THE EYE IN THE MUSEUM


THE EYE
IN THE MUSEUM
BY
J. J. CONNINGTON

BOSTON
LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY
1930


Copyright, ip2p, 1930,
By Little, Brown, and Company
All rights reserved
Published January, 1930
Printed in the United States or America


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CONTENTS
CHAPTER PA.m
I At the Struan Museum 3
II A Case of Heart-Failure 30
III The Verdict 44
IV The Case Against Joyce 53
V Superintendent Ross 74
VI Digitalis Purpurea 87
VII The Man with the Aliases . . . .110
VIII Nine to Eleven p. m 143
IX Mrs. Fenton's Husband 165
X I.O.U 183
XI The Financial Side or the Case . . . 200
XII The Light in the Museum . . . .215
XIII "Kowtow! Kowtow to the Great Yen
How!" 219
XIV The Eye in the Museum 230
XV The Race to the Sea 249
XVI The Case tor the Prosecution . . . 264
XVII The Springs or Action 275






I


CHAPTER I: AT THE STRUAN MUSEUM
"Not so very far to walk, was it?"
Leslie Seaforth swung open the big door in the
wall and ushered his fiancee into the grounds of the
Struan Museum. As the latch clicked behind them,
the girl took a step or two up the path and looked
about her in unconcealed surprise.
"What a lovely place, Leslie! I'd no notion we'd
come to anything like this at the top of that miser-
able little back road. Just look at those flower-beds;
the tints are simply gorgeous."
Seaforth, having fastened the door, came forward
to the girl's side again. He was under thirty, six or
seven years older than Joyce. Among his acquaint-
ances he had the reputation of being a good friend
or a bad enemy; and in his natural expression there
was a trace of hardness which might easily deepen
into ruthlessness. It vanished as he watched Joyce
Hazlemere's delight in the scene before her.
"Funny you never thought of coming up here
before," he pointed out. "Rather like the Londoners
who never go near the Tower. Within ten minutes'
walk of your house; and the very place for you
when the home atmosphere grows a bit too sultry
for your nerves."
At this last phrase, Joyce's brows contracted for
an instant, but she recovered herself almost at once.


4 THE EYE IN THE MUSEUM
"I expect that dingy little lane put me off," she
said, lightly. "And the notice-board at the end of it
isn't enticing. 'The Struan Museum. Admission, id.
Season Tickets, 2s. 6d.' Do any human beings ever
buy season tickets for museums? Museums always
sound so fusty, somehow, and full of all sorts of
frightfully educational things that bore you stiff
even to look at. I'm thankful I never went in very
heartily for museums. Do you sell many season
tickets, really?"
Seaforth disclaimed any definite knowledge of
the matter.
"Old Jim Buckland, the Keeper, could tell you,"
he answered. "I'm only a sort of Secretary to the
Struan Trust, you know. Touches his cap to me,
Jim, of course; but he believes in his heart that the
real Panjandrum is the cove who takes the three-
pences at the door. Come to think of it, I don't re-
member passing any rush-order for reprinting sea-
son tickets lately. Even the threepences are few and
far between. One or two kids turn up now and
again. Come here to gloat over some Chinese prints
showing select tortures, and go away again sated
with horrors. Expect they wake screaming in the
night at the thought of those pictures."
"Don't be gruesome, Leslie. I think we'll give
those pictures a miss. I don't want to wake scream-
ing in the night."
She turned away to gaze across the gardens. Sea-
forth made no effort to distract her attention. He
was quite content to wait beside this fair-haired
girl, whose hazel eyes sent a thrill through him


AT THE STRUAN MUSEUM
5
every time he met their glance. Though in the last
two years his memory had stored up pictures of her
in every attitude, he always seemed to find some-
thing fresh in her. Wonderful luck he'd had, he re-
flected for the thousandth time. Joyce had come
back from the Continent to live with that aunt of
hers; and six weeks after he'd seen her for the first
time, they were engaged. As soon as he saw her,
he'd known what he wanted; and he'd got his own
way even quicker than he had hoped. These were
the sort of recollections one could find some pleasure
in. It was the later stages that didn't bear thinking
about. To stand aside and see Joyce worried and
badgered, and to be unable to lift a finger to help
—that was a nasty experience. Curse this money
question!
Joyce, looking around, saw his expression and
guessed the cause.
"This looks just like the garden of an old private
house," she commented, with the evident intention
of rousing him from his thoughts.
"Why not? Old Struan lived here; the Museum's
his house. Collecting was his hobby. He didn't
know a good thing from a bad one, though; just
gathered in everything that came along and labelled
it. Sort of human raven or jackdaw, you'd think, to
judge from the results."
Joyce looked up at the house among the trees.
"What's that funny tower sort of thing on the
roof?" she demanded.
"Another of old Struan's curiosities. Let you see
it when we go up, if you like. Next to the Chinese


6
THE EYE IN THE MUSEUM
tortures, it's the kids' greatest joy. They love it."
Joyce turned her hazel eyes on him in mock per-
plexity.
"I suppose it's this legal training of yours, Leslie.
You sometimes talk a lot without conveying much
to a plain person like me. What is the thing?"
"A camera obscura, they call it."
"That helps a lot. Thanks ever so much."
"Easiest way's to show you the thing; saves ex-
planations. What about moving along now? Sort of
official visit, this, you know. Old Jim Buckland's
been seedy lately, and the doctor told him to go
away for a change. Jim hates it; but he hands over
the Great Seal and the petty cash to-day, and I
pass 'em on to Mrs. Jim. She's to take in the three-
pences while he's on leave."
Joyce gave a final glance over the gardens. Flow-
ers meant more to her than museums.
"Well, suppose we go on?" she conceded.
They turned toward the house.
"By the way," Seaforth requested, "treat old
Jim nicely, Joyce. He's a devil of an old fusser and
all that. Wrapped up in the collection and thinks no
end of it. One can hardly shake him off when he
starts. But he's really a decent old bird and burns
. to show off all the rubbish in the place to visi-
tors. So few people ever put their noses over the
door that he fairly spreads himself if he gets a
chance."
Joyce agreed with a nod, and they made their
way up to the Museum. Seaforth rang the bell, and
in a few moments the door was opened by a


AT THE STRUAN MUSEUM 7
pleasant-faced white-whiskered man in an official
braided jacket.
"This is Miss Hazlemere, Buckland," Seaforth
explained. "No objection to her having the run of
the gardens any time she wants to, I suppose?"
"Pleased to meet you, Miss." Buckland made a
ceremonious gesture which was saved from any
touch of the ludicrous by his naturally old-
fashioned manner. "If you want to visit the gar-
dens, just come in when it suits you. Nice view we
get over the town on a sunny day, Miss, very pretty
indeed. We've got garden seats here and there, if
you want to sit down. Just come in when it suits
you. You needn't see me unless you want to."
Seaforth fished a sixpenny-bit from his pocket
and solemnly handed it over. The keeper received
it with equal formality.
"Would you sign the Visitors' Book, Miss?
Here's a new pen. We've got quite a lot of distin-
guished signatures—I can show you Lord Glen-
eagle's, if you like. Foreign gentlemen, too. We've
had three or four of them. Americans mostly.
Greatly interested, they were. The last one we had
was a very nice gentleman. He sent me a postcard
from America afterwards."
Joyce wrote her name in the book, and the old
man blotted the ink with scrupulous care when she
laid down her pen. Bearing Seaforth's injunctions in
mind, she put a question:
"Did you ever pay a visit to the British Mu-
seum?"
Old Jim's pleasure at this opening was refreshing.


8
THE EYE IN THE MUSEUM
"The British Museum, Miss? Yes, I was there
once. A very fine collection, I thought it, very good
indeed. Not but what we've got some things here
that they can't beat. Our five-legged stuffed calf,
now: I saw nothing so strange as that in London.
And Signor Antonio Manetti's pottery collection,
too. Mr. Struan picked that up very cheap, a great
bargain. Phoenician, some of it; Greek and Roman
specimens, too; and there's a Cyprian vase that's
reckoned to be over two thousand years old. I'll let
you see it. You shouldn't miss it."
A fresh thought struck Joyce.
"I suppose all this talk about the Portland Vase
must have interested you?"
"The Portland Vase, Miss?"
Evidently the name suggested nothing to old
Jim.
"Yes. Don't you remember all the talk about it
in the newspapers when the Duke of Portland took
it away from the British Museum?"
Old Jim shook his head.
"No, Miss. You see, I never read the newspapers.
I haven't opened one for years. No time for reading.
The collection keeps me busy; what with dusting
it, and writing fresh labels, and looking after it
generally, it's as much as a man can do to keep pace
with the work. And now, Miss, if you'll allow me,
I'll just show you round, so that you won't be miss-
ing any of our best things."
"Not much time to spare, this visit," Seaforth
interjected warningly as he glanced at his watch.
"Just show Miss Hazlemere one or two of the most


AT THE STRUAN MUSEUM
9
interesting things, Buckland. She'll come again and
see more another time."
"Just as you say, sir," the keeper acquiesced in a
slightly wounded tone. "I'll just show her Mr.
Struan's Eye and one or two of the other gems
of the collection. Then she can come later on and
go over the rest at her leisure, if that suits her."
"Mr. Struanis Eye?" asked Joyce, with a slight
shudder. "That sounds rather grisly. I'm not sure
I'd like it."
Buckland's white-fringed face was creased by a
reassuring smile.
"Oh, no, Miss, it's not what you think it is. Quite
a work of art, you'll see. Now, if you'll be so good
as to follow me, I'll take you to it first of all."
Joyce made a grimace at her fiance behind the
keeper's back; but she obediently followed the old
man through what had been the hall of the mansion
and into one of the rooms filled with glass cases.
"This is Mr. Struan's Eye," said old Buckland,
halting before one of the cabinets and tapping the
glass.
Joyce came up beside him and glanced at the
object which he indicated.
"Why it's a glass eye!" she exclaimed.
"Yes, Miss. They haven't its match in the British
Museum, I can assure you. I made special inquiry
about that, when I was there. Very interested they
were to hear about it, too."
His voice unconsciously took on the sing-song
tone of the guide who has exhibited and described
the same object times without number.


10 THE EYE IN THE MUSEUM
"Mr. Struan, Miss, had the great misfortune to
lose the sight of his right eye when he was a boy.
A playmate one day threw quicklime into his face
and destroyed the eyeball. It had to be removed,
Miss; a very serious and dangerous operation in
those days when they had no anaesthetics. And Mr.
Struan was very conscious of the disfigurement it
left. He was a very fine gentleman, and he was very
sensitive about the matter.
"Then, about the year eighteen hundred and fifty,
a Frenchman of the name of Poissonceau invented
the artificial eye made from glass; and a Mr. Miiller
of Lauscha—that's in Germany, Miss—began to
make these new artificial eyes. Mr Struan heard
about this; so he travelled night and day until he
got to Lauscha. He was so quick about it, that this
Eye before you is the third one that Mr. Miiller
made—which means that it's a specimen of real
historical interest and almost unique, as you can
understand.
"Naturally, Mr. Struan's Eye caused great in-
terest and excitement in this neighbourhood when
he came back from Germany. People used to wait
in the street for him to go by, so that they might
have an opportunity of examining it."
He paused for a moment to allow his audience
time to assimilate the information he had given
them.
"This Eye, Miss," he went on, "has another
claim to the attention. It was this very Eye that gave
Mr. Struan the idea of founding his Museum. He'd
got this great curiosity in his possession, and he soon


AT THE STRUAN MUSEUM
II
set about finding other things to go with it. And
then, when he died and there was no further need
for his Eye, it was directed in his last testament that
this valuable object should be placed in the collec-
tion: the foundation and the copes tone in one, as
might be said. Take a good look at it, Miss; it's
well worth your attention."
Bored but still polite, Joyce pretended to make a
close examination of the rather primitive sample of
glass-work, until old Jim was satisfied that she had
appreciated all its virtues.
"And now, Miss, I'd like to show you something
else that you won't find in the British Museum.
Mr. Struan was a great traveller in his day; and he
collected specimens of the waters of all the great
rivers: the Rhine, the Danube, the Volga, the
Rhone, the Jordan, and some others. Here they are
in these jars on this shelf. Very interesting and
instructive."
He smiled with a child-like air of cunning.
"Now I'll tell you something I don't tell the pub-
lic. The Volga water's not just all I'd like it to be.
A little accident happened to the jar, once upon
a time; and we had to fill it up to the level with some
ordinary water. But, of course there's no real de-
ception, Miss. There's water from the Volga in the
jar, quite correct, just as it says on the label."
Attracted, despite her boredom, by the old man's
simple pride in this collection of rubbish, Joyce
allowed him to lead her from place to place and
show her what he regarded as the star pieces of the
Museum: the broken orrery with its tarnished brass


12
THE EYE IN THE MUSEUM
planets, the dingy bird of Paradise, the flint arrow-
heads, the stuffed crocodile, and Signor Antonio
Manetti's pottery. Only when old Jim attempted to
display the Chinese prints did she object firmly.
Seaforth intervened when the old man seemed
anxious to press the point.
"Don't think that's the sort of thing Miss Hazle-
mere would care to see, Buckland."
"You think not, sir? Not the one they call 'The
Human Pig'? It's very curious and interesting; and
not nearly so nasty as some of them."
"No, certainly not 'The Human Pig,'" Seaforth
interrupted in a tone that put an end to argument.
"What Miss Hazlemere wants to see is the camera
obscura. I'll show it to her myself. Don't you bother
to come up."
Old Jim's face fell. Evidently he felt sorely dis-
appointed at being robbed of the chance of acting
as showman.
"You're sure you can work it yourself, sir?"
Seaforth's curt nod convinced him that there
was no appeal, so he gave in with a good grace.
"You'll find the camera obscura most interesting,
Miss," he assured Joyce. "I often go up there and
have a look round the town myself, when I can
spare ten minutes or so. It keeps me in touch, more
or less, now that I can't walk far and get about as I
used to do. It's almost as good as being in the streets
yourself and meeting all your friends. A wonderful
invention, Miss, very curious. That's another thing
they haven't got in the British Museum. When you
come down again, Miss, you'll find me here. You
i
i


AT THE STRUAN MUSEUM 13
must see the five-legged calf before you go; it
wouldn't do to miss that."
He hovered uncertainly as though he were still
in hopes that his services might be required; then,
as Seaforth led the girl towards a spiral staircase, he
turned away with the air of a dog dismissed and
sent home in the middle of a walk.
At the head of the spiral, Seaforth opened a door
and stood back to allow Joyce to go in before him.
She found herself in almost complete obscurity. All
she could distinguish was a white table-top, its mat
surface shining faintly in a pale beam of light which
fell vertically upon it from the top of the tower
away above their heads. Then, as her eyes grew
accustomed to the gloom, she perceived what she
took to be some wheels and cables on the wall be-
side the table.
Seaforth's arm guided her toward the faint glow of
the illuminated table-top; and when she reached it,
her exploratory forefinger discovered that the four-
foot disc was whitened with a coating of distemper.
Seaforth, by her side, reached up to the controls;
and she heard from the cupola of the tower above
them a sound of some heavy body moving on rollers.
Then, so unexpectedly as to take her aback, a
brilliant picture flashed out upon the pallid surface
under her eyes.
"Why, it's the main street!" she exclaimed. "I
can see the people walking about there, as clearly
as if I were just beside them. And what lovely
colours 1 Why, the leaves on the trees seem greener
than real leaves. I can see them fluttering."


14 THE EYE IN THE MUSEUM
For a moment or two she gazed at the picture
without speaking, so interested was she in watching
the objects moving in the field of vision.
"This beats the cinema hollow," she continued,
when she had grown accustomed to the apparatus.
"It's ever so much more vivid. I don't wonder that
the old man likes to come up here, just to watch it.
Oh! There's Dr. Platt in his car."
The image of a young man in a two-seater slid
swiftly across the disc as she spoke, and vanished
out of the picture. His appearance seemed to have
started a train of thought in Seaforth's mind.
"What on earth persuades that aunt of yours to
employ Platt as family doctor?" he asked in a tone
which showed that he hardly expected an answer.
"I've seldom struck a medical with a worse manner.
Gives you the impression of an absolute rabbit,
somehow. No confidence in himself."
Joyce was still intent on the ever-changing pic-
ture of the street.
"Oh, he lives just along the road," she suggested.
"It's handy, if anything goes wrong, you know.
Though of course Dr. Hyndford's house is right
opposite, across the river; and we could get him to
come over in his canoe just as easy as we can get
Dr. Platt. I wonder why Aunt Evelyn doesn't think
of that. She's friendly enough with Dr. Hyndford,
and he's a better doctor, too."
"Curious," Seaforth replied, without encouraging
her to pursue the subject further.
More than once, the idea had crossed his mind
that perhaps the objection came from the doctor's


AT THE STRUAN MUSEUM
15
side. The General Medical Council deals severely
with physicians who are too intimate with their
women patients; and from that point of view it was
probably safer for Dr. Hyndford to have nothing to
do with Mrs. Fenton professionally. He had little to
gain by acting as her medical adviser; and there
was no need for him to run the risk of being struck
off the Register.
"Now we'll have a look at something else," Sea-
forth proposed, beginning to shift the controls.
As he moved them, the picture of the street
seemed to flow sidelong from the table, vanishing
with disconcerting smoothness into the air beyond,
while on the opposite side of the disc fresh images
sprang into life out of the void and slipped swiftly
across the field of vision.
"A bit further round," Seaforth said, "and you'll
see something you know well."
He turned the lenses in the cupola further, seeking
for the object. He meant to show her an arbour in
Mrs. Fenton's garden, the place where they had sat
when he asked her to marry him.
"Go a bit slower, Leslie, please. The way that
picture slides across the table's almost uncanny. It
makes me a bit giddy to watch it. I suppose it's
because one's so close to it that it seems far more
vivid than the cinema."
"Just coming to it. . . . Wait. . . . There!"
But as he brought the lenses to rest, he saw that
his little effect was ruined. The arbour was in the
picture; but he had not foreseen that it might be
occupied. In one of the chairs lolled a hard-faced


l6 THE EYE IN THE MUSEUM
woman of about forty: expensively dressed, care-
fully finished, but looking every day of her age de-
spite all the effort she made to compete with the
younger generation. A notebook and pencil lay to
hand on the cane table beside her; and a pink news-
paper spread disordered sheets on the floor where
she had dropped it. With her hands indolently clasped
behind her head, she leaned back in her chair and
addressed the second occupant of the arbour; and
the picture on the disc, large and clean-focussed,
was so clear that the two watchers in the tower could
see the movement of her thin flexible lips as she
spoke.
The second figure on the screen was a clean-
shaven, heavy-featured man, some five or six years
older than the woman. In his younger days he had
been athletic; but as middle age drew on, muscle had
been replaced by flesh; and now, without being
ungainly, he had lost all spring in his movements.
As he lounged in his chair, listening to Mrs. Fenton,
his grey flannels and well-worn Panama gave no
clue to his profession. Joyce saw him shake his head
decidedly, as though negativing some suggestion
which her aunt had made.
At the side of the picture, a neat maid came
through the open French window of the house and
approached the arbour. Mrs. Fenton turned in her
chair, took what appeared to be the brown envelope
of a telegram, tore it open eagerly, and then, after a
glance at the message, threw it angrily on the floor.
"Another of her bets gone wrong," Seaforth in-
terpreted sardonically.


