURE
"Yes. Yes. The man whose work she knew being
someone who meant a lot in her young life, and also
an unknown criminal wanted by the police. Yes.
But Artus has been showing pictures in this style some
time and it never occurred to any of your other
painters to smell a rat. Beaucourt told us the beggar
can do anything and he's watched him from the start.
He must know."
"That is true." Beaucourt nodded. "Without
doubt Artus has a great talent. One accepts that.
You acquit him, then?"
"Oh no. No. I never acquit anybody till I know
the charge. What is it?"
"Aha, my friend I" Dubois rolled back in his chair.
"Causing perturbation of mind to the eminent Mr.
Fortune and poor old Dubois. That is true, eh?
We do not like it and we have seen some things in our
time. Unhappily, that is not yet a ground of arrest.
What to do?"
"Well, you know, you might find out if Artus really
has left Paris." Reggie smiled.
"You wish still to meet him?"
"I'm going to meet him—if he's still alive," said
Reggie.
"So serious as that?" Dubois put up his eyebrows.
"Yes, I think so," Reggie said. "Somebody's been
hurt, being hurt. Somebody else now. After all,
that's what we're for, Dubois."
"Who knows?" Dubois shrugged. "These affairs
of the soul I Well, one does as one can." He pressed
a button.
The next morning, bathed and shaved but still un-
clothed, Reggie was drinking his coffee when Dubois
came into the bedroom. "Fie, then. Poor old
Dubois he has done a day's work already. But come.


300 MR. FORTUNE EXPLAINS
I have a little for you. This animal of an Artns he
is, in fact, gone. He left Paris the day before yester-
day. Exactly as his servant said."
"As soon as he had Beaucourt's letter about Miss
Everard."
"That is not sure. What is sure, he is gone to a
little country house he has in Berry. He is there
now."
"Berry? That's round Bourges, isn't it? I like
Bourges. Come and see Bourges with me, Dubois."
He went to the telephone. He demanded a car, a car
for a tour, a big car.
"Me, I am not on a holiday." Dubois made a
grimace.
"This isn't," Reggie mumbled, getting into his
shirt. . . .
"My faith, I believe it." Dubois shrugged. "That
is why I go. . . ."
The car made speed through the afternoon sunshine
over a bleak and drab flat country where spring had
not yet waked the sodden soil, where the few farms
were squalid and every creature, human or beast, looked
old. "Cheery!" Reggie mumbled.
"It is one of our deserts. The Sologne."
"Oh yes. Yes. This is where he painted his other
picture: 'Harvest'?"
The road led down from that plateau to richer land,
a wide, dreary plain, and before them the towers of the
cathedral of Bourges rose from its hill. Through quiet,
quaint streets they came to a little square in the centre
of the town and a hotel of solid old comfort. '' This will
do, eh?" Dubois drank off a glass of syrup. "Rest
in peace. I go to report myself to the police."
Reggie wandered away to the cathedral, looked up
at the Last Judgment, where Christ, strong and terrible.


THE FACE IN THE PICTURE 301
sits above the angel of justice, and from that went in to
the peaceful infinitude of the nave. The windows
glowed, the great spaces were warm with every
gracious colour of light. He stood long. When he
came out his round face was grave and benign. He
looked again at the Last Judgment and saw the devil
with a goat's face claiming that child woman who
waits, meek hands folded, to hear her doom.
He wandered away into the town and loitered by
the castle house of Jacques Cceur, faithful minister
of a king who plundered him and drove him into
exile. On either side the door is carved a servant,
man and woman, as if they were looking out of
window.
Dubois came up. "Aha. That is an irony. Maltre
Jacques Cceur he had his servants put up so for a
kindly jest. And one morning he goes out, rich,
great, and he comes back never. Five hundred years
ago, and still the faithful servants look out for their
master. And see his motto, 'A vaillans coeurs rien
impossible.' A great irony, what? To valiant hearts
nothing is impossible I" He chuckled. "You do not
like the omen, my friend? But do not despair yet.
At least M. Artus has come back. He is safe in his
house. It is four miles out of the town, in a lonely
country place. He buries himself there often it
appears. He has had the house some years now.
They know nothing against him. It is the quietest,
most respectable household. One or two old
servants, and monsieur never has company. He lives
there only to paint. I think we can leave him to the
morning." Dubois winked. "We might see him
paint then. A little stroll before dinner, eh?"
Reggie sighed. That is a necessity which he does
not feel. But he was in a state of meditation. He