AT THE STRUAN MUSEUM 17
"Yes," Joyce confirmed ruefully. "And that means
you'd better not come to dinner to-night. There's
no use asking for trouble; and she'll be in one of
her usual tempers, if I know the signs. You can
take me on the river afterwards, though, if you like.
Don't come up the backwater; it's not worth while.
I'll be at the foot of the garden at nine o'clock and
you can come alongside and pick me up."
"Dinner would be no great catch anyhow, I ex-
pect," Seaforth admitted, with an attempt to be
philosophical. "I can't stand a woman who drinks
nothing but stiff whiskey and soda with her food.
Her being a relation of yours makes it worse in-
stead of better."
He began to manoeuvre the controls.
"I've had about enough of that little idyll. Sup-
pose we hunt for something else."
The image of the garden swept across the disc and
as it vanished they saw for a moment a picture of
Dr. Hyndford's canoe moored on the bank. Then,
suddenly, the whole field was filled with a vision of
smooth-flowing water, coursing swiftly across the
disc.
"Why, it's just like standing on a bridge and
watching the river flow under your eyes," Joyce
exclaimed. "It looks so near that it seems funny
it makes no noise when it ripples. . . . Oh, there's
the Hyndfords' motor-boat, moored out in mid-
stream. See the swirl of the water along the side;
it's fascinating, somehow, to watch it."
Seaforth moved the controls at random and a
fresh scene appeared on the screen.


l8 THE EYE IN THE MUSEUM
"What's that?" Joyce asked, and then answered
herself as she recognised it. "Oh, it's the garden of
the Hyndfords' house, of course. I know it by that
big bed of foxgloves. . . . And there's Mr. Hynd-
ford pottering about as usual. He's the decent one
of the family, Leslie. I like him. Somehow he always
gives me the impression that he's a bit nervous of
that brother of his. You know those light-blue eyes
the doctor's got—sort of eyes that seem to bore into
you when they look at you. I've noticed sometimes
that Mr. Hyndford hates to have them turned on
him; and I don't wonder at it a bit. I don't like
them myself."
Seaforth evidently felt that they had seen enough
of the Hyndford family. With some touches on the
controls, he brought the lenses to bear again upon
the main street of the little town. For a few moments
Joyce watched the picture without comment; then
the sight of a familiar figure made her speak again.
"Lookl"
Her extended finger threw its sharp shadow on
the table as she pointed out a thin, slightly stooping
figure which was walking with long strides along
the pavement.
"There's Mr. Corwen, Leslie. Isn't it funny to see
someone you know, walking along without the
faintest notion that he's being overlooked? It makes
me feel I'll never be able to move about in town
after this without wondering whether someone up
here isn't watching me. . . . He's going towards
your office. Let's follow him up."
Seaforth obediently manoeuvred the controls so as


AT THE STRUAN MUSEUM
19
to keep the lawyer in sight until he reached his
destination and disappeared through a door which
had a large brass plate beside it.
"It looked just as if he'd popped through the
table," Joyce remarked, as the door closed behind
the lawyer in the picture. "I suppose it's because
this thing's so near, that one gets that queer feeling.
After all, it's just a sort of cinema. Perhaps the
bright colours make it look more like the real thing.
I got quite a start when he vanished through that
door."
After a momentary pause, she added:
"I do wish he'd hurry up and give you a part-
nership, Leslie."
This was evidently a sore point with both of
them, as Seaforth's tone betrayed when he answered.
"James Corwen is a very nice man—but it hurts
him damnably to part with a stiver. I'd chuck the
whole business and go elsewhere to-morrow, if it
weren't for the prospects. It'll be a thundering fine
connection to drop into. And he's promised to take
me in. He'll keep his word all right, some time, no
fear on that score. But in the meanwhile"
He broke off as though comment was needless.
"Seen enough, now?" he asked a moment later.
"I think so," Joyce decided. "I want to have a
look at the gardens before we go. Why don't you
get keen on flowers, Leslie? You don't seem to have
the faintest interest in them; I can't think why.
The only person I know who's really keen on gar-
dening is Mr. Hynford. He picked up a lot about
it when he was out in the East; and he'll talk by


20
THE EYE IN THE MUSEUM
the hour about plants if you get him on to the sub-
ject. Perhaps that's one reason I like him."
Seaforth showed no desire to pursue the subject.
"Well, if you want to look round here, let's go
down," he suggested, opening the door for the
girl.
They descended the spiral stair; and as Joyce
blinked in the bright afternoon light which flooded
the Museum, she found old Jim beside her. He had
come to the tower foot when he heard their steps.
"I heard you coming down, Miss, and I thought
you'd like to see some of the other things, now, be-
fore you go. I'd like you to have a proper impression
of the collection, Miss, seeing that it's your first
visit to the Museum. Lots of interesting things still
to see, if you'll let me take you round."
"Miss Hazlemere wants to look round the flowers
in the garden, Buckland, before she goes. We haven't
much time, so I'm afraid there's nothing further
doing here to-day. She'll be up again, sometime."
Old Jim seemed to consider this poor consolation
for a lost opportunity.
"You see, Miss, I'm going off first thing to-
morrow; and I don't know when the doctor'11 allow
me to get back again. It would be a pity if you were
to go round the place here without someone to ex-
plain all the valuable exhibits to you; you'd lose
half the pleasure of it, Miss, that way."
Joyce exchanged a swift glance with her fiance.
"Well, then, I tell you what I'll do," she promised.
"I'll not put my foot over the door of the Museum
till you come back again; then you can show me


AT THE STRUAN MUSEUM
21
round properly. I'll keep to the gardens, if I come
up at all."
"The very thing, Miss," old Jim agreed, some-
what comforted by this solution. "And did you like
the camera obscttra, Miss? Very interesting. Some
evening you must come up and see the town by
moonlight through it. That always makes a pretty
picture."
"Very well, then. We'll wait till you come back
again."
Old Jim conducted them ceremoniously to the
door, but if he had hopes that Joyce would relent,
he was disappointed. When they were out of ear-
shot, she turned to Seaforth.
"Your friend's an old dear and all that, of course;
but one could imagine that his cage ought to be
labelled 'Bores (dangerous).' If it weren't that
his pride in that awful collection's rather touch-
ing, I could have screamed and bitten him more
than once. And now, let's have a look at the
flowers."
For a time they wandered through the alleys of
the old garden, Joyce engrossed in the contents of
the flower-beds, whilst Seaforth concealed his com-
plete lack of interest to the best of his power. At
last, however, he succeeded in decoying her to a
sheltered seat from which they could look over the
sunny little town.
"You'd better keep something in reserve," he
suggested. "You can come up here any time, now
you know the way."
Joyce sighed faintly.


22
THE EYE IN THE MUSEUM
"It'll be some place where one can get away from
things," she said, thoughtfully. "You know, Leslie,
the longer it goes on, the worse it gets. You're a man,
and you can't understand what it's like for me, living
with Aunt Evelyn. If you were a girl, how would
you like to be under the thumb of a woman of over
forty who was jealous of your looks and hates you
because she knows that at her age she can't compete
with a girl amongst men? She can make you feel
it in all sorts of ways."
"I suppose she can," Seaforth confirmed gloomily.
"And she's spiteful to the backbone, Leslie. Look
at the way she's treating her husband. He wants a
divorce, and I don't blame him a bit for that. At
first I was rather against him. I didn't understand
how the land lay, then; but now I do. He wants to
shake off Aunt Evelyn and marry that girl, you
know; and out of sheer spite, Aunt Evelyn won't
divorce him. She's got enough evidence to do it if
she wanted to; he'd be only too glad if she would.
But just out of sheer malice she's letting things slide
—just to keep him and the girl from putting things
right."
"If I were in his shoes, I think I'd try to turn the
tables on her. Surely it wouldn't be difficult as
things are."
Joyce shook her head.
"Dr. Hyndford, you mean? Well, I'm as posi-
tive about that as I am about anything; but if you
put me into the witness-box to-morrow, I couldn't
give you a single bit of real evidence that would
prove anything."


AT THE STRUAN MUSEUM
23
She paused for a moment as though thinking
along a fresh line.
"All the same, I believe there may be something
in it," she added. "Do you know, I saw Mr. Fenton
in town yesterday. Of course he didn't come near
us. It's just possible that he's come to look into
things on the spot and see if he can pick anything
up."
Then, again abruptly, she changed the subject.
"Have you gone over those papers again, Leslie?
Isn't there any way out?"
Seaforth made a gesture that suggested hopeless-
ness.
"I got out the papers in the office yesterday and
went over the whole thing afresh. No loophole any-
where. Your father's first will was all right, except
that it didn't cover the very case that turned up."
"I never blamed Daddy," Joyce protested. "It
was a dreadful affair."
Seaforth nodded sympathetically.
"Would probably have been all right, even then,"
he said, "if only Corwen had been here when 'the
motor-smash happened. He's got his wits about
him. But with Corwen off on a holiday, and old
Millom in charge"
"How I do hate that silly old man, even if he's
been in his grave for years 1 I've his muddling to
thank for all I've had to stand."
Joyce bit her lip to restrain herself. There was
no need to speak of the matter; it was familiar to
them both in its smallest detail. Joyce's father was
ten years older than his wife; and his first will had


24 THE EYE IN THE MUSEUM
been drawn up on the assumption that she would
survive him. Then came the motor-accident; Mrs.
Hazlemere was killed instantly, and her husband
was hurt so badly that he could not live more than
a day. Half mad with pain and incapable of thinking
things out properly, he had just been able to realise
one thing: that his current will made no provision
for the upbringing of his little daughter, since in it
her mother's survival had been taken for granted.
Old Millom, the almost superannuated senior part-
ner in the firm of Millom & Corwen, had lost his
grip on business; and, instead of suggesting a codicil
to the existing will, he had allowed the pain-racked
dying man to dictate a completely fresh instrument.
Joyce's parents had meant to send her to school
on the Continent—so down went some clauses pro-
viding for that. When she came back from school,
where was she to go? Her aunt was the only relation
she had; at that time Mrs. Fenton had not separated
from her husband; she seemed the proper person to
bring the girl up—so down went the provision that
Joyce was to live in Mrs. Fenton's house until she
was twenty-five.
A man suffering acute physical pain cannot think
of every detail; and old Millom, almost senile,
lacked the mental alertness which would have en-
abled him to foresee eventualities. Between them,
they forgot the possibility that the girl might want
to marry; and so, into the will went a clause pro-
viding that Mrs. Fenton was to draw the full
thousand a year income from the estate until her
niece was twenty-five, and that out of this she was


26 THE EYE IN THE MUSEUM
"We can't marry on my screw. Old Corwen won't
give me a partnership for years yet. Let's talk about
something else, Joyce. That subject just makes us
feel like a pair of rats in a trap."
His attempt to divert the girl's thoughts proved
a complete failure. In Joyce's character there was
a tough streak Which helped her to hold her emotions
in check for long periods; but when the explosion
came at last it was all the greater for the previous
constraint. She had endured as much as she could
bear at the hands of her aunt and now her long-
pent-up feelings demanded vocal expression.
"That just shows how little you understand what
it's really like," she exclaimed bitterly. "It's easy
enough for you to say: 'Let's change the subject.'
It's only something one talks about, so far as you're
concerned. You haven't to go back to that house
and see the beastly business begin all over again:
the jealousy, the pin-pricks, and all the rest of it.
You haven't to watch her scattering your money
in betting, while she makes a scene over every three
guineas spent on a new hat. You haven't to stand
that doctor hanging round the place with his air of
being more at home there than you are yourself and
discussing betting from morning to night—bets that
are to come out of your money. It's easy enough
for you!"
She broke off, as though to give him a chance
of saying something; but Seaforth had seen a flame
in the hazel eyes which he knew was a danger-
signal, and he wisely kept silence. Joyce clenched
her hands till the knuckles turned white.


AT THE STRUAN MUSEUM
27
"She's even taken to blaming me for these heart-
attacks of hers. The worry I give her is what brings
them on, she insists. You've no idea of what it's
like, this continual nagging."
"I've a fair notion," said Seaforth in a grim tone.
"You haven't! You think you have, that's all.
It's a very different thing when you've got to go
through it, like me. I don't know when I hate her
most: when she's her sneering natural self; or when
she's had a glass or two and got to the stage when
she's sort of hearty and overflowing with a loathsome
geniality or joviality, or whatever you call it; or
when she gets beyond that stage and grows angry
and suspicious."
Suddenly she seemed to make up her mind to tell
him something further.
"I hadn't meant to say anything about this to
you, Leslie. It's the last straw. It'll give you some
real notion of things. Last night, when I came in,
there she was with a decanter and a syphon beside
her. She was stupid with drink; I could see that at
a glance and I tried to get away upstairs. You know
the state I mean, when they repeat the same silly
sentence over and over again and work themselves
up into a passion because they think you're not pay-
ing attention. At last I went to the door. Then she
lost her temper completely and broke out. I tried
to calm her down. I expect the maids know all about
it, but there's no use letting her scream bad lan-
guage for everyone to hear. It was no good. She raged
worst abuse she could think of. I opened the door;

pouring out the


28 THE EYE IN THE MUSEUM
and as I turned to go out of the room, she staggered
out of her chair and struck me in the face. She
struck me, Leslie! I can't go on. I can't stand it
any longer. You'll have to think of something, Leslie.
I'm at the end of my tether."
She dropped her head on Seaforth's shoulder and
broke down completely. With his arm about her,
he tried to soothe her; and at last she looked up
again and felt for her handkerchief.
"There! I'm better now," she assured him. "Silly
of me to go on like that. I'm all right again."
But the stormy light was still in her eyes, and
next moment she exclaimed ragefully:
"I don't think much of the way things happen.
Why should people like Mother and Daddy be cut
off like that, when things like Aunt Evelyn seem
to thrive on weak hearts? I can't see it."
Seaforth's anger had flared up at her story, but
he kept himself in hand for fear of exciting Joyce
still further at the moment.
"That would be a solution of the whole trouble,"
he said, slowly.
"What? What do you mean?"
"If she died in one of her heart-attacks," he ex-
plained deliberately. "Then, I expect, you'd come
into your money straight away; and everything
would be plain sailing."
"I wish she would," Joyce exclaimed vehemently.
"If she were out of the way Why, it would
almost be worth it."
"A benefit to the world if someone poisoned her,
you mean?" Seaforth completed her thought. "She'd


AT THE STRUAN MUSEUM
29
be a perfect case for a pure-minded murderer. No
loss to anyone. But that sort of thing's a bit risky,
though. Perhaps she'll save trouble by going off in
one of her heart-attacks."
Joyce's expression hardened at his words.
"If I have another scene like that one last night,"
she said sombrely, "I'll lose control of myself. I
could have killed her then, when she struck me.
Suppose I had struck back? With that heart of hers,
anything might happen, you know. It would be a
way out of this trap."
She pondered for a moment or two, as though
turning the idea over in her mind.
"You're a lawyer, Leslie. What would happen
suppose I lost my temper and struck back, and
she . . . well, if her heart failed under the strain?
They couldn't do anything to me, could they? It
would be just an accident, wouldn't it?"