302 MR. FORTUNE EXPLAINS
let himself be led through the narrow, winding streets
while Dubois lectured on the history of Bourges and
twilight fell. They came to a garden below the
cathedral empty in the gloom of the chilling air.
Reggie dragged on Dubois's arm. "Oh, my aunt!"
he muttered.
"What, then?'
"Look. That's Miss Everard." A woman flitted
through the dusk.
"The devil! Are you sure?"
"Oh, my dear fellow!"
"Pardon. She was alone?"
"Yes. Yes. I think so."
"Come, then." Dubois quickened step. They
swung round by a wide open space to avenues of trees
and then heard a faint cry, a fall.
When they reached her she lay upon her face and
lay still. Under her shoulder Reggie found the hilt
of a knife.
Dubois spat out an oath. "Before my eyes!
Tcha, before my eyes!" He moved quickly to and
fro, peering into the gloom. He whistled. The dozing
town awoke with clatter and scurry. He snapped
orders to panting policemen and came back to Reggie.
'' She is dead?"
'' Not yet."
"Care for her, my friend. I beg of you, do your
possible. My God, I do not forgive myself. This
becomes an affair of honour."
"It always was," Reggie murmured. The woman
was carried away and he followed her. . . .
Late that night Dubois met him at the door of the
hospital. "She lives, then?"
"So far, yes. She may live. I think we've stopped
the bleeding. It's been internal of course. Rather


304 MR. FORTUNE EXPLAINS
"She would not see him, of course. He came from
behind. She may know very well."
"Yes. Yes. She may guess. I doubt if she
does; I think she's bewildered by everything—by the
picture—by the name of Artus—by this attack. It
seems to her the world's gone mad to hurt her."
"Poor little one," Dubois growled.
"Not a nice case, no. What are we doing about
it?"
"Aha. Poor old Dubois, he makes no more mis-
takes. Be sure of that. He is very careful. First,
I send a good quiet man out to the house of M. Artus.
He is to make inquiries, some nonsense, about burglars
in the country. He discovers that M. Artus is already
at home. That is almost an alibi, but not quite. He
sees also the servants of M. Artus, an old man and wife.
He has it from them M. Artus has not been out all day.
Quite an alibi if you believe them. But to-morrow I
go through Bourges with a small-tooth comb to find
out who saw anyone in the Place Seraucourt in the
twilight."
"Yes. Yes. Quite neat. We won't alarm M.
Artus yet, please. There's a little medical evidence.
The blow was struck with great force and downwards.
Her left arm was abnormally dragged back and there
was a thread loosened in her coat. I should say her
bag was snatched from her."
"Bag-snatching!" Dubois cried. "The devil!
You make it a vulgar robbery!"
"I wouldn't say that. No. But it was done for
some reason. So on the whole I wouldn't say any-
thing to our Artus just yet. But you might have your
people look up his youth."
Dubois laughed. "It is being done, my friend.
This poor old Dubois, he does not leave out anything