CHAPTER II: A CASE OF HEART-
FAILURE
Dr. Platt, having finished a cigarette, dropped the
remains on the ash-tray beside him and put his hand
into his pocket in search of his case. Arresting the
gesture half-way, he glanced at the thriller on his
knee and noted that he had only another ten pages
to read. Was it worth while starting a fresh smoke
before going to bed? Undecided, he looked up at
the clock and found that it was shortly after mid-
night. He drew out his case, extracted a cigarette;
then, after a momentary pause, slipped it back into
its place and returned the case to his pocket.
Dr. Platt's professional advancement had been
hindered by two unfortunate personal character-
istics: he had a weak chin and he could never make
up his mind. To camouflage the former, he had early
in life acquired the habit of pinching his lower lip
between his right finger and thumb; and despite
his later efforts to rid himself of this idiosyncrasy,
his hand still had a tendency to creep up to his face
in moments of doubt.
The mental characteristic had been touched off
with brutal directness by Dr. Hyndford on one occa-
sion. "Suppose I'm called in by a man with a sore
throat. I look him over and I say: 'You've got a
touch of tonsilitis, evidently. Nothing to worry


A CASE OF HEART-FAILURE 31
about. Do so-and-so, and you'll be as right as rain
in no time.' But if Platt were called in, he'd say:
'It seems to be a case of tonsilitis—but one can never
be sure.' He'd fiddle with his chin, look a bit per-
plexed, and finally recommend gargling as if it
were a major operation that he was afraid of. No
good, that sort of thing, you know, not a damned bit
of use. But here's a tip for you, if you've got to deal
with Platt. While he's floundering around trying to
make up that mind of his, suggest something. He's
a weak man. Weak men of his type hate following
advice. Want to show they've a mind of their own, I
suppose. So he'll come down against your suggestion
at once, and then he'll stick to that like grim death.
There's your tip. It's what I always do myself."
Dr. Platt, cigaretteless, finished his thriller and
rose to his feet with a stifled yawn. He put the book
on a shelf and examined the window-catches, pre-
paratory to going upstairs to bed. As he turned
from the windows, his telephone bell rang, and
crossing the room he picked up the receiver.
"Dr. Platt speaking," he announced, with some
foreboding, for he hated to be called out at night.
"I'm Seaforth, speaking from Mrs. Fen ton's
house," the voice at his ear explained. "Come round
at once. Something's happened."
And before Dr. Platt could collect himself suffi-
ciently to make any inquiries, the wire went dead.
Dr. Platt loathed emergencies of any sort, because
they demanded rapid decisions; and the breathless
message over the 'phone annoyed him by its vague-
ness.


A CASE OF HEART-FAILURE 33
of view; and he was forced to drag his telescope
laboriously from place to place as the celestial ob-
jects changed their positions hour by hour through
the night; but a minor drawback of this sort had
no power to damp his enthusiasm.
As Dr. Platt reached the gate of The Cedars, his
eye was caught by the glint of the moonlight on the
long brass barrel of Marton's instrument, perched
on its tripod stand in the middle of the lawn of
Starfield Towers, which stood just across the road
from Mrs. Fenton's house. The sound of the doctor's
footsteps in the quiet night had evidently roused
the attention of the astronomer, for he lifted his
head from the eyepiece and stared inquisitively at
the dark figure with the bag in its hand. Then,
recognising an acquaintance, he straightened him-
self up.
"Is that you, Platt? You're out late, surely. Is
anyone ill, over there?"
"No," Platt assured him sarcastically. "Only a
burst pipe would bring me out at this hour. Don't
you know I do a bit of plumbing in my spare time?"
Marton was neither abashed nor offended.
"Of course, of course," he conceded. "Silly ques-
tion, that of mine. Pointless, in fact. But who's ill?
It's nothing serious, I hope."
"I don't know," Dr. Platt retorted in a tone that
had more than a touch of peevishness in it.
He put his hand on the latch of the gate and was
just on the point of going in, when another of Mar-
ton's recognitions of the obvious reached him.
"Ah, I see. A sudden call, eh?"


34 THE EYE IN THE MUSEUM
The clang of the gate as it swung back, covered
any remark that Dr. Platt may have chosen to utter.
Just as he made his first steps up the path towards
the front door of The Cedars, the amateur astron-
omer in Marton came uppermost.
"Drop across here when you come out again, and
have a look at Jupiter," he called hospitably. "It's
looking splendid to-night—very clear seeing. I
haven't had as good a night for three weeks back.
Jupiter's well worth seeing, well worth seeing. The
belts are quite plain, marvellously clear."
Dr. Platt, more annoyed than ever at this last-
moment interruption of his train of thought, made
no reply beyond a vague gesture. The clang of the
gate had evidently been heard in the house, for as
he moved up the path, the front door opened and
Seaforth's tall figure appeared in silhouette against
the golden light of the hall.
"That you, Platt? Glad I got hold of you at once.
Don't expect you can do anything to help, though."
Then, as the doctor entered, he added:
"Mrs. Fenton's dead."
Dr. Platt was obviously taken off his guard by
the news. This was not one of the possibilities which
he had been turning over in his mind as he came
along.
"How do you know she's dead?" he demanded.
"Her heart wasn't normal, of course; but . . . well,
last time I examined her she seemed more or less
all right. Most likely it's just a fainting fit. Get some
brandy in case we need it. Where is she?"
Seaforth treated the request for brandy with un-


A CASE OF HEART-FAILURE 35
concealed contempt and led the way towards the
back of the house where Joyce Hazlemere, white
and shaken, was standing waiting beside an open
door.
"In there," Seaforth directed, curtly.
Entering the drawing-room, Dr. Platt saw Mrs.
Fenton's figure stretched on a settee on the other
side of the room. If ever a woman looked dead, it
was the one before him. The body was perfectly
composed, with no trace of any death-struggle.
Death might have come to her in sleep, so far as
the appearances went. At the first glance, Dr. Platt
was inclined to agree with Seaforth. But he had
been contradicted by a layman, and that rankled
in his mind. He determined to go into the matter
thoroughly.
Putting down his bag, he took the wrist of the
body and endeavoured to detect the pulse; but after
a short trial he gave up the attempt.
"Like a looking-glass to test the breathing?"
Seaforth inquired, as though wishing to be helpful.
Dr. Platt shook his head. When he was there as an
expert, he objected to ignorant laymen thrusting
their advice upon him. Without answering, he opened
his bag and took out his stethoscope. But the stetho-
scope failed to reveal any action of the heart. Dr.
Platt considered for a moment, mechanically re-
placing his instrument in his bag.
"Have you a piece of thread or some thin twine?"
he demanded impersonally at last.
"IH get you some," Joyce volunteered. "How
much do you need?"


36 THE EYE IN THE MUSEUM
"Six inches or so would be enough."
Joyce nodded and vanished through the door. He
heard her racing upstairs.
Hitherto his attention had been concentrated on
the body before him; but by her intervention, Joyce
had brought herself into Dr. Platt's field of con-
sciousness; and while he waited for the twine, his
thoughts wandered to the girl. Somehow, he felt
there was something rather abnormal about her.
Without being able to define precisely the idea
which had entered his head, he had a vague impres-
sion that she was not displaying exactly the kind of
emotion which might have been expected in the cir-
cumstances. She was badly shaken, evidently; her
face betrayed that plainly enough, apart altogether
from secondary signs. But somehow, he got the im-
pression that shock and grief were not intermingled
in this case as in the usual sudden death. Shock had
left its mark plainly enough; but Joyce Hazlemere
had suffered it dry-eyed. In the face of death, one
might have looked for some decent display of sor-
row, even if it were made merely for the sake of
appearances; but there had been no trace of any-
thing of the sort. The girl seemed almost callous.
As for Seaforth, he too seemed quite unmoved by
regret—rather ruder than usual, if anything. Dr.
Platt contented himself with docketing his observa-
tions in his memory as an example of the curious
manner in which some people react under strain.
"Will this be enough?" Joyce asked, as she re-
turned with a short piece of twine.
As Dr. Platt took it from her, Seaforth inter-


A CASE OF HEART-FAILURE 37
jected a suggestion couched in a tone which made
it almost equivalent to an order.
"You'd better get off to bed, Joyce. No point in
hanging about here, is there? I'll look after things.
Or, if you're going to sit up, you'd better wake one
of the maids. Get some coffee, or something."
Dr. Platt surprised an exchange of glances be-
tween the two. Then Joyce seemed convinced, for
she nodded in acquiescence and slipped out of the
room.
"No need for her here," Seaforth pointed' out.
"Bit of a shock for her. Better out of it. Now what
are you going to do, Platt?"
Without troubling to answer, Dr. Platt knelt
down beside the settee, wound the piece of twine
tightly round one of Mrs. Fenton's fingers and
* knotted it securely. Then, leaving it in position, he
took the temperature of the body and made a careful
general examination so far as that was possible.
After a minute or two, he seemed to think that
sufficient time had elapsed for his experiment to
reach its end, and he stooped over the settee to
examine the ligatured finger.
"That test gives a positive result," he admitted
in a grudging tone, "but one never can tell. If the
heart were still working, the finger ought to go red
and then blue when it's tied up. I don't see any
change."
Again he considered for a moment before speak-
ing.
"One might try it," he said at last. "There's noth-
ing like being sure of things. Is there any sealing-


38 THE EYE IN THE MUSEUM
wax to be had? You know your way about the
house."
"There used to be some in a drawer of that
writing-desk," Seaforth answered, going over to a
small escritoire which stood in one corner of the
room.
He pulled out a drawer, hunted for a moment
among the contents, and finally produced a stick of
sealing-wax, which he handed to Dr. Platt with a
certain air of perplexity. The doctor pulled out a
box of vestas and went over to the settee. Seaforth,
completely puzzled, moved across the room to his
side.
"What's this game?" he inquired, as Dr. Platt be-
gan to slip aside the upper part of Mrs. Fenton's
evening frock.
"I want to get at the skin of the chest," was the
reply. "There! That'll do."
To Seaforth's increasing surprise, the doctor put
a match to the sealing-wax, held it there until the
wax burned with a good flame, and then deliberately
allowed a drop to fall on the dead woman's skin, re-
moving it almost as soon as it had landed. Then
putting down the stick of sealing-wax, he examined
the skin carefully.
"She's dead," he announced at length. "You
probably didn't notice it; but a blister formed where
the hot wax fell and it burst almost at once, leaving
a colourless background. That's fairly conclusive."
He moved over to the fireplace and leaned against
the mantelpiece.
"It's very curious," he commented. "Her heart


A CASE OF HEART-FAILURE 39
was not all one would have liked, of course; but one
would hardly have expected this, somehow. One
never can be sure, naturally, especially in cases of
this sort. . . . How did it happen?"
Seaforth shook his head.
"I don't know," he said, slowly. "She was all
right at dinner-time, Miss Hazlemere says. I came
round after dinner to take Miss Hazlemere on the
river, but I didn't see Mrs. Fenton then. We stayed
out on the river pretty late; and when we got here
again, Miss Hazlemere said she was going straight
to bed, so I didn't come up to the house. I just put
her ashore at the foot of the garden."
He paused for a moment, as though picking his
words with some care.
"Before I'd gone very far, I heard Miss Hazle-
mere calling me back; so I got ashore, of course, and
met her on the bank. It seems she'd gone in by the
front door and had looked into this room on her way
upstairs to get a book. The lights were on, and there
was Mrs. Fenton, just as you saw her yourself when
you arrived. Bit of a shock, Miss Hazlemere got,
naturally. So she ran down the garden, and called
after me. She was upset, of course. I came up, had a
look at the body, and rang you up at once. You
know the rest."
Again Dr. Platt was half-conscious of something
that jarred on him. The blunt matter-of-factness
with which Seaforth told his story seemed a shade
out of place in such surroundings. Dr. Piatt did not
sentimentalise over patients himself to any extent;
but he expected better things from their relations.


40 THE EYE IN THE MUSEUM
"Syncope, I suppose?" Seaforth demanded, inter-
rupting the doctor's chain of thought.
But Dr. Platt, passing from questions of psychol-
ogy, had returned to the medical aspect of the case;
and it was clear that he could not make up his mind
what view to take.
"Syncope?" he asked, fretfully. "What do you
mean by that? If you mean heart-stoppage, anyone
can see her heart's stopped. What I'm not sure about
is why it stopped."
He pondered for a moment or two, and then
added:
"I examined her not so long ago. There was noth-
ing organically wrong with her, so far as one could
make out. Her heart was working perfectly; some-
times her pulse dropped, but the rhythm wasn't in-
terrupted. She complained of indigestion occasion-
ally, and that sometimes affects cardiac action. It's
surprising to find a sudden collapse like this."
He relapsed into a brown study. Seaforth, repress-
ing his impatience, waited for a further pronounce-
ment.
"Of course, from the history of the case," Dr.
Platt continued after a prolonged pause, "heart-
block was always a possibility. It didn't occur to me
as likely, though, from what I saw of her. Very
difficult to tell what may happen in some cases."
Seaforth nodded indifferently.
"Well, I suppose that's all we can do at present,"
he suggested, with the idea of dislodging the doctor.
"Lucky you've been attending her, Platt. There'll
be no bother about a death certificate."


A CASE OF HEART-FAILURE 41
Dr. Platt's hand stole up towards his mouth, but
he stopped the gesture midway.
"I'm not so sure about that," he said, un-
decidedly. "I wasn't here when she died, you know."
"But, Good Lord, man! you can sign a certificate
even if you've never seen the body at all. Half the
certificates in the world are signed that way. What's
to hinder you doing it in this case? She was your
patient."
There was more than a hint of dictation in Sea-
forth's tone, and Platt reacted in his usual manner.
"I don't think I can reasonably sign a certificate
in this case, Seaforth. I really don't know the cause
of death."
"You know her heart was weak. She's died sud-
denly. Surely it's plain enough. What's to prevent
you signing?"
Dr. Platt's mouth made one or two movements
reminiscent of a nibbling rabbit; but almost im-
mediately he covered them by his lifted hand. This
was an emergency which he had certainly not fore-
seen. However, he had taken his line now, and he
proposed to show that this bullying lawyer couldn't
browbeat him.
"There ought to be a P.M.," he declared, with a
parade of resolution.
Seaforth was taken aback and showed it.
"A post-mortem?" he exclaimed. "What on earth
do you want that for?"
"To find out the cause of death, of course," Dr.
Platt explained, with the air of making things quite
clear to an inferior intellect.


42 THE EYE IN THE MUSEUM
"But surely you're satisfied that she died of heart-
failure? What more do you want?"
"I want to see the state of her heart."
Seaforth was obviously staggered by the finality
in the doctor's tone. He had always had a certain
contempt for Dr. Platt, regarding him as something
of a shuffler; and this sudden stiffening was a phase
which he had not met before in the course of their
very slight acquaintanceship. His tone grew polite,
and even solicitous, as he endeavoured to get a
reversal of the doctor's decision.
"But, look here, Platt, just think what you're
doing. You won't be able to keep a P.M. quiet.
Someone will get to know about it and pass the word
round. You know how people talk if they get a
shadow of an excuse. Insist on a post-mortem, and
you'll never persuade people it's a mere formality.
Every gossip-engine in the place will start working
at full steam. Suspicious death, and all that sort of
stuff. What's the use of risking chatter of that sort?
Think of Miss Hazlemere's feelings."
His appeal failed completely. By this time, Dr.
Platt's weak character had landed him in a position
from which he could not see his way to withdraw
with any credit. In reply to Seaforth's arguments, he
merely shook his head stubbornly.
"I didn't see her die."
A further thought seemed to occur to him.
"You know, Seaforth, I'm not satisfied with what
I've seen to-night. The whole thing begins to look
a bit fishy, if you ask me. None of my business, of
course; but I must keep myself clear whatever


A CASE OF HEART-FAILURE 43
happens. I shall have to report the death to the
coroner."
Dr. Platt observed with increasing suspicion that
this announcement seemed to cause Seaforth acute
dismay.
"The coroner? What the devil's the coroner got to
do with it?"
Dr. Platt threw a glance at the body on the settee
as though to protest against the violence of Sea-
forth's language in the presence of the dead.
"I'm going to report it to the coroner," he re-
peated mulishly. "I've got my own position to safe-
guard, remember. Just the other day I read in the
papers a case where a medical got rapped over the
fingers for being too slack with death certification.
It turned out to be a case of poisoning, eventually.
I shouldn't care to be in that doctor's shoes: and I
don't mean to be, either. You may take that as
certain. What sort of figure would I cut, if I gave a
certificate and it turned out that there had been any
foul play?"
"Foul play?" Seaforth demanded with a white
and angry face. "What do you mean by 'foul play'?"
Dr. Platt glanced at the formidable figure before
him, and he seemed a shade less certain of himself
as he replied:
"Nothing. Nothing of that sort. Just a mere hypo-
thetical case, of course."
And with that he secured his bag and walked out
of the room, leaving Seaforth only too conscious
that he had handled the whole affair disastrously.


CHAPTER III: THE VERDICT
The interest aroused by the affair at The Cedars
found its reflex in the Stanningmore Gazette, which
published a fairly full report of the proceedings at
the coroner's inquest.
The Cedars Mystery
The inquest was resumed at Stanningmore yes-
terday on Mrs. Evelyn Fenton, of The Cedars,
Stanningmore, who was found dead in suspicious cir-
cumstances as already reported.
The first witness called was Miss Joyce Hazle-
mere. She stated that she was the niece of the de-
ceased, with whom she had lived for about two
years. At dinner-time on the evening of the tragedy,
her aunt seemed quite normal. They had the same
dishes at dinner. Mrs. Fenton, in addition, had a
whiskey and soda. Witness had felt no ill-effects
from the food. During the meal, there had been a
slight altercation between her aunt and her on ac-
count of Miss Hazlemere's having arranged to go out
on the river with Mr. Leslie Seaforth that evening.
Such altercations were not uncommon. Witness ex-
plained that she and Mr. Seaforth were engaged.
The altercation came to nothing.
Dr. L. Radstock (the coroner): When did you


THE VERDICT
45
get engaged to Mr. Seaforth?—Eighteen months
ago. There was no secret about the engagement.
The witness described how Mr. Seaforth had
brought his canoe to the foot of the garden after
dinner and they had gone off together in it. They
came back shortly after midnight, and she came
ashore, leaving Mr. Seaforth in the canoe. She went
up to the house, found the French window of the
drawing-room closed, and walked round to the
front door. Thinking that a book she was reading
might be in the drawing-room, the witness went in
there in search of it and found her aunt dead. The
body was lying on a settee. There was no sign of
any struggle and the lights were on. She made sure
that her aunt was really dead and then ran out to
recall Mr. Seaforth. She estimated that between
leaving Mr. Seaforth and seeing him again about
five minutes elapsed.
Mr. Seaforth was called next. He corroborated the
evidence of the previous witness, so far as the facts
fell within his knowledge. When she recalled him,
they went together up to the house. He inspected
the body and at once rang up Dr. Platt.
Dr. Hubertus Platt was then called. He stated
that he had been Mrs. Fenton's medical adviser for
about five years. When he first knew her, she had
been perfectly healthy except for minor ailments. In
fact, two years ago she had effected a small insur-
ance and had been passed without difficulty by the
company's doctor. Some fifteen months ago, her
heart started to give trouble; there were attacks
from time to time, none very serious. There was


4.6 THE EYE IN THE MUSEUM
nothing organically wrong with her heart, so far as
he had discovered. She complained of indigestion at
times; and indigestion sometimes caused cardiac
irregularity. The witness described how he had been
rung up by Mr. Seaforth. When he first saw the
body, Mrs. Fenton might have been dead for ten
minutes or for an hour—he could not say exactly.
From what he knew of the history of the case, he
saw no reason for this sudden collapse. It surprised
him so much that he refused to give a certificate.
The coroner questioned Dr. Platt about the treat-
ment he had been giving Mrs. Fenton, and Dr. Platt
explained what drugs he had prescribed.
The coroner: Did Mrs. Fenton suffer much from
coughs or colds?—She was rather subject to them.
The coroner: Did you ever hear of Paronax?—
That is an American quack cough-and-cold cure. I
never prescribed it to Mrs. Fenton. I am quite posi-
tive about that. It was advertised occasionally when
it first came out; but I have seen no advertisement
of it recently, not for a year at least.
The coroner: You were not aware that Mrs.
Fenton was using it?—No, I knew nothing about it.
The next witness was Lucy Stifford, the house-
parlourmaid at The Cedars. She stated that she had
seen bottles labelled Paronax in Mrs. Fenton's bed-
room. The medicine seemed to be used only at inter-
vals, and fresh bottles appeared when the old ones
were emptied. She identified one bottle as having
been found in Mrs. Fenton's room after her death.
Witness had put her initials on it when asked by the
police to do so, to make sure there was no mistake.


THE VERDICT 47
She stated further, in answer to the coroner's
questions, that Miss Hazlemere and her aunt were
not on good terms, largely owing to Mrs. Fenton's
fault. She mentioned that Mrs. Fenton was addicted
to whiskey and that the habit had grown on her in
the last two years. Mrs. Fenton was difficult to get
on with.
Dr. Amyas Keymer, the well-known expert, was
then called. He had carried out the post-mortem on
Mrs. Fenton. His attention had been drawn to two
rather faint marks, one on each side of the throat
of the deceased, slightly in front of the ear and just
below the jaw.
The coroner: These marks could not be due to an
attempt to throttle the deceased?—No. Even a fair
pressure at these points would fail to constrict the
windpipe.
The coroner: Would there be an immediate mark
on the skin in consequence of the pressure?—From
an examination of the tissues, I infer that only light
pressure was used. In this case, no immediate de-
velopment of a mark was likely; but after death the
mark would appear.
Pressure at these points, the witness continued,
would affect the vagus nerves and the internal ca-
rotid arteries. The vagi control the action of the
heart, and pressure on these nerves might stop the
heart-beat. Pressure on the internal carotid artery
might stop the flow of blood to the brain. He under-
stood that in jiu-jitsu, advantage was taken of these
facts to knock a man out, which showed how danger-
ous pressure on these regions might be.


48 THE EYE IN THE MUSEUM
The coroner: It would need special anatomical
knowledge to put one's finger on the proper spot?—
Undoubtedly. The ordinary man would not know
either the danger or the exact spot to press. He
would almost certainly resort to mere throttling.
The coroner: Would heavy pressure be required?
Would it need a strong man to exert it?—Oh, no.
In this case, no great pressure had been used. The
faintness of the marks and the state of the com-
pressed tissues showed that clearly.
Dr. Keymer then gave further results of his post-
mortem examination of the deceased. There was
nothing abnormal in the stomach surface, no trace
of any strong irritant poison. In the stomach con-
tents he had found traces of veronal which he had
identified microscopically and also by a chemical
test. Veronal was used as a sleep-producing drug;
and the normal dose was five to ten grains. The
toxic dose might be as low as fifteen grains. In his
opinion, there was not a toxic dose in the stomach.
In one case, a person had taken ISO grains of vero-
nal (about one-third of an ounce) and recovered
after it. The toxic dose varied so much that it was
difficult to assert anything; but in his view the
veronal had nothing to do with Mrs. Fenton's death
directly.
The foreman of the jury asked if veronal was a
scheduled poison. Could it be bought by anyone
without prescription?
Dr. Keymer said veronal had been transferred
from Part II to Part I of the schedule of poisons
under the Pharmacy Act in 1917. In reply to the


THE VERDICT
foreman, he explained that the effect of this provi-
sion was that nobody could buy veronal unless he
was known to the druggist supplying it or was in-
troduced to the druggist by someone known to both
buyer and seller. In either case, the buyer would
have to give his name and address, state the purpose
for which the veronal was to be used, and sign the
Poison Book in which these entries were made.
Continuing his evidence, Dr. Keymer stated that
in addition to veronal, the stomach contained some-
thing else. From the fact that the heart of the de-
ceased seemed anatomically normal when he ex-
amined it and from the undoubted fact that the
deceased suffered from a functional abnormality of
the heart, he had been led to look for something in
the stomach contents. He had not been able to iso-
late any of this second material in a pure form; but
on injecting an extract of the stomach contents into
various frogs, he had observed that the frogs' hearts
were slowed down. The evidence pointed to digitalis.
That was as far as he cared to go.
The foreman of the jury asked if Dr. Keymer
thought there was a fatal dose of digitalis in the
stomach.
Dr. Keymer: I cannot give a definite answer to
that, for this reason. Digitalis is a cumulative
poison. It is not destroyed or excreted rapidly by
the body, so that a second dose coming soon after
the first one might bring the total in the stomach
above the fatal amount, although if taken independ-
ently the two doses would each be well below the
toxic quantity.


52 THE EYE IN THE MUSEUM
The coroner, in his summing up, cautioned the
jury not to go beyond the evidence in forming their
opinion. It was not necessary for them to name any
specific person in their verdict. Their duty was to
discover, if possible, the cause of death; and an
open verdict would be sufficient.
The jury, after rather prolonged consideration,
returned a verdict of wilful murder by some person
or persons unknown.


CHAPTER IV: THE CASE AGAINST
JOYCE
James Corwen was the leading solicitor of the
district; and his physical appearance was almost as
well known to the townsfolk of Stanningmore as the
dial of the Town Clock itself. The rather massive
features, the deep legal lines from nostrils to mouth,
the determined lips, and the unemotional eyes,
would have marked him out in a crowd. But if a
stranger, struck by his face as he passed in the
street, had asked a native what manner of man
James Corwen was, he would have gleaned very
little. "A sound lawyer . . . hard where money's
concerned . . . rather a dry stick . . . keeps to
himself."
The last phrase might have suggested a reason for
the paucity of the remainder. The fact was that very
few people could claim to know Mr. Corwen in his
hours of leisure. Though he knew more about the
private affairs of Stanningmore people than any
other individual in the town, he had probably fewer
social contacts than anyone else. A confirmed
bachelor, he seemed to feel no need of society in the
ordinary sense of the term. People had ceased to
trouble him with invitations. His own entertaining
was confined to three cronies who came to his big


54 THE EYE IN THE MUSEUM
comfortable house on Tuesday and Friday evenings,
when they played bridge for three hours with the
accuracy and taciturnity of automata. How he spent
the remaining five evenings of the week no one
knew.
Into the sequel to the affair at The Cedars he had
been drawn neither willingly nor reluctantly but in
the purely professional capacity of Joyce Hazle-
mere's lawyer. Throughout the inquest he had lis-
tened to the various witnesses with a superficial in-
difference which concealed completely anything that
passed through his mind. Occasionally he made a
note of some point; but in general his attitude was
that of a man invited to the first night of a boring
play which he must sit through out of courtesy to
his host.
The verdict—"Murder by some person or persons
unknown"—had been almost a foregone conclusion
on the evidence; and when the foreman had
announced it, most people present would have been
quite prepared to substitute the name of Joyce
Hazlemere for the more general term used by the
jury.
Returning to his office, James Corwen had put the
matter completely out of his mind while he devoted
himself to going through the business which had
accumulated during the time he had spent at the
inquest. When he had completed his task, he signed
some documents and rang for his clerk.
Groombridge, who came at the summons, was a
monk-like person who had been a clerk in the firm
even before James Corwen's name was put on the


THE CASE AGAINST JOYCE 55
plate outside the door. "A fossil from the Millo-
mian strata," Corwen had once denned him, in a
rare moment of expansion; and if there was any
contempt in the phrase, it was directed at the origi-
nal head of the firm and not at Groombridge. The
solicitor was quite content with his subordinate.
Groombridge was completely devoid of ambition,
asked for no increases in salary, did his work with
the accuracy of a machine, and had a thorough un-
derstanding of his employer's ways in business.
James Corwen looked up as Groombridge came
into the room; but the routine of years made it
unnecessary for him to say anything. A gesture of
his hand indicated the signed documents on the
table; and the clerk picked them up without a word
concerning them. But at this point came one of the
rare divergences from routine. Groombridge pro-
duced a paper which he had brought with him when
he was summoned.
''Would there be any objection to my photograph-
ing that, sir?" he inquired, handing the document to
his employer.
James Corwen's cold eyes showed a faint trace of
amusement, but the emotion did not extend to the
rest of his features.
"Is it another rare specimen for the graphology
collection?" he inquired with more than a touch of
tolerant contempt in his tone. "A curious fad, that
of yours. Why not try stamp-collecting for a
change? You might make some money out of
stamps."
Groombridge's face suddenly lighted with a flash


56 THE EYE IN THE MUSEUM
of real enthusiasm; the mere mention of the subject
seemed to waken him from his customary circum-
spection. To him, graphology was more a passion
than a hobby; and the correspondence of the
solicitor's office furnished him with endless material
for research, since few of the clients used type-
writers. For a quarter of a century he had been
amassing specimens of manuscript to illustrate some
theories which he had formed; and his humble
ambition, unmentioned to a human soul, was to
write a book on the subject when he had gathered
sufficient evidence in support of his views. Some
Minor Characteristics of Handwriting, by Benjamin
Groombridge, Notary-Public. He had fondled the
idea so long in his mind that now he could almost
see the first copy in his hand: a big solid volume
bound in dark blue, with gold lettering on the back,
and crammed with enthralling illustrations.
"I'm afraid postage-stamps don't attract me, sir,"
he said, in a tone which showed that he suspected
Corwen was ironical. "They're not practical, like
manuscript."
His employer's dry sense of humour was tickled
by this suggestion.
"Practical?" he echoed. "Postage-stamps are very
practical. I saw one the other day, Groombridge,
that fetched £192, no less. But this collection of
handwriting of yours wouldn't sell for the price of
a puff of smoke from a cigarette."
"You think so, sir?" The clerk's voice betrayed
that his feelings had been touched. "But some manu-
scripts have a way of being valuable, haven't they?


THE CASE AGAINST JOYCE 57
Wills, and contracts, and so forth, sir? And an ex-
pert opinion about them might be of some use in a
suit, surely—more valuable even than a postage-
stamp."
James Corwen disdained to indicate the obvious
slip in Groombridge's argument. He took the paper
which the clerk held out.
"What's this?"
"A note written by Mrs. Fenton, sir. The contents
are of no importance, and the date's two years back.
I don't want to photograph it as a whole, sir; merely
to make a microphotograph of one or two letters
in it."
James Corwen handed the sheet of paper back to
Groombridge.
"She's dead now, in any case," he commented.
"There seems to be no reason why you shouldn't
photograph a word or two here and there in it, if you
want to. There's no breach of confidence involved
in that. Add them to your collection if you like.
And, Groombridge"—he stopped the clerk on his
way to the door—"send Mr. Seaforth to me at once."
When Seaforth presented himself, a few moments
later, James Corwen pointed to a seat near his desk,
without opening his lips. He had a firm belief that
one learned something by forcing the other man to
start the conversation; and he acted on this hy-
pothesis when it was convenient. In the present cir-
cumstances, it was convenient, because the inquest
on Mrs. Fenton had just been closed, and he wished
to gauge the effect of the verdict upon Seaforth. The
opening remark would give the key, he hoped.


THE CASE AGAINST JOYCE 59
what definite ideas have been evolved out of this
brain-storm of yours? Anything helpful?"
"Helpful? How do you mean, helpful? Of course
I've done all I could to hearten her up and tell
her she's exaggerating the thing in her own
mind."
"H'm! We're evidently thinking of different as-
pects of the case. I don't see much advantage in hold-
ing a girl's hand while someone else is fitting a noose
round her neck. I'm speaking metaphorically of
course."
Groombridge entered the room, deposited a
packet of papers on the desk, and withdrew again
without a word.
"Doesn't it occur to you," the solicitor said, as
the door closed behind Groombridge, "that the most
urgent thing is to prepare Miss Hazlemere's defence?
That's how I should look at the matter myself, in
the circumstances."
Seaforth's face furnished an interesting study in
expression, as he heard this blunt statement.
"Her defence?" he demanded. "You don't think
it'll go that length, surely? There's no evidence
against her. It's all hints and suspicions—putting
two and two together and making five out of them.
There's nothing solid in the whole affair."
"Perhaps not," Corwen assented indifferently. "It
may never come into court. But in any case, she's
bound to be questioned very sharply. Did you notice
a big clean-shaven man who sat near the jury at the
inquest? He was wearing grey and had a grey felt
hat beside him. He gives the impression of a kindly,


60 THE EYE IN THE MUSEUM
free-and-easy fellow who'd get on well with most
people. Sometimes he tilted his chair back and
seemed bored by the whole affair. He's Superintend-
ent Ross, sent over from the County Headquarters
to take up the case. I know Ross."
Seaforth recalled a recent case in which Ross. had
brought a man to the gallows by piecing very frag-
mentary evidence into a convincing fabric; and the
thought of Joyce falling into the hands of this for-
midable Superintendent perturbed him deeply. Cor-
wen's next words added to his trepidation.
"The prosecutor will have to satisfy a jury on
at least three points: first, that Miss Hazlemere
had an opportunity of killing Mrs. Fenton that
night; second, that she had a motive for killing
her; and, third, how she killed her. These are the
three main lines of attack which* will have to be
blocked if possible."
Seaforth's hands tightened on the arms of the
chair as he heard this tranquil exposition of the mat-
ter. There was a bluntness about it which made a
far deeper impression on him than anything else
had done. Corwen took so. calmly for granted that
their business would be to get Joyce safely out of
the dock; and the final "if possible" put the case
at its blackest.
"You talk as if she might be guilty," Seaforth
said, hotly. "That's a strange attitude to take."
James Corwen's gesture suggested that he had no
time to enter into side-issues.
"As her legal adviser, it's no affair of mine whether
she's guilty or not. That's the business of the jury.