THE FACE IN THE PICTURE 305
any more. Good night." They had come to then-
sleeping hotel, but he turned and strode away.
In the morning, when Reggie rose early to go to the
hospital, they told him that Dubois was already gone
out. Reggie had come back and was making a second
little breakfast before he returned. His clothes looked
as if they had been slept in, his large face was pallid,
his eyes sunken and dull. "You have been with her?"
"Yes. No worse. That means better. But her
life is faint."
Dubois drank black coffee and nibbled at a dry roll.
"Well, I have news." He looked up at Reggie. "Her
bag has been found."
Reggie smiled. "Oh yes. Yes. I thought it
would be. Where?"
"It was lying beside a drunken vagabond on the
Nevers road."
Reggie lit his pipe. "I told you it was taken for
some reason," he murmured. "And very neat too."
"You understand it? Good. Poor old Dubois he
is so dull. My colleagues in Bourges they also under-
stand it perfectly. It is the usual case. It happens
a hundred times a year. It has bored every policeman
in France. Mademoiselle was walking alone in the
dark; she was plainly rich; this tramp sees her, stabs
her, robs her, goes away and gets drunk on her money
and an intelligent gendarme runs him in." Dubois
shrugged. "What would you have? It is as simple
as that."
"I see. Yes. Who is he?"
"Oh, my friend I Who are they ever, these vaga-
bonds? Dirt on the wind. This one—my respectable
colleagues do not know him at all. They say he is
certainly a stranger. That is bad. What is far
worse, he has no papers. We are in France, my friend.
u


306
MR. FORTUNE EXPLAINS
Almost every rascal has some papers, though they are
not his own. But he none—none. He is certainly an
assassin."
"Yes. Yes. Well-managed business. But we are
getting warm. What does he say about it?"
"He will say nothing, nothing at all. They ask
him who he is; he is silent. They ask him where he
got the bag; he stares at it, he is still silent. They
say to him it is the bag of Miss Everard; he makes
no answer. They tell him that she was stabbed last
night in the Place Seraucourt; he will not open his
mouth: only he stares."
"I wonder," Reggie murmured. "Have you seen
him yourself?"
"Oh yes, I was there. It is a small man with a
yellow beard and hair. He has a fair skin under the
dirt. He is of a fragility. A face not bad, but he has
not lived well, the wretch."
"Has he had a doctor?"
"Certainly. The doctor says an alcoholic, a neuro-
tic, but mad, he is not sure, he does not think so."
"Yes. Yes. It could be. And how far is it from
where he was found to Artus's house?"
"Aha!" The big face twisted. "He does not
seem to you the simple bandit? No, my friend, nor
to me. But we do not say that yet to our good col-
leagues in Bourges. It is three miles. M. Artus has
a car. The bandit could have been taken there, ready
drunk in a few minutes. It is easily possible. But
also one cannot tell that the wretch was ever in Artus's
house. These Bourges people know only of two old
servants."
"Nobody knows anything about Artus." Reggie
was plaintive. "Tnat makes all the trouble. Your
fellows in Paris who are turning up Artus's awful past,


THE FACE IN THE PICTURE 307
you might tell them to look for a yellow-haired little
man in it."
"Poor old Dubois I You do not trust him any
more. But I have told them, my friend. Come, the
examining magistrate is to question our bandit. I
have obtained for the eminent M. Reginald Fortune
to be present because he desires to study our methods."
Dubois made a grimace. "My methods, good God!"
M. Clement, the magistrate, was a bald young man,
conscious of importance. He welcomed Reggie to his
bare office as one potentate another, careful to acknow-
ledge Reggie's dignity and assert his own. The
punctilios took some time. Then M. Clement sat in
the seat of power and made a quick change from the
majestic to the ferocious. He snapped at Dubois, he
barked at his clerk, he roared at a policeman. The
prisoner was brought in and he sat back grinning and
glaring. "So. This is the animal. I understand."
He waited minutes that could be counted for the terror
of his stare to take effect, then rasped out questions.
But no answer came. The little bearded man in the
dirty blouse stood listless, as if he did not hear. He
looked with wide, dim eyes straight before him at
Clement, beyond Clement, at nothing. The torturing
voice, the threats, seemed to bring him neither pain
nor fear.
"You have no name, you come from nowhere, you
work at nothing," Clement roared. "Good. You
will be no loss when you go to the guillotine. You
hear me? That is where you go, wretch. Attend
now. You were in the Place Seraucourt last night."
He started up. "It is dusk. You see there a lady,
you follow her,"—Clement acted it slinking round the
room,—" you spring upon her from behind, you strike
her so. Assassin! She falls to die." He stopped