THE CASE AGAINST JOYCE 6l
Our business is to prevent the prosecutor from estab-
lishing his case—nothing else."
Seaforth nodded a gloomy assent to this view.
"The first point's gone by the board already,"
he confessed grudgingly. "Miss Hazlemere was alone
with Mrs. Fenton between the time I put her ashore
and the moment when I came back in answer to
her calling me. We can't deny that without landing
ourselves in a mess."
James Corwen accepted this obvious reasoning so
readily that Seaforth's courage ebbed a shade fur-
ther.
"That leaves two possible lines of defence still
available," the solicitor observed dispassionately.
"There's the question of motive, first of all. Was
there anything that a prosecutor could use to con-
vince a jury on that point?"
James Corwen already had very clear ideas on this
subject; but he preferred to learn what Seaforth
thought about the matter. There was always the
chance that a fresh mind might have seen something
which he himself had overlooked.
"Oh, there's enough to impress a jury," Seaforth
admitted with something that sounded almost like
a groan. "You know she and I are engaged. We
can't get married—no money. She doesn't come into
her money till she's twenty-five. I mean, if Mrs.
Fenton had lived, Miss Hazlemere wouldn't have
got control of her own money for some years yet;
but now, under the will of her father, she's come into
all he left. Besides, the maid let out enough at the
inquest to show anyone how things stood at The


62
THE EYE IN THE MUSEUM
Cedars. An unscrupulous prosecutor could twist all
that into a motive, without actually having to mis-
state the facts. That's the motive that'll be faked
up, if any one is. Certain to be. And I don't see how
one's going to get round the plain facts."
James Corwen nodded as though he shared Sea-
forth's views.
"The facts will impress the jury, unless. we can
find some other interpretation to put on them," he
said, driving Seaforth's hopes still lower by his ac-
quiescence. "That leaves us with a third line of de-
fence, provided we can prove that the method
of killing excludes Miss Hazlemere from sus-
picion."
"I don't see how it's to be done,'" Seaforth said
in a tone of despair.
James Corwen gave him little encouragement.
"Obviously the police are at work; and they will
have persuaded the coroner to limit the evidence
given in public as much as possible, so as to leave
them a free hand. That is one difficulty in the affair;
we don't know what they may keep up their sleeve.
And yet it won't do for us to wait with our hands
folded while they are putting their case together.
We shall have to forecast, if it's possible, the line
they are most likely to take in the prosecution.
Then we shall have to fix up the rough outlines of
a defence and make up our minds what we are go-
ing to say. That will enable us to settle what evi-
dence we need in support of our case and give us
some chance of collecting it."
He picked up a scribbling-pad from his desk, drew


THE CASE AGAINST JOYCE 63
his fountain-pen from his pocket, and turned towards
Seaforth again.
"If I were put in charge of the prosecution," he
said, with a tacit assumption which jarred on Sea-
forth, so plainly did it indicate Corwen's belief that
a criminal case was a foregone conclusion, "if I
were put in charge of the prosecution, I should be
inclined to work along the following lines."
He made a jotting or two on his pad to remind
himself of the order in which he meant to handle
the facts.
"In the first place, I would fix the jury's atten-
tion on the fact that two years ago, Mrs. Fenton was
perfectly well. There's the best evidence for that.
She passed an insurance doctor. Then I'd be inclined
to describe the state of affairs produced by the late
Mr. Hazlemere's will: the fact that Miss Hazlemere
was dependent on her aunt for pocket-money, that
she was bound to live with Mrs. Fenton, and that
she could not get control of her own money till she
was twenty-five, come what might.
"The next stage would be to picture to the jury
the state of affairs at The Cedars and the friction
between Mrs. Fenton and Miss Hazlemere. As we
know, that has been almost constant for a long time;
and it will be easy enough to bring evidence about
it. Miss Hazlemere has said imprudent things more
than once—it's common knowledge.
"Eighteen months ago, you appear on the scene,
shortly after Miss Hazlemere comes to The Cedars.
You and Miss Hazlemere get engaged. It's a ques-
tion whether you will be represented as a fortune-
1


64 THE EYE IN THE MUSEUM
hunter or not. In any case, your income isn't enough
to allow you to marry. Obviously, the removal of
Mrs. Fenton would be a happy solution of your
difficulty.
"Fifteen months ago—three months after the en-
gagement—Mrs. Fenton begins to have heart-at-
tacks, a new state of affairs for which her previous
history affords no explanation. These attacks are in-
termittent: sometimes she is free from them, at
Other times she suffers from them. Digitalis would
produce the pathological conditions. Digitalis was
found by the analyst in the bottle of Paronax. She
used Paronax only when she had a cold or a cough,
which would account for the intermittency in the
heart troubles. The Crown case will be that all
through the last fifteen months Miss Hazlemere has
been putting digitalis into Mrs. Fenton's Paronax
bottles in the hope that sooner or later a fatal dose
would be taken.
"But, the prosecutor will say, this scheme failed.
Mrs. Fenton never happened to take enough of her
cough-remedy to poison herself, only enough to
bring on these intermittent heart-attacks. For fifteen
months, Miss Hazlemere is disappointed by the
failure of her plan. Meanwhile, conditions at The
Cedars grow, if anything, worse. She feels that she
cannot afford to wait for three years more, when she
will be free from her aunt's control. She wants to
get married at once. Everything combines to make
her desperate and reckless.
"She decides to brisk up matters and clear Mrs.
Fenton out of her way at a stroke. An act of folly,


THE CASE AGAINST JOYCE 65
naturally; but murder is always an act of folly, and
yet that has not deterred murderers in the past. Be-
cause murder appears like a fatal blunder to a per-
son in cold blood, one must not suppose that it looks
quite the same to someone suffering under grievances
and unnerved by constant friction. In such circum-
stances, it may well happen that the normal perspec-
tive is distorted and murder appears merely a simple
solution of the situation.
"Further, a girl like Miss Hazlemere has no con-
ception of the methods of criminal investigation.
Quite possibly, she might not realise how accurate
are the methods which would be employed by the
police. She might under-rate the risks. All convicted
poisoners have made that very mistake. It is no
defence to say that none of us would take that risk
in cold blood; for we know that some people have
actually done so.
"The Crown case will be that Miss Hazlemere
took this decision. Opportunity to carry the de-
cision into action was the only thing needed. The
Crown will not contend that she manufactured the
opportunity. The facts suggest quite the opposite.
If she had planned the affair, she would obviously
have chosen a time when Mrs. Fenton's system had
worked off the latest dose of digitalis, so that no
suspicion would have arisen with regard to that pe-
culiar factor in the case.
"The prosecutor's contention will be simple. On
the night of Mrs. Fenton's death, Miss Hazlemere
dined with her aunt as usual and then went off with
you in your canoe. After she had gone, Mrs. Fenton


66
THE EYE IN THE MUSEUM
took a dose of veronal. A normal dose of that drug
induces a deep sleep in about half an hour—at least
I remember my doctor prescribed it to me once or
twice and that is my recollection of its effects.
"Shortly after midnight, while Mrs. Fenton is still
asleep in the drawing-room, Miss Hazlemere re-
turns with you, disembarks, leaves you behind, and
enters the house alone. In the drawing-room, she
finds her aunt asleep, helpless, at the mercy of this
girl who has already done her best to rid herself of
this incubus. This is an opportunity so good that
it is hardly likely to recur. Her pre-determination
comes to the front of her mind, and she seizes the
chance thus flung in her way. Her victim can make
no struggle, being stupefied. There will be no need
for any violent exertions, any heavy pressure which
might leave marks. Miss Hazlemere is no anatomist.
Intending to stop her aunt's breathing, she hits by
pure accident on the position of the vagus nerves
and the arteries which supply the brain. She presses
her fingers lightly on her victim's neck and, probably
to her surprise, very slight pressure accomplishes her
object. Mrs. Fenton dies.
"There are no marks on the neck. There are no
signs of any struggle, which might arouse suspicion.
Miss Hazlemere hurries out and recalls you before
you have gone far away. Less than five minutes
would be enough to carry the whole thing through.
"You come back with her and ring up the doctor.
The earlier heart-attacks seem sufficient to explain
this sudden collapse. Everything would have been
plain sailing. But Dr. Platt refuses to give a death-


THE CASE AGAINST JOYCE 67
certificate. After the body has lain for some hours,
the marks of pressure on the neck make their ap-
pearance. Suspicion is aroused. And so the whole
damning chain of evidence comes to light.
"That's how the prosecutpr, most likely, will
present the case. There may be variations in de-
tail, but I should expect him to work along those
lines."
James Corwen stopped abruptly and examined
Seaforth's face. It did not seem to have struck him
that he was not consulting a colleague but was deal-
ing with the person who, next to Joyce herself, was
most concerned in the affair. Seaforth's expression
appeared to remind the solicitor of this aspect of
the interview.
"Now, plainly," he demanded abruptly, "do you
think she's guilty? Out with it!"
The brutal unexpectedness of the question seemed
to jar Seaforth's nerves like an electric shock. For
a moment or two he seemed too staggered to make
any answer. Then, with an effort, he recovered his
self-control, lifted himself in his chair, and steadied
his voice with an obvious effort.
"That's a funny question to ask, sir. Of course
she's innocent."
"Of course," James Corwen acquiesced at once.
"It was a stupid question. But when a case looks
black, it's a comfort occasionally to get some definite
statement on the other side. It gives one confidence
in one's own views."
But that movement of Seaforth's was what James
Corwen had been leading up to throughout the in-


68
THE EYE IN THE MUSEUM
terview. Not for nothing was Admiral Hall's book
on his library shelves; nor was it by mere chance that
his clients' chair was one with a low seat and a
sloping back. Again and again he had occasion to
confirm the Admiral's observation that when a man
in such a chair starts to lie, he instinctively pulls
himself upright in order to meet his interlocutor on
a level instead of looking upward. It was the very
movement that Seaforth had made when he pro-
claimed his belief in Joyce's innocence.
"So he thinks she did it, after all," James Cor-
wen reflected. "And he's probably the crucial witness
on her side. That's going to be awkward, if he lets
the jury get a glimpse of his mind by accident."
For a moment or two he occupied himself with
making a few jottings on his pad, merely with the
object of allowing the effect of his question to die
down in Seaforth's mind. When he spoke again, he
chose an entirely fresh aspect of the subject.
"Suppose the case against Miss Hazlemere were
presented as I sketched out, how would you meet
it?"
"Fasten on the weak points," Seaforth said
eagerly. "Far too many loose links in that chain for
a conviction."
"There seems to be a fair chance, certainly," Cor-
wen admitted, "provided they don't find anything
further and keep it up their sleeves. Now what do
you select as the weak points?"
Seaforth had already settled that question in his
mind; and he gave his opinion immediately:
"The digitalis first of all. As they proved, it's a


THE CASE AGAINST JOYCE 69
scheduled poison and can't be procured without the
purchaser being identified. The defence could de-
mand proof that Miss Hazlemere bought digitalis,
or even had it in her possession in any shape or
form. Snag waiting for them there, I think."
"Possibly," James Corwen conceded, though with
some unwillingness which he did not trouble to dis-
guise. "But you must remember that the police have
a knack of unearthing most out-of-the-way facts."
"You're not suggesting that Miss Hazlemere ac-
tually committed a murder?" Seaforth demanded
hotly.
"I'm not suggesting anything," Corwen answered
coldly. "I'm trying to find a real line of defence.
Miss Hazlemere wasn't asked at the inquest whether
she ever had digitalis in her possession. She may have
had, for all I know. Not being questioned, she said
nothing on the subject—which leaves us in the dark
at present. I didn't suggest that she was lying, if
that's what you're excited about, Seaforth. You
must keep cooler if you're to be any use at all."
Seaforth nodded sullenly in answer to the rebuke.
"What would she be doing with digitalis? The
thing's ridiculous," he said impatiently.
James Corwen seemed still unsatisfied.
"You've never had digitalis in your own pos-
session, I suppose?" he asked incuriously.
"Of course not."
"Well, then, what is your next weak link in the
chain?" the solicitor questioned, dismissing the digi-
talis affair as though he had secured all the informa-
tion he wanted.


70 THE EYE IN THE MUSEUM
"The fact that Mrs. Fenton was killed in a peculiar
way. The chance against anyone hitting on the right
spot on the throat—on both sides—was hundreds
to one if it was a mere accident. Miss Hazlemere has
no knowledge of anatomy or physiology. She'd never
guess anything about the vagi. I didn't know about
them myself till it came out at the inquest."
James Corwen tapped his pen on his pad uncon-
sciously and then examined the point of the nib as
though he feared he had damaged it.
"There's a Public Library in Stanningmore," he
pointed out. "I daresay information about the heart
and its action could be obtained there, by anyone
who chose to take out a book or two. Miss Hazlemere
reads in the Public Library. I've seen her there once
or twice."
Seaforth's face had grown darker during the last
stages of the conversation.
"It seems to me," he said, with more than a touch
of suspicion in his voice, "that you're more inter-
ested in proving Miss Hazlemere guilty than you are
in defending her. Everything you've suggested has
been something pointing that way. If you don't feel
you can act for the defence, wouldn't it be fairer to
let her get a new adviser at once?"
James Corwen seemed more contemptuous than
annoyed by this.
"My business—and your business—is to put
things at the worst and then see if we can't upset
the other side's arguments. It would be futile to leave
out of account any argument the prosecution may
think of bringing forward. That's why I am look-


THE CASE AGAINST JOYCE 71
ing on the black side of things, as anyone ought to
know. Now, what's your next weak link in the
chain?"
Seaforth tapped his finger on the arm of his chair
for a moment or two, and his face showed that he
was thinking hard. But in the end, evidently, he
failed to discover anything.
"These seem to be all the weak spots, so far as
I can see," he admitted, gloomily. "Unless you take
the time into account. She wasn't out of my sight
for more than five minutes."
James Corwen was completely unimpressed by this
suggestion.
"The prosecution will trip you up there without
the least difficulty. First of all, five minutes were
quite enough to put the business through. Secondly,
the prosecutor will ask you if you are a good judge
of time—if you can estimate, say, an interval of
two minutes accurately. You'll have to say yes to
that. Then he'll pull out his watch, ask the jury to
note the time, and tell you to say "Now!" when
you think the two minutes span is up. You'll un-
derestimate for a certainty in these conditions. Most
likely you'll call "Now!" at the end of ninety sec-
onds or so, unless you count your pulse. Then the
prosecutor will call the jury's attention to how far
out you were in your guess—and after that your
value as a witness to lapse of time will be exactly
nil. I've seen it done. Once you've made your mistake,
the jury will simply discredit your evidence, and
agree with the prosecutor if he suggests that you
really spent eight or nine minutes instead of five.


THE CASE AGAINST JOYCE 73
James Corwen's heavy features showed the first
smile he had given during the interview.
"Everything except the dose of veronal," he
pointed out. "You ought to have seen that, Seaforth.
It stares you in the face."


SUPERINTENDENT ROSS 77
the sight of the well-worn volume his face lighted
up, and he opened the book at the index. It was still
in his hand when the maid returned.
"Miss Hazlemere says she's sorry she's engaged
just now; but if you can wait for a quarter of an
hour, she'll be glad to answer any questions you
want to ask."
Superintendent Ross put down the book and
acknowledged the message with a pleasant smile.
"There's no hurry," he said reassuringly. "I can
easily wait."
Then, as though merely making a casual remark,
he turned to the window, and detained the maid
with an innocent question.
"Nice garden you have out there. Who looks
after it?"
The maid, slightly flattered by the Superintend-
ent's manner, lost some of her nervousness.
"Our gardener comes twice a week to look after
it," she explained. "The rest of his time he goes to
Mr. Marton across the road, and to another house
further along."
"Only two days a week!" The Superintendent
seemed surprised. "He must be a bit of a worker,
to keep that size of garden so nice if he only comes
twice in the week. Perhaps he's got a boy to help
him, or something?"
"No, he does it all on his own. Of course, Miss
Hazlemere, she's keen on gardening. She does quite
a lot. But the man does all the heavy work, the
hedge-cutting, and rolling the lawn, and that sort of
thing. He's very keen on his work; he likes it."


78 THE EYE IN THE MUSEUM
The Superintendent had established the friendly
atmosphere he needed; and now he slid across the
dangerous ground as carefully as he could.
"It's a nice old garden." He gazed out of the
window as he spoke. "I wish I had something of that
sort myself, with the river there at the foot of it.
It's the sort of place one could take an interest in. I
suppose Mrs. Fenton was quite keen on the garden?"
The maid shook her head.
"Not a bit. She'd no interest in it. Miss Hazle-
mere, she looked after everything, gave the gardener
his orders, ordered plants, cut flowers for the house,
and arranged them. I never saw Mrs. Fenton as
much as look at a flower—I mean look at it as if it
was something."
"Well welll" The Superintendent was duly im-
pressed. "It's funny how some people have one taste
and some another, isn't it? Miss Hazlemere and her
aunt don't seem to have been alike in that, at any
rate."
"No, nor in much else, either," the maid com-
mented. "It often puzzled me how they came to be
related at all, they was so different. Oil and water,
you might say. Miss Hazlemere's a real young lady.
Mrs. Fenton wasn't what /"
She broke off, suddenly realising that she was at-
tacking a dead woman. Ross hastened to break in
before she had time to reflect.
"I guessed from one thing and another that they
didn't quite hit it off, somehow," he confessed.
"Faults on both sides, I imagined; but the way you
put it seems to throw a fresh light on things,"


SUPERINTENDENT ROSS 79
"It wasn't Miss Hazlemere's fault at all, not a bit
of it. You couldn't get anyone nicer or kinder than
Miss Hazlemere, not if you went through the whole
town. She's always got a pleasant word for one and
she never finds fault, even when it is your fault. But
nobody could have got on with Mrs. Fenton, and
that's just the plain truth and nothing more."
"Quarrelled, did they?"
"Well, if you was to call it quarrelling when all
the nastiness is on one side, then it would be quar-
relling. No human being could have stood it without
saying something for herself, no matter if she was a
saint," the maid explained heatedly and confusedly.
"Sometimes it was all I could do to keep from put-
ting in my own word when Mrs. Fenton was going
for Miss Hazlemere and sneering at her over Mr.
Seaforth."
Superintendent Ross had got his second transition
without even having to build towards it. Seaforth's
name was the next on his mental list.
"Mr. Seaforth?" he inquired, as though the name
was not quite familiar to him. "Mr. Seaforth? Let's
see. Oh, yes, he's engaged to Miss Hazlemere, isn't
he?"
"That's him."
The maid's voice did not sound altogether cordial,
the Superintendent fancied.
"Perhaps he and Mrs. Fenton didn't hit it off
well?" he asked. "Sometimes an engagement makes
a bit of a change in things and people don't settle
down very well to it."
"She was afraid of him, I shouldn't wonder," the


82
THE EYE IN THE MUSEUM
meant to take it out of the pair of them that way
since she couldn't manage it any other way."
The Superintendent's expression still suggested
that he loved nosing into a scandal.
"But what about this other man you were talking
about?" he demanded with an air of knowingness.
"If she was so friendly with him, why didn't she
go for a divorce and get her own hands free? Then
she could have married this Dr. what d'you call
him?"
"Dr. Hyndford?" the maid filled in the name.
"Well, you see, it takes two to make a marriage,
doesn't it? And what supposing Dr. Hyndford wasn't
the marrying sort? Much good her divorce would do
her in that case!"
Superintendent Ross's leer was an excellent effort.
"Aha!" he exclaimed, as though enlightened. "So
that's how the land lay, eh? I hadn't thought of that
side of the case. That would explain it, of course.
Very likely you're right. By the way, where does
this Dr. Hyndford live?"
The maid pointed across the river to a house on
the opposite bank,
"That's his house yonder, the one with the red
tiles on the roof and the creeper half across this side.
Very handy, you can see for yourself. He was always
popping over here in his canoe at all times of the day.
He and Mrs. Fenton both did a lot of betting and
he had always that excuse for coming across, to
talk about the latest odds, you know."
"And what sort a person is he—to look at, I
mean?"


SUPERINTENDENT ROSS 83
"Oh, a big man with one of those grim-looking
faces and a pair of eyes that seemed to bore into you
when he looked at you. Nice-looking, some people
would say, I suppose, but not a bit the sort of thing
I'd want in a man. He always made you feel as. if
you were just a worm. or something that was of no
importance at all. Not rude, you understand, but
just the kind of impression he gave you, somehow."
Superintendent Ross nodded understandingly.
"Yes ... I know the sort of thing you mean.
One meets them at times. . . . He's not married,
you say?"
The maid shook her head decisively.
"No, nor likely to be, I should say."
The Superintendent did not ask her reason. In-
stead, he made a pretence of suppressing a slight
sigh.
"Lives alone, does he? It's a lonely sort of life for
a man in his forties."
"He wouldn't feel lonely, so don't you worry.
Besides, he doesn't live alone. He shares that house
with his brother now, Mr. Richard."
"Two cross old bachelors, eh?"
The maid seemed to object to his sweeping classi-
fication.
"Oh, no! Mr. Richard Hyndford isn't a bit like
that doctor. He's very nice, a rather nervous sort
of gentleman compared with his brother. A very
pleasant kind of way with him, always smiling.
Says good-day to you when you open the door to
him, instead of stalking past you as if you was a bit
of machinery, the way the doctor does."


84 THE EYE IN THE MUSEUM
"In business here?" the Superintendent inquired.
The maid shook her head.
"No, he just potters about the garden. They say
he made enough money in Japan to keep him going
for the rest of his life. He was out there for a long
time, so I'm told."
The Superintendent glanced furtively at his wrist-
watch.
"By the way," he said, dropping the subject of the
Hyndford brothers, "did Mrs. Fenton suffer much
from colds? I mean was she worse than most people
in that way?"
"No, not that I noticed. She had a pretty bad
one a day or two before . . . you know."
Evidently she preferred euphemism when the ac-
tual death of her late mistress was in question, how-
ever frank she might be about Mrs. Fenton's affairs
in general.
"And about this stuff Paronax," the Superintend-
ent pursued. "You're quite sure she always had
it by her in case of these colds?"
"Oh, I'm quite sure about that. She kept it in a
medicine case usually, and I saw it when I was
dusting. When a cold came on, she kept the bottle
handy on the dressing-table."
"So anyone could have got at it if they'd wanted?"
"Oh, yes. But no one else used it. It just stood
there."
"H'ml" The Superintendent dropped the sub-
ject abruptly. "Now about this French window in
the drawing-room. In this hot weather we've been
having lately, was it kept open or shut as a general


SUPERINTENDENT ROSS
85
thing? You would be going in there with tea or some-
thing in the evening, I suppose, so you may have
some idea of what was done."
"Well, generally it was left open; but of course
it was shut before the last person went up to bed.
It was always shut in the mornings, that I can re-
member."
"So you'd have expected it to be open that
night?"
"Most likely it would have been, unless someone
had shut it on purpose. But I don't really
know."
"No, of course not," the Superintendent agreed.
"It's not the kind of thing one does notice, is it?
And now, what about that night? You knew nothing
about it all until Miss Hazlemere waked you up, of
course. What did she look like when she went up to
your room?"
"She was terribly upset, all shivering, and then she
seemed sort of stunned, as if she'd nothing to say.
Of course, that's just what one might expect, isn't
it? I was all shook up myself at the thought of that
dead body lying down there in the drawing-room.
Kind of unnatural-like, it seemed to me. Not like
an ordinary death-bed, you know what I mean? It
made the house sort of eerie, and I didn't like to go
downstairs by myself. If it wasn't that I liked Miss
Hazlemere so much, I'd have left the place at once,
the very next day. It gives me the jumps to see that
drawing-room locked, and anything might be be-
hind it"
She broke off suddenly.


86
THE EYE IN THE MUSEUM
"That's Miss Hazlemere calling me. I've got to
go."
Superintendent Ross made no objection. He had
secured more information than he expected; and he
saw that his diagram would require a certain amount
of filling-in as a result of this interview. As the maid
left the room, he turned again to the window and
examined the garden with renewed interest. Then,
for a moment or two, he consulted the gardening
book and memorised some of the names on one
page. This done, he laid the book back on the half-
moon table and waited without impatience for the
arrival of James Corwen. By this time, he had a
pretty fair idea of a source of one of the drugs which
formed a central factor in the case.


CHAPTER VI: DIGITALIS PURPUREA
When James Corwen entered the morning-room
alone, the Superintendent was not surprised. He
knew the solicitor's reputation for caution; and he
had half-expected that there would be some prelimi-
naries to get through before Joyce Hazlemere
appeared.
Corwen wasted no time in polite formalities.
"H'm!" he said, looking Ross in the eye, "before
I produce my client, I want to know exactly what
the present position is. Your mental attitude in this
case governs your powers in making inquiries. You
know that?"
The Superintendent nodded. All trace of the gos-
siper had vanished from his manner and he had be-
come merely an official carrying out a piece of work.
"The Judges' Rules, you mean?" he asked.
"I want to know exactly where you stand, Super-
intendent. Just let's hear your application of the
Rules to the present state of affairs." f
Superintendent Ross had the Rules by heart.
"Very well," he said. "Rule One. When a police
officer is trying to find the author of a crime, there's
no objection to his putting questions in respect there-
of to anyone, whether he suspects them or not, if
he thinks he can obtain useful information in that


88
THE EYE IN THE MUSEUM
way. Rule Two. When a police official has decided
to charge a person with a crime, he must first cau-
tion such person before asking any questions. My
position is the one stated in the First Rule. My
mind's quite open. I've no case against anyone, so
far. Therefore I'm entitled to ask any questions I
choose."
"That is correct," James Corwen admitted. "Then
I take it that you are not at present bringing any
charge against my client; and that if you imagine
you have grounds for a charge later on, you will
interpose a caution before going on with your ques-
tioning?"
"You can take that as agreed," the Superintend-
ent confirmed. "I make notes of any answers I
get, and Miss Hazlemere signs the document after
she's read it over. That's in Rule Nine."
"There is no objection to that," James Corwen
assented. "Just wait a moment while I fetch my
client."
There was something more than a mere insistence
on punctilio here, as both of them understood quite
well. The solicitor was fencing for position, and he
had chosen his ground skilfully. If the Superintend-
ent managed to elicit any evidence which he con-
sidered to be crucial, he would have to show his
hand then, either by cautioning Joyce or by desist-
ing from further questioning; and the exact point
where this danger-signal appeared would give James
Corwen a fair indication of what facts had most
impressed Ross. That would be a considerable gain
to the defence, since it would give a clue to the


DIGITALIS PURPUREA
89
main lines on which the prosecution might proceed.
The weak spot in the plan lay in the possibility
that the Superintendent might ignore the agree-
ment. He could safely do that if he chose, since no
one but himself could tell when he actually made up
his mind. But Ross had the reputation of playing
fair. He had sufficient trust in his own capacity to
get at the truth eventually, and he could afford to
keep within the four corners of the restrictions laid
down in the Judges' Rules.
When Joyce was ushered into the room by James
Corwen, the Superintendent's manner underwent
yet another chameleonic readjustment to the environ-
ment. The dry official vanished and was replaced
by a friendly person whose sole desire, apparently,
was to get through a distasteful task as smoothly
as possible.
"I'm very sorry to trouble you at all, Miss
Hazlemere," he explained, briskly, "and I shan't
worry you with more than a question or two. But,
you see, you're the only person who can tell me cer-
tain things. That's my excuse."
He ended with a pleasant smile, as though anxious
to put the girl entirely at ease. Joyce glanced at
the solicitor before replying.
"I'll be glad to answer any question that Mr.
Corwen allows me to answer," she said, guardedly.
"I've nothing to conceal, of course; but I'm in my
adviser's hands, you know."
The Superintendent guessed that these words had
been put into her mouth. Obviously there was going
to be very little chance of trapping her into making


90 THE EYE IN THE MUSEUM
uncalculated admissions. He made up his mind to
try a test question.
"I understand, Miss Hazlemere, that your aunt
had control of your income up to the time of her
death, but that now you have come into possession
of your private fortune?"
Again a glance passed between Joyce and Corwen.
The solicitor intervened bluntly.
"I think I understand the legal position better
than Miss Hazlemere does," he pointed out. "If you
want the facts, the best thing will be for you to
come to my office and go through the papers with
me."
Superintendent Ross recognised the adroitness of
this interjection. What he wanted was the exact
extent of Joyce's knowledge regarding the financial
position. What Corwen was offering him was the
legal position in its entirety—a completely different
thing. If Joyce were the murderess, the motive must
lie in her knowledge of the contents of her father's
will and her appreciation of the effect of removing
Mrs. Fenton. Corwen's intervention was a plain
hint to Ross that he need not trouble to ask any
further questions on that subject, and it was couched
in terms which covered the denial of evidence with a
deceptive show of frankness. Ross accepted the
inevitable. There was no point in asking questions
which Corwen would simply refuse to allow Joyce
to answer. Instead, he tried a fresh line.
"Mrs. Fenton was rather difficult to get on with?"
he asked in a sympathetic tone.
Corwen shook his head definitely.


DIGITALIS PURPUREA 91
"You can't expect my client to answer that sort of
question," he said. "You've had other people's evi-
dence on the subject at the inquest. Miss Hazlemere
doesn't need to strengthen it."
"You think so?" the Superintendent said, with
an air of giving in to superior wisdom. "Very well.
We won't press the matter. Now what about this
stuff Paronax? I understand the bottle was in Mrs.
Fenton's room. Could anyone get access to it? For
instance, could the maid have laid hands on it at
any time?"
"Oh, yes," Joyce admitted, before Corwen could
say anything. "It wasn't locked up, if that's what
you mean."
"You never used it yourself, did you?"
Joyce shook her head.
"I never use patent medicines. Besides, I never
happened to have a really bad cold."
"Really? I wish I could say as much myself. Now
about the veronal. Have you ever used veronal, Miss
Hazlemere?"
"Dr. Platt once"
"I shouldn't answer that question," Corwen broke
in, too late.
The Superintendent shrugged his shoulders as
though amused.
"I think you're putting unnecessary difficulties in
the way, Mr. Corwen," he suggested. "I can get the
information from Dr. Platt myself if necessary.
He'll know what he prescribed. Miss Hazlemere will
save me a little trouble if she answers now—that's
all there is in it."


DIGITALIS PURPUREA 93
Joyce said, coldly. "I really know very little about
him. He came about the house a good deal, but it
was Aunt Evelyn whom he came to see. He had no
interest in me, and I had no interest in him."
"You know his brother, perhaps?"
"Mr. Hyndford? Yes, I know him much better
than the doctor."
The Superintendent did not pursue the subject
of the Hyndfords. Once again he changed ground.
"Now, if it wouldn't be too much trouble, Miss
Hazlemere, I'd like you to take me into the garden
and show me one or two things. I'm not quite sure
about the geography of the place, and I'd be glad
if you'd help me to get it clear in my mind."
Joyce consulted Corwen with a glance and ap-
parently received permission. Without answering the
Superintendent directly, she led the way out of the
house.
"I'd like to see where you landed from the canoe
that night," Ross suggested.
As they walked down toward the river, the Super-
intendent displayed more than his usual languid
interest in gardening, for he lingered here and there
as some choice display of flowers caught his atten-
tion.
"Your violas make a fine mass of colour, there,"
he observed, pointing to them as he passed. "What
are they? Edinas?"
Joyce shook her head.
"No, they're Acmes."
"I've found that Blue Rocks do very well in my
little garden," the Superintendent confided, artlessly.


94 THE EYE IN THE MUSEUM
A few yards further on, a fresh bed attracted his
notice.
"You seem to have more luck with verbenas than
I ever have," he confessed. "That's a wonderful
show yonder. They never seem to do well with me,
something wrong with the soil, perhaps. These are
Miss Willmotts, aren't they?"
This time Joyce nodded without speaking. The
Superintendent's effort to bring matters on to a more
friendly footing did not seem very successful. James
Corwen was growing obviously restive at what he
regarded as a mere waste of his time; and by his
manner he succeeded in dragging the unwilling
Superintendent past the remainder of the display.
They emerged on the river-bank.
"This is where I got ashore from Mr. Seaforth's
canoe," Joyce explained, going forward to point out
the exact spot.
The Superintendent went to her side and then
turned round to face the house.
"You could see the French window from here, I
notice," he said. "You'd see the light was on in the
drawing-room when you came ashore?"
Joyce considered for a moment or two.
"If you mean I noticed it specially, then I didn't.
It was on, of course, but that had no particular im-
portance so far as I was concerned."
"It was on, that's all I wanted," the Superin-
tendent explained. "And I suppose, since it was on,
you decided to go into the house through the French
window?"
"Well, I usually go in that way from here, if the


DIGITALIS PURPUREA
95
window's open. It saves walking round the house to
the front door."
"Exactly. And you were surprised to find the win-
dow closed?"
"I expected it to be open, of course, on a warm
night like that, since my aunt hadn't gone up to bed.
I guessed that, since the light was left on."
"Of course. And you went straight up from here
to the house? You could see your way all right?"
"Yes, it was a brilliant moonlight night. Every
thing was as clear as day."
"I remember; that came out in the evidence,
somewhere or other. Now, Miss Hazlemere, you
said at the inquest that it took you five minutes to
go up to the house, make your discovery, and come
back here again. That's the best estimate you can
give? It wasn't, say, seven minutes or eight minutes?"
"I should say it was about five minutes," Joyce
confirmed, after a pause for consideration. "I can't
time it to a second, of course; but at any rate it
wasn't ten minutes. You understand what I mean,
don't you?"
The Superintendent made a gesture of comprehen-
sion.
"To be sure! It's always hard to gauge time with-
out a watch beside you. And you came back again
to this point, didn't you, when you called Mr. Sea-
forth in again?"
"Yes. At least I called to him before I actually
got to the bank."
Superintendent Ross seemed to have lost interest
in details.


96 THE EYE IN THE MUSEUM
"Shall we go back to the house again?" he sug-
gested. "I'd like to have a look at that French win-
dow."
As they were passing along one of the paths, the
Superintendent paused in such a way as to detain
his companions.
"That's a nice bed," he said, admiringly. "Per-
ennials, aren't they? You don't change them often,
I suppose?"
"They were there when I came here first, so
they've been in for a couple of years at least," Joyce
explained, rather impatiently. "They may have been
there for longer, but I can't say."
Superintendent Ross nodded thoughtfully. His
next question was directed to James Corwen, but it
was Joyce's face that he watched while he was put-
ting it into words:
"Perhaps you can tell me, Mr. Corwen. Is this
Digitalis grandiflora or Digitalis purpurea?"
"How should I know?" Corwen growled. "I'm not
a botanist."
He had some reason for his vexation. By this un-
expected method of attack, the Superintendent had
over-reached him. Though the question was, in
words, addressed to the solicitor, it was evidently
in Joyce's face that Ross hoped to read the response
to the unspoken demand: "Do you know that digi-
talis can be extracted from this plant in your gar-
den?" And the deliberately indirect method of at-
tack left it uncertain whether this was the crucial
piece of evidence or whether Ross had already seen
something which had decided him to press home a


DIGITALIS PURPUREA 97
charge against Joyce at a later stage. Corwen was left
in doubt as to the Superintendent's outlook, the very
thing which he most wished to ascertain.
What was even more irritating to a man like James
Corwen, the Superintendent had evidently proved
himself the sharper of the two. While the solicitor
was preparing to base one of the most important
parts of the defence upon the fact that digitalis was
a scheduled poison, hedged about with all sorts of
restrictions, Ross had outflanked the whole argu-
ment and had discovered what Corwen himself had
failed to note—a possible source of the digitalin
which figured so ominously at the inquest, a source
outside all the restraints of the Pharmacy Act. With
less than ten words, the Superintendent had knocked
away what seemed to be one of the strongest props
in the case for the defence.
James Corwen's eyes followed those of the Su-
perintendent and he watched Joyce's face to see the
effect of Ross's thrust. Effect there was, certainly.
No one could have missed Joyce's start of dismay as
the Superintendent pronounced the ill-omened
"Digitalis." But here Corwen had grudgingly to ad-
mit the cleverness of the attack. He himself failed
to determine whether the change in Joyce's expres-
sion implied one or other of two things. It might
have indicated a guilty knowledge of the plant's
properties; or, equally well, it might merely have
been dismay at the realisation of the sinister inter-
pretation which could be placed upon a wholly ir-
relevant fact—the presence of the digitalis in the
garden of The Cedars.


DIGITALIS PURPUREA 99
stowing them away to avoid littering the paths with
the debris. Joyce accepted her dismissal with obvious
relief. She was still visibly perturbed by the Super-
intendent's last stab and seemed only too glad to get
away. James Corwen was about to follow her when
Ross restrained him.
"I think you'd better come with me," he sug-
gested. "Perhaps it would be as well if you saw things
with your own eyes."
The turn of this phrase seemed to give the solici-
tor some food for thought as he accompanied the
Superintendent through the garden to the house.
Taken at its face value, it suggested either a com-
plete exculpation of his client in the detective's mind,
or else a case against her so strong that Ross felt
he could play with all his cards on the table.
The Superintendent led the way to the French
window of the drawing-room, which had been left
closed as it was on the night of the tragedy. Ross
examined the little terrace in front of it in a very
cursory fashion and then, stepping forward, he in-
spected the lever catches of the double window
through the glass.
"H'm!" he said, half to himself. "The usual horn-
shaped handles with a small knob at the point of
the horn. I thought as much. There's nothing in it."
He did not trouble to divulge what "it" was, rather
to Corwen's annoyance; and before the solicitor
could make up his mind whether he could venture a
question on the point, Ross turned away from the
window and led the way round the house to the
front door.