308 MR. FORTUNE EXPLAINS
suddenly, for a silence to be felt, then cried out,
"See, her blood is on you!" He pointed to the man's
blouse.
But the little man did not look down. He gave no
sign or movement; he stood wearily patient, gazing
straight before him at nothing.
"Why do you kill her, wretch?" Clement cried.
"She has done you no wrong. What is she to you,
this Englishwoman, Miss Everard, Miss Alice
Everard?" He stopped again. '" If you have a
reason to kill her, speak !" he roared. Still the little
man was silent, but he shook and beads of sweat came
upon his brow. "Bah, you have no reason but to
rob her, beast. You snatch her bag and you run
away to get drunk. A life is gone that you may be
drunk for a night." He waited a moment. "Name
of God, what vile thing are you ?" he thundered.
The little man kept silence some while more. Then
faintly: "Is it finished?" he said.
"Oh no. No, no," Clement laughed. "This is only
the beginning, animal. You shall pay, be sure, you
shall pay in full. You sweat blood already. Drop for
drop, it will come. Speak now, you suffer less."
And then the little man shook his head. "That—
that is not true," he said.
"Wait, then," Clement laughed savagely. "Wait
and endure. I am content. Take him away."
"A moment," Reggie said. "You permit?" He
bowed to Clement. He went to the man's side, ran
a hand down his right arm, bent to the dirty blouse
and smelt it. "Go, then," he said gently. He came
back to Clement. "A thousand pardons. You made
the affair so interesting. Forgive me and let me thank
3'ou for a most valuable demonstration."
Clement had become again the sublime official. He


THE FACE IN THE PICTURE 309
took these compliments as his due and condescended
to ask for more. "Sir, I have perhaps some little
methods which are my own. If anything strikes you,
pray tell me frankly."
"But it was all striking," Reggie murmured. "In
detail and as a whole. Especially as a whole. You
have from him all that can be learnt at this stage. But
what I most admired was your restraint. You gave
the man no hint of your suspicions."
Once more Clement made a quick change. But this
was not studied. The stiffening went out of him, he
was deflated. "My suspicions," he repeated. "Ah,
my suspicions, yes. For example, what were you
thinking of?"
"Well, you know I'm not very quick. I didn't
understand at first. But when you asked him every-
thing—absolutely—except the one thing which is
crucial "—Reggie beamed—" ah, my friend, that was
masterly."
A horrid uncertainty could be seen troubling Clement.
"And your one thing, what is that ?" he cried.
"But of course you have it in your head. Where
did he get drunk?"
"Where did he get drunk?" Clement repeated,
and tried to look mysterious. "Ah, that indeed.
You conceive at this stage, I desired not to suggest
to the animal that was important."
"You are right. It is marvellous, is it not,
Dubois?"
"Most marvellous, my friend."
"We are fortunate that the affair has come before
M. Clement." And Reggie bowed and they all bowed.
"My dear sir, when I came into the room I expected
that you would find it an ordinary case of robbery
with violence. But your acuteness has divined a