100 THE EYE IN THE MUSEUM
At the entrance to the drawing-room, the Super-
intendent paused to break some seals which secured
the door; then, standing aside, he ushered the solici-
tor in. A glance assured James Corwen that the
place had been left completely undisturbed since
the night of the tragedy; and his eye was caught
by further seals on the inner side of the windows.
Ross saw the look and smiled rather sardon-
ically.
"My colleagues seem to have done their best to
make the place burglar-proof," he said in explana-
tion. "They had orders to leave everything exactly
as it was until I came across; so they had to make
sure there was no unauthorised tampering."
"Burglar-proof!" James Corwen grunted con-
temptuously. "You don't imagine anyone who really
wanted to get in would be stopped by a yard or
two of tape and a few bits of sealing-wax, do you?"
Superintendent Ross's smile broadened slightly,
but he offered no defence. It was his business to
tell the solicitor that the police were keeping a day-
and-night watch on the house. He was not the person
to leave important evidence at the mercy of anyone
who chose to break in at night; and he was not above
setting a trap with the evidence as a bait, even though
he regarded the chance of a catch as practically
negligible.
"Let's see," he said, crossing the room to a small
side-table. "Yes, that's all right—two tumblers
along with the decanter and the bottles of soda—
Grattan's brand with screw stoppers."
James Corwen came up to his side and looked


DIGITALIS PURPUREA
101
down at the tray, on which stood the articles the
Superintendent had mentioned.
"They all look a bit dusty," he commented.
"Our men have been looking for finger-prints,
dusting the things over and then photographing
anything that appeared," Ross explained casually.
"Did you find anything interesting?" the solicitor
inquired in a tentative tone.
The Superintendent seemed to have no objections
to giving information on this point.
"Nothing in the way of finger-prints on the empty
sodas. Mrs. Fenton's own prints on the tumbler
and on the decanter. An unidentified set of prints
turned up on the second tumbler."
James Corwen immediately saw the inference
which could be drawn from this to help his client.
"So Mrs. Fenton had a guest that night appar-
ently. Miss Hazlemere doesn't drink whiskey and
soda." He stopped and sniffed unavailingly at the
mouth of the second tumbler. "I suppose there was
whiskey in both of them?"
"There was," the Superintendent admitted frankly.
He did not seem inclined to waste any further
time over the tray. Though he did not think it
necessary to tell Corwen so, he had photographs of
the finger-prints on an enlarged scale in his pocket;
and all he had wanted was to see the tray itself in
case it might suggest anything to his mind. But
nothing out of the common met his eye, so he turned
elsewhere.
"You knew Mrs. Fenton's handwriting, of
course," he said, directing Corwen's attention to a


102 THE EYE IN THE MUSEUM
small escritoire. "I've got to go through the papers
in that thing—they tell me there are some letters
and so forth in it which will probably pass into your
hands later on, since you're her lawyer. I expect
you have some idea of the people she corresponded
with and it'll be a help to me if you can tell me
something about them. They'd be mere names to
me if I looked through the papers alone. And you'll
be able to pick out any stuff in her own writing much
quicker than I could do."
James Corwen made no objection to this obviously
reasonable suggestion; and the Superintendent,
after a glance at the top of the escritoire, opened
the first drawer. The huddled mass of papers in it
betrayed the character of its late owner; and Ross
groaned inwardly at the thought of having to wade
through the confusion. One sheet of manuscript,
carelessly thrown in on top of the rest, attracted
his attention first; and he lifted it gingerly so as to
leave as few finger-prints as possible on it.
"That's some of Mrs. Fenton's writing," Corwen
volunteered as the Superintendent held up the paper.
"Well, we may begin with it"
Ross broke off his sentence with an inarticulate
expression of surprise. James Corwen leaned over
and read the document. It was evidently the draft
of a letter which the dead woman had written on
the day of her death, as the date showed.
"Sir,—I see no reason for changing my mind. This
morning I told you plainly that I expected you to pay
the money before the end of this week, and you must do
so without any further putting off. I have been put off


DIGITALIS PURPUREA IO3
again and again, and now this must stop. You have
collected the rents on my property long ago and you have
no right to make all this delay in paying over the cash
to me and I am surprised at your even suggesting it
now after all the delay. If I do not get your cheque
by return post I shall consult my solicitor and make you
pay without more ado. He will go into your accounts
and square up the whole business, as I shall now, of
course, take my affairs out of your hands. I am keeping
a copy of this letter.
"Yours faithfully,
"E. Fenton."
"Mr. H. Watchet."
The Superintendent read the letter over twice
before saying anything.
"Who's Mr. H. Watchet?" he asked at length.
"He is the estate agent who looked after some
house-property that Mrs. Fenton owned," Corwen
explained. "His office is a few doors away from
mine on the same side of the street."
"Did she write to you on this matter?" Ross in-
quired.
Corwen shook his head.
"No, we got no letter bearing on that point."
"H'm! She saw this fellow on the morning of her
death. This letter was probably written in the after-
noon or evening. Before her time-limit for his cheque
was up, she was dead; so she didn't need to write
to you about it. I expect that's it."
James Corwen had drawn an obvious inference
from the state of affairs revealed by the document.


104 THE EYE IN THE MUSEUM
"That's a new thread in your case for you, Super-
intendent," he commented with a certain relief in
his tone. "Mrs. Fenton's death seems to have come
very conveniently for Mr. Watchet."
"That's one way of looking at it, certainly," said
the Superintendent, evasively.
He put the draft letter aside, and began to go
through the rest of the papers as systematically as
was possible in view of their confusion. From time
to time he referred to the solicitor for infor-
mation about the persons whose names cropped up;
but by the time he had completed his search, noth-
ing of any apparent importance had come to
light.
"That seems to be the lot," the Superintendent
said as he put down the last document. "Barring
that draft letter, there's nothing here that's of any
importance to me. I suppose there's no question that
it's in her own handwriting?"
"None whatever."
Superintendent Ross closed the drawer on which
his hand was resting and turned away from the
escritoire. He made a brief examination of the
handles of the French window, but seemed to find
nothing fresh in them. With an apology to Corwen
for keeping him waiting, he made a rapid search
of the room; but so far as the solicitor could see
this produced no new evidence.
"I just want to ask that maid a couple of questions
before I go," Ross explained as he abandoned his
perquisition. "Where's the bell? Oh, it's here."
He rang for the maid, but before she arrived he


DIGITALIS PURPUREA 105
had ushered the solicitor out of the drawing-room
and closed the door.
"I wonder if you can tell me something," he said
when the girl appeared. "I want to find out if Mrs.
Fenton posted a letter either in the afternoon or the
early evening, that night she died. Perhaps you saw
her go out with an envelope in her hand?"
"Oh, I can tell you that. I posted one for her my-
self in the afternoon. I remember it because she left
it to the last minute, and then told me to run for the
post at the pillar along the road."
"You don't remember the address on it?"
The maid shook her head.
"No, I didn't look at it. Why should I?"
"No reason at all. I just thought your eye might
have dropped on it as you were posting it, or some-
thing like that."
"Well, I don't remember anything about it."
Ross had hardly expected more than this. He
turned to a fresh subject.
"You answer the front door, don't you? On that
night, had Mrs. Fenton a visitor? Did you let any-
one in?"
The maid shook her head positively.
"No, nobody called that night that I know of.
I mean I let nobody in by the front door."
"What about the cook? She didn't open the front
door to someone, by any chance?"
"It was the cook's night out. There was nobody
but me to answer the front-door bell."
"What made me ask was because there were two
tumblers in the drawing-room. Did Mrs. Fenton not
■


106 THE EYE IN THE MUSEUM
ring for an extra tumbler at any time? She'd need
only one for herself."
"Mrs. Fenton always had the tray brought in
with two tumblers and two half-bottles of soda,
whether there was anyone expected or not. She
didn't like ringing the bell when she had a visitor."
"You mean that you left the tray with the de-
canter and so forth in the room aftej dinner, before
Mrs. Fenton went in?"
"Yes."
"Now I see," said the Superintendent gratefully.
"There's another point. I suppose there" might have
been a visitor all the same, that night. Someone
might have come in through the French window of
the drawing-room. Would you have seen that if it
had happened? Any of the windows of the kitchen
look out on the garden?"
"No. All our windows face the road. Only the
reception rooms and the bedrooms face the garden."
"Suppose anyone had come in, and later on went
out by the front door, would you have heard any-
thing?"
The maid shook her head definitely.
"No, the kitchen's ever so far away from the
front door. Anyhow, I didn't hear anyone going out,
if that's what you mean."
The Superintendent had no further questions to
ask, so he dismissed the maid.
"Just a moment, Mr. Corwen," he added, when
she had gone. "I want to refix these seals on the
door."
He pulled some sealing-wax from his pocket, re-


108 THE EYE IN THE MUSEUM
pending upon James Corwen to object to any errors
if he found them. The solicitor read out the state-
ments deliberately, pausing for consideration after
each clause; but as he drew near the end, he un-
consciously began to hurry a little. What he specially
wanted to see was how the Superintendent worded
the part of the notes dealing with the digitalis. But
when he reached that point in the notebook, he
found that all reference to the incident was omitted.
For a moment he paused, as though considering
whether to challenge the correctness of the report;
but almost immediately he seemed to make up his
mind to let sleeping dogs lie. Technically, the
Superintendent was quite within his rights in leaving
out the topic.
"That seems correct," he said, as he finished his
reading. "Miss Hazlemere will sign it for you."
The detective offered his fountain-pen and Joyce
put a shaky signature at the end of the notes.
"That finishes the matter," Ross said briskly, as
he put the notebook back into his pocket. "Thanks
for your patience, Miss Hazlemere. I hate worrying
people."
He turned to the solicitor.
"I think we'd better be getting along back to
town," he suggested. "But perhaps you'd like to
have a word or two with Miss Hazlemere before
you leave? I'll walk on slowly and you can over-
take me."
When he had left the room and closed the door
behind him, Joyce turned eagerly to James Corwen.
"What does he think?" she demanded in a quiver-


DIGITALIS PURPUREA
109
ing voice. "Does he think I did it? Has he found out
anything?"
James Corwen considered for a moment before
answering. After all, he was under no pledge of
secrecy with regard to Ross's discovery.
"He's found something that might point to some-
one else," he assured her, cautiously.
"Not to Leslie?"
"No, someone quite different," James Corwen re-
assured her. "But if I were you," he added, "I think
I should be very careful about mentioning names
like that. It might easily be twisted into a suggestion
that you suspect Mr. Seaforth yourself."


CHAPTER VII: THE MAN WITH THE
ALIASES
The Superintendent had lingered intentionally, and
James Corwen overtook him only a hundred yards
from the gate of The Cedars. When they fell into
step, side by side, the solicitor pursued his usual
policy of forcing the other man to speak first; and
for a short time they walked in silence. The Super-
intendent, however, had not waited for James Cor-
wen merely in order to have his company; he
wanted information from him; consequently he was
driven into making the first move.
"The difficulty in this case," he said, half-
apologetically, "is that most of the people in it are
nothing more than names so far as I'm concerned.
The result is, one's tempted to concentrate one's
attention on the persons that one's seen; and that
means a wrong perspective of the whole business."
James Corwen was sufficiently acute to see the
bait thrown out to him. In effect, the Superintendent
had said: "My attention's been mainly devoted to
your client because I know most about her. If you
gave me some facts about other people, it might
incline me to look further afield and trouble my
head less about Miss Hazlemere." The solicitor was


THE MAN WITH THE ALIASES III
too wary to reveal that he perceived the underlying
meaning.
"I'm not the editor of a 'Who's Who in Stan-
ningmore,'" he said, gruffly. "You'd better try
Dorrington. He sub-edits the local rag, and rather
prides himself on knowing most things that go on in
the place. You've seen him: foreman of the jury at
the inquest."
"I know something about him," the Superin-
tendent admitted cautiously. "But I'd rather trust
your information than his."
James Corwen was not specially amenable to
flattery. He merely grunted in response to this
feeler, and the Superintendent was driven to more
direct methods.
"I'll save you the bother of speculating," he said.
"The line of argument's simple enough and I've no
objection to putting my cards on the table. Two
glasses used that night in the drawing-room: a
visitor. Whiskey in both glasses: a male visitor,
most likely. Male visitor hasn't volunteered his
evidence: suspicious, perhaps. Mrs. Fenton had
various male friends: which of 'em was it? I've no
suspicions of anyone in particular. My mind's quite
open on that point. But I must have some informa-
tion about these people if I'm to get any further
forward. You have information, therefore I come to
you for it."
James Corwen discounted the apparent frankness
of the Superintendent. Ross had told him nothing
that an average intelligence would have failed to
see.


112
THE EYE IN THE MUSEUM
"Well, ask your questions," he said, grudgingly.
"But you needn't expect much. There's a law against
slander."
The Superintendent seemed in a mood to be grate-
ful for even small mercies.
"So far, I've only come up against five names of
men who had anything to do with Mrs. Fenton.
That's excluding yourself, of course: you were her
lawyer. The ones I mean are Mr. Fenton, Mr.
Seaforth, Dr. Hyndford, Mr. Hyndford, and this
estate agent—what's his name?—Watchet, isn't it?
I want to know as much as I can about these five to
start with."
"Ask your questions," James Corwen repeated,
impatiently.
He had hoped that Ross would betray some-
thing by inquiring first about the man of whom
he was most suspicious; but the Superintendent had
avoided this pitfall by offering the names in a per-
fectly logical order beginning with the husband and
going down through grades of intimacy until he
ended up with the estate agent.
"I'm just going to," Ross answered. "Can you tell
me anything about Mr. Fenton?"
"No. He's one of my clients."
"Ah! indeed! Then that finishes us with him,"
the Superintendent admitted with no sign of chagrin.
"Then what about Mr. Seaforth?"
"He's an employee of mine."
The Superintendent seemed slightly taken aback
by this second rebuff.
"You're not proving exactly a mine of informa-


THE MAN WITH THE ALIASES II3
tion, Mr. Corwen," he commented rather ruefully.
"Perhaps you can do something more for me in the
case of the two Hyndford brothers? What sort of
people are they?"
James Corwen relaxed slightly. Now that the line
of inquiry was passing away from the girl whose
defence he was preparing, he seemed more inclined
to be communicative; but his natural caution re-
strained him from too blunt expressions of his
opinions. He took refuge in an illustrative anecdote.
"I used to know the Hyndfords fairly well when
they were boys," he began, somewhat to the sur-
prise of the Superintendent who had not expected
to dive so far into ancient history. "Simon—that's
the doctor—was one of these athletic fellows, in
those days: good at football and gymnastics and not
much else."
"More brawn than brains, you mean?" the Super-
intendent interjected.
"He hadn't a first-rate intellect by any means,"
James Corwen confirmed. "But he had a certain
subtlety somewhere in his character and he was a bit
of a bully, as I remember him. He liked to domineer
over smaller boys, order them about, and thrash
them if they didn't do as they were told. But I
never saw him try it on with anyone near his own
size."
The contempt in James Corwen's voice was per-
fectly perceptible to the Superintendent. Ross began
to see why the solicitor preferred to deal with an-
cient history rather than to give his opinion of Dr.
Hyndford at the present day. Reminiscences of


THE MAN WITH THE ALIASES 115
made such a show of being disheartened that people
put the final success down to a stroke of luck and
discounted it accordingly. But my own impression
of him always was that he took the long view and
would see a thing through if he once took it up."
He paused for a moment as though wondering
whether to go on or not. At last he seemed to make
up his mind.
"One doesn't need to be much of a psychologist
to see what would happen in a family like that," he
continued. "Simon had it all his own way. I saw
a good deal of it, and there must have been a lot
behind that no one knew except the two of them.
You can guess what it means when a small boy
falls into the hands of a bullying brother; the moral
effect is thoroughly bad, not so much on account of
the bullying as because it affects the child's whole
outlook. It's a case of fighting a losing battle the
whole time, and knowing that the decision's settled
before the thing has even begun. There isn't even a
chance of winning."
The Superintendent was something of a psychol-
ogist himself, and he began to find Corwen's narra-
tive amusing.
"Why didn't the youngster give the show away?"
he demanded. "That seems an obvious way out."
The solicitor shook his head.
"I confess it's almost incredible that he didn't.
But you have to take into account that subtlety in
Simon's character that I mentioned to you. He
didn't depend altogether on physical force. Dickie
was a sensitive youngster and very fond of his


Il6 THE EYE IN THE MUSEUM
father. Simon played on that string—very cleverly
too. Amongst his other qualities, he had a certain
turn for low spying; and naturally he was soon able
to detect Dickie in a lot of little peccadillos. That
was the weapon Simon wanted. He had enough
cunning to play on Dickie's sensitive imagination
and persuade him that if these things came out,
their father would be furious. Nonsense, of course;
but a child's perspective is very different from ours.
A shilling picked up off his father's desk may loom
as big to him as the embezzlement of £50,000 to a
grown man. And Dickie wasn't by any means a
plaster angel in those days. He supplied Simon with
plenty of ammunition."
James Corwen glanced at the Superintendent's
face as though to determine if he was bored. Appar-
ently what he saw was sufficient to encourage him.
"Perhaps I have not laid enough stress on
Simon's ingenuity in this persecution. He really was
rather subtle in his methods. Dickie was little better
than a slave to his brother, after a fair course of this
treatment. He had to do exactly as he was ordered,
or else!"
"A form of blackmailing, eh?" the Superintendent
epitomised. "Blackmailers are about the lowest
grade of criminals, to my mind. But surely," he
went on, "a game of that sort would be bound to be
spotted, sooner or later."
"I think you underrate Simon's subtlety, Superin-
tendent. I can't have stressed it enough. Here's an
example of it. Suppose you were in Simon's place
and you wanted to give orders to the youngster un-