3io MR. FORTUNE EXPLAINS
crime much more subtle." Reggie contemplated the
bewildered Clement with reverent admiration. "Tell
me, what first suggested that?" But Clement could
only struggle to look knowing. "Ah, the mind has
its own secrets. Perhaps it was when you saw this
fellow has not the strength for the blow that was
struck."
Clement jumped at that. "As you see, he is a poor
animal. I put it to you, M. Fortune, as a surgeon"
"Oh, of course. He couldn't. But you are so
quick. You divined at once the question is who is
behind him. You have made your preparations for
him to let us know that. My dear sir, a most brilliant
piece of work. I make you my compliments. And
also permit me to thank you. You have put us on
the track of the villainy which my friend Dubois and
I are come from Paris to seek."
"I—I shall be most happy," Clement stammered,
and stared with vacant eyes and open mouth. "I do
not understand."
"There is a mystery around this poor lady. She
has some enemy who fears her. Who he is, we do
not know. What is the cause of his malice, we cannot
tell. But, as you see, he does not shrink from murder.
And it is M. Clement who has shown us how we may
discover him. Again I thank you."
"Sir, sir, the honour is mine. But how then?
What to do?"
Reggie smiled. "Oh, my dear sir! I am not
quick, but I see the plan you have formed. It is
admirable. This fellow, he is not himself the assassin,
and in fact we have yet no evidence that he knew of
the crime. But he is frightened almost out of life.
If you let him loose and have him followed, he will
lead us to his hiding-place, to his friends. And then


THE FACE IN THE PICTURE 313
Yes, almost every one likes emotions. Well, I gave
you them there."
"Yes. Yes. It affected me rather a lot."
"A sensitive mind?" Art us sneered. "And so
you come from Paris to Bourges to find the painter.
Enchanted to make your acquaintance, M. Fortune.
And are you buying it?"
"I wonder if I could go to the price."
"Fifty thousand francs," said Artus quickly.
"One pays for the name, of course," Reggie mur-
mured.
"The devil I Do you expect not to pay for my name,
sir?"
"Oh no. No. Only it is so unlike your other
work."
"What ?" Artus snapped. "Explain that, if you
please."
"I beg your pardon?" Reggie gazed at him with
mild eyes. "I was only saying your usual style is so
different."
"I have no style, sir," Artus roared.
"Oh, I wouldn't say that," Reggie murmured.
"Do you come to insult me, then?" Artus cried.
"I have no little narrow style to paint always the
same picture. I am an artist, sir, do you understand?
Not a portrait painter, or a landscape painter, or this
or that. All the world is mine. You like these pictures
that give you emotions. Look, then. I do them when
I am tired of the truth. There." He pointed to
the painting on the easel.
"Not finished, is it?" Reggie went close and peered
into the wet paint. "Looks as if it might be rather
cheery. Not like the other."
"Cheery?" Artus said fiercely. "I promise you,
no. Watch." He began to work on it again.


316 MR. FORTUNE EXPLAINS
"You should not have come alone."
"Yes, I think so." Over Reggie's face came a slow
benign smile.
"You have it all now ?" said Dubois eagerly.
"No. No. But I see my way. Gome along, my
friend." He took the little man in his unhurt arm.
"I say, Dubois, you might gather in these old servants.
They ought to talk."
"Be content. I have them." Dubois smiled.
"They shall talk."
"And leave a man here to look after things. Good-
bye." Reggie helped the little man away. "There'll
be some more pictures of yours about, won't there?
We'll see they are all right."
The man looked up at him, a piteous, hopeless, face.
"Sir, that is not mine, that one. He has made it a
cruelty."
"I know. Yes." Reggie tucked him into the car.
"But we'll save the others. And you can make
that one right again."
"Never, never," the little man muttered. "I am
finished."
"Make everything come right again," Reggie went
on gently. "You see, that magistrate didn't know,
Miss Everard isn't dead. She was stabbed by this
scoundrel Artus. But we have her safe now."
The man cried out. "It is not true, no, not true."
"Oh yes. Yes. That's what I'm for. To find
out the truth of things."
"My God! The truth!" The man cried and his
voice broke in hysterical laughter and sobs. . . .
On the next day Reggie came into the room where
Alice Everard lay with his arm in a sling. He made
his examination of her. "Yes. This isn't so bad.
Pain gone, what? Now you're going to do a lot better."








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