THE MAN WITH THE ALIASES 117
der his father's nose. Perhaps, feeling a bit more
courageous than usual, the boy refuses to do as you
tell him. Remember, the orders had to take the form
of mere suggestions in these circumstances. How
would you have applied an extra touch of the spur?"
"Oh, I expect a scowl or a wink or something
of that sort would have served the purpose."
"And their father might have seen the scowl?
Simon was more ingenious than that. So far as the
rest of the family knew, he and Dickie were on per-
fectly good terms. Half Simon's amusement came
from that, I believe. He liked to be able to flourish
the whip right in front of his father, knowing that
only Dickie could see the lash. You see, he wasn't
depending on a single peccadillo of Dickie's. He had
quite a list of them. What he did was to invent a
series of . . . well, cues, one might call them. One
of Dickie's misdeeds had to do with a broken fishing-
rod. The catchword for that was Izaak Walton. If
Dickie showed any signs of rebelling when his father
was there, Simon would drag Izaak into the talk
as a gentle hint."
"The psychology of that's sound enough," the
Superintendent admitted. "You mean that he could
suggest a concrete example of what he could tell,
just by an apparently innocent word or two; and he
could select the particular example that he thought
would tell most in these special circumstances?"
"Something like that," James Corwen agreed.
"Simon had a general gale warning as well. It was
even more ingenious, I believe. Sometimes it might
be inadvisable to talk inconsequently about Guy


118 THE EYE IN THE MUSEUM
Fawkes or Izaak Walton. In that case, Simon fell
back on one of the airs out of San Toy. It was new
in those days. Perhaps you remember it?"
James Corwen hummed a couple of lines which
the Superintendent recognised:
"Kowtow! Kowtow to the great Yen How!
And wish him the longest of lives. . . ."
"For Yen How, read Simon; and the applica-
tion's obvious," the solicitor pointed out. "And
there's nothing very suspicious in a boy's humming
'Kowtow, kowtow . . .' under his breath."
"That's pretty ingenious for a youngster," Ross
admitted, with no great admiration in his tone. "But
you seem to know a lot about it. Did you never
think of stepping in yourself?"
"I only heard the whole story long afterwards.
Mr. Hyndford told most of it to me himself after
he came back from Japan. It came up somehow to
illustrate some point we were talking about. Some-
thing to do with lack of self-confidence produced by
early influences."
"You don't paint a very attractive picture of Dr.
Hyndford, I must say," the Superintendent pointed
out.
"I wasn't talking about Dr. Hyndford as he is,"
James Corwen declared with a grim smile. "I was
merely indulging in a few reminiscences of a couple
of schoolboys."
"I understand that," Ross returned with a per-
fectly grave face. "But isn't it rather surprising
that they're living in the same house nowadays?


THE MAN WITH THE ALIASES 119
I'd have thought, with a history like that, the
younger brother would have dropped his senior
like a hot potato as soon as he could. Most people
would."
"Oh, I suppose one gets broadminded as time
goes on. After all, why should one keep these things
alive? I see no sign of any ill-feeling between them.
In fact, if they have a difference of opinion, the
doctor always gets his way without any fuss, which
would hardly be the case if his brother cherished a
grievance. They've no other relations, which per-
haps makes a difference."
The Superintendent asked no further questions
about the Hyndford brothers. James Corwen had
made it clear enough that he would give no informa-
tion about their present doings; and Ross had no
intention of courting a direct rebuff. He turned to
the last name on his list.
"What about this fellow Watchet?" he asked.
"There seems to be hankey-pankey in the affair
somewhere, to judge from that letter you saw. Do
you know anything about him?"
The solicitor was not encouraging.
"Mrs. Fenton looked after that part of her affairs
herself. My firm had nothing to do with it. I never
spoke to Watchet in my life."
"A blank end, there, then," Ross admitted. "I'll
need to try elsewhere for information."
By this time they had reached the streets of the
town, and James Corwen obviously had no desire
to discuss confidential matters where they might
be overheard. The Superintendent forestalled an


120 THE EYE IN THE MUSEUM
impending attempt to shake him off by halting and
taking his leave.
"I go up this way," he said, indicating a side-
street. "I suppose you're going back to your office?"
The solicitor nodded and they parted. For a mo-
ment or two Ross watched his late companion's
figure threading its way through the traffic on the
pavement.
"Sly old fox!" he commented inwardly. "I won-
der what he's really after. Was he merely trying to
attract my attention away from that client of his
or had he something else in his mind? He certainly
didn't lay himself out to give me a good impression
of the doctor, and that's a fact."
Musing over this problem, he walked slowly along
the street, when suddenly he heard someone calling
after him.
"Superintendent Ross! Just wait a minute, will
you?"
He swung round and confronted a sandy-haired
little man with an eager face which somehow re-
minded him of a friendly terrier.
"You don't know me, Superintendent . . ."
Ross's mobile face assumed an ominously solemn
expression.
"You're mistaken," he said, seriously. "I do
know you. In fact I know all the suspicious char-
acters in town."
The little man was plainly taken aback.
"Suspicious characters?" he demanded. "What's
suspicious about me, eh?"
"I'm always suspicious of a man who passes un-


THE MAN WITH THE ALIASES 121
der an alias," the Superintendent explained, gravely.
"And when it runs to half-a-dozen aliases, it makes
me seriously perturbed."
"Aliases? What're you talking about?"
"Aliases," said Ross patiently. "On Mondays,
when you're writing the 'Garden Notes,' you call
yourself Spademan; on Thursdays, you're Lady
Maisie, who gives 'Household Hints'; on Saturdays,
you go completely over the score, for you pose as
A.C.F. when you're doing the 'Talks with Mothers'
column, and as Wayfarer when you write 'From an
Armchair' in a religious vein. I've more than a
suspicion that you may be Singleton of the Bridge
Article, and Hook-up who turns out the stuff on
wireless once a week. And, finally, you're Mr.
William Dorrington at your home address. A man
with all these aliases must have some dark secret
in his life—or lives, as the case may be. Shortness of
staff is what I'm inclined to suspect."
The Superintendent had gauged his man accu-
rately.
"Keep it dark," the journalist begged in mock
terror. "I'm nominally a sub-editor and I'd hate
anyone to know I did any writing with anything
except a blue pencil. I'll own up and come quietly
if you'll keep my guilty secret. I do write about half
the Gazette myself, if the truth must come out. The
office-boy helps us with the rest, and the printer
does the poetry for us."
"And just now, I suppose, you're Thorndyke
Holmes, the Crime Expert of the Stanningmore
Gazette, hot on the trail?"


122 THE EYE IN THE MUSEUM
"Something of the sort. Come along to the office
and have a drink, will you? I want to talk to
you."
"You mean you want me to talk to you?" cor-
rected Ross. "No drinks then, thank you. The
charm of your company's enough attraction in itself.
And since you've so obviously got no ulterior mo-
tives, I'll give you a bit of exclusive information.
The police have a clue."
"They always have a clue," the journalist ex-
claimed disgustedly. "That's no use to me. Not in-
teresting enough."
"Well, then," the Superintendent suggested
soothingly, "you can say the police have several
clues. That'll make it ever so much more exciting
for your readers. Several times as interesting, in
fact."
"Is that all the length you've got?" Dorrington
demanded. "Why, I thought that by this time
you'd have found arsenic in the weed-killer and a
new cement floor in the cellar. These are the very
first things to look for in any case nowadays. You
don't seem to read the newspapers at all, in the
Force."
He halted at a door which bore the name of The
Stanningmore Gazette.
"Here we are! Well go upstairs."
By the time that Superintendent Ross was en-
sconced in an easy-chair in the sub-editor's room,
he had established his relations with Dorrington on
an easy footing, and it was time to turn to serious
business.


THE MAN WITH THE ALIASES 123
"I'll be quite frank with you, Mr. Dorrington,"
he said in a tone from which all flippancy had van-
ished. "When you came across me in the street, I
was actually on my road here to see you. There's
no use in beating about the bush. I want you to work
the Press for me."
Dorrington pricked up his ears. This looked as
though The Gazette might make a scoop after all.
"That's talking," he said. "Let's hear what you
want, and I'll see if it can be done."
Superintendent Ross considered for a moment.
"I'll put my cards on the table," he said slowly.
"I know enough about you to rely on your dis-
cretion, Mr. Dorrington. The fact is, Mrs. Fenton
had at least one visitor that night—someone who
got in and out of the house without being seen.
What I don't know, and what I very much want to
know, is the identity of that visitor. I'm not with-
out a suspicion or two, but I want something
definite."
"I see," said Dorrington, reflectively. "You want
us to put a paragraph into The Gazette hinting that
you know a bit more than you really do, and sug-
gesting how suspicious it is that this visitor hasn't
volunteered evidence?"
"Something of the sort," Ross confirmed. "But be
diplomatic over it. Don't get all four feet in the
trough at once."
"I'll see that's done for you."
The sub-editor made a jotting on a pad.
"Anything else?" he inquired.
"Another thing, but you won't be able to use it


124 THE EYE IN THE MUSEUM
in the paper. Not immediately, at any rate," Ross
added, as he saw Dorrington's face fall at the quali-
fication. "You're a bit of a botanist. It breaks out
here and there in your Garden Notes. I want an
expert opinion."
"I only know some of the commoner things"
Dorrington began doubtfully.
"This is one of them," the Superintendent inter-
rupted.
He put his hand into his pocket and extracted
some of the leaves and flowers which he had secured
at The Cedars.
"What do you make of these?" he asked, hold-
ing them out in the palm of his hand. "Which is it:
Digitalis grandiflora or Digitalis purpurea?"
The ill-omened name had its immediate effect on
the journalist.
"By Gad," he exclaimed. "That's smart! I take
back what I said about weed-killers and cement
floors. This is a winner! I could kick myself for
not having thought of it myself. So damned simple
when you see it in front of you: a poison factory
in the garden, what?"
He examined the debris on the Superintendent's
palm.
"Digitalis purpurea" he pronounced.
"So I thought," Ross answered. "By the way,
have you an envelope?"
Dorrington passed one across to him, and the
Superintendent sealed up the leaves and petals,
putting the packet into his pocket when he had
done so.


THE MAN WITH THE ALIASES 125
"Where did you get 'em?" Dorrington demanded.
"In a garden," answered the Superintendent with
a grin. "We needn't mention names, need we? And
we certainly won't print anything about it in our
Garden News, I take it?"
"Well, if you say so, of course "the journal-
ist conceded reluctantly. "You'll give us the first
rake-off, though, when the time comes to turn on
the publicity-tap?"
"That's understood," Ross agreed readily. "Well,
I've given you a paragraph; I've entrusted you
with a State Secret; and now it's about time you
did something for me, by way of a change. I want
some odds and ends of information about various
people."
"The sort of thing we don't print, I suppose?"
the sub-editor questioned in a doubtful voice. "I
might be had up for slander."
"I've trusted you; now you trust me," the Super-
intendent pointed out.
"I've heard something like that before," Dorring-
ton said in a derisive tone. "And to think I believed
that the confidence trick was dead! One lives and
learns, apparently, even in journalism. Well, what
do you want me to tell you?"
"Are you a friend of Dr. Hyndford's?" Ross in-
quired.
"Not particularly. I nod to him in the street."
"I don't know him as intimately as that," Ross
explained. "Your description of him makes me feel
I'd like to hear more. Can you give me a character
sketch of him—just a few salient points?"


126 THE EYE IN THE MUSEUM
Dorrington considered for a moment or two be-
fore answering.
"This is the best I can do," he began. "Profes-
sional standing: he's a good average G.P. and
would never be anything better. Social position: not
unpopular, but he consorts mostly with people just
a shade lower than himself socially. Mrs. Fenton
was an exception. Literary tastes: he reads nothing
but the football and racing news, and Ruff's Guide.
If you ask him a date, he says: 'That was the year
of Sansovino's Derby,' or 'It was the summer that
Pogrom won the Oaks.' Financial status: not usually
very flush, unless he happens to have picked a
winner. Matrimonial intentions: strictly dishonour-
able, according to gossip; they say he leans towards
polygamy with a complete disregard for ceremony."
"That doesn't help very much," the Superin-
tendent commented, as Dorrington paused after
delivering his summary.
"Well, strictly between ourselves," the journalist
added, "the impression I get of him is that he's an
unscrupulous devil. Mind, I've no evidence to back
it. It's just what one feels about him. There's a sort
of mean streak somewhere, though I couldn't put my
finger on it exactly."
"'I do not like thee, Dr. Fell'?"
"Exactly."
The Superintendent changed the subject.
"I believe Mrs. Fenton dabbled in betting too?"
"So they say. She and the doctor had that taste
in common."
"It's quite certain, isn't it?" Superintendent


THE MAN WITH THE ALIASES 127
Ross asked. "What puzzles me about it is that we
haven't found a trace of any betting-books amongst
her belongings. Now if she really went in for betting,
you'd think she'd have kept some notes; but we
can't lay our hands on anything of the sort."
He stared at the journalist and then added hastily:
"That's confidential, of course. I don't want any
little paragraphs about the matter."
"It seems a bit rum," Dorrington admitted
thoughtfully. "She had the name of being pretty
keen on the dibs; but she spent a lot on herself—
dress and so forth—so probably there wasn't much
to splash about after all. Haven't you found any
account-books that might give a clue?"
Ross shook his head.
"She kept no accounts, it seems."
Again he changed the subject.
"This niece of hers, Miss Hazlemere, what about
her?"
"I don't know her," the journalist admitted.
"Nice girl, though, from all one hears."
"And young Seaforth?"
"Can't help you much with him either."
"Well, what about the doctor's brother?" Ross
inquired.
"Hyndford? Oh, I do know a little about him.
Nervous little beggar. The sort of man who starts
all his sentences with: 'What I mean is in-
stead of getting to his subject direct. He gives me
the impression of being a bit under the shadow of
his brother, somehow. Always gives in at once if
there's any argument between them, and that sort of


128 THE EYE IN THE MUSEUM
thing. At least, I only saw them together once or
twice, and it rather struck me; so it must be fairly
obvious."
"What does he do to fill in the time? I understand
he's given up business."
"Oh, yes, lucky devil! He made some money in
Japan—not a fortune, but enough to exist on. He
does nothing that I know of. Potters around the
garden and takes the dog for a walk. He's the sort of
man who always gets interrupted when he begins to
talk with three or four people there. Before he's got
his little 'I mean to say . . .' off his chest, someone
else has cut in and Hyndford subsides. He gives you
the impression of %a suppressed individuality, some-
how, especially when his brother's about."
"Was he friendly with Mrs. Fenton?"
"Not particularly, so far as I know. She liked the
doctor's type—the big, assertive brand. The younger
brother wasn't her sort, I should imagine. But re-
member, I never knew them well enough to give an
opinion; I'm just passing on some impressions I
picked up here and there."
"Anything more about him?"
"Oh, yes, your speaking about Mrs. Fenton re-
minds me that Hyndford used to know Mr. Fenton.
I shouldn't say they were anything in the Damon
and Pythias line; but they had one or two things in
common. Must have been a bit awkward for Hynd-
ford when his brother got mixed up with Mrs. Fen-
ton. Luckily Fenton doesn't live in town now."
Ross showed his comprehension with a nod, and
the journalist did not pursue the subject.


THE MAN WITH THE ALIASES 129
"There's another man I want to know about,"
the Superintendent went on. "I believe Mrs. Fen-
ton had some house-property run by an agent called
Watling or Watchet or some such name. Know any-
thing about him?"
The journalist's sharp eyes scanned Ross's face
keenly. Evidently the introduction of Watchet's
name had taken him by surprise.
"Watchet, you mean?" he said, after a moment.
"Well, if it's strictly between ourselves, there's a
good deal of talk going round about Watchet's af-
fairs. The general impression seems to be that he's
got his business into rather a muddle; and that he
may have to go bankrupt. I can't guarantee it's
more than a rumour, of course; and I'm giving it to
you as such."
He looked up vexedly as the opening of the door
interrupted him.
"Well, what is it?" he demanded, as the office-
boy appeared on the threshold.
"There's a man downstairs, Mr. Dorrington.
Wants to see you particularly, he says. I asked him
what it was about, but he wouldn't tell me. So I
got him to write it down and give it to me in an
envelope."
He extended the missive as he spoke. Dorrington
tore open the flap, glanced at the contents, and
passed the sheet over to Ross with a warning glance.
"Dere Sir,—I have some valuble infermation about
the afair at the cedars. It will be a great sensasion for
your paper and worth a lot of monney to you.
"Nathan Sturry."


130 THE EYE IN THE MUSEUM
Dorrington turned to the office-boy.
"Who is this beggar? D'you know him?"
"He's one of the gardeners up at the Struan
Museum," the boy explained, evidently delighted to
show his knowledge. "I've seen him working there
in the gardens often. He's in his best clothes now."
The sub-editor nodded.
"Well, tell him I'm busy just now with one of my
reporters," he directed, giving the Superintendent an
ironical side-glance as he spoke. "Ask him to wait
for a minute or two; and then I'll be free to attend
to him. You can bring him up here when I ring the
bell."
As the office-boy closed the door behind him,
Dorrington swung round in his swivel chair and
faced Ross.
"I might have made a scoop over this—whatever
it is," he pointed out, "but I'd rather work along
with you than against you, if you'll deal fair with
us. You won't let us down?"
The Superintendent made no reply in words, but
his nod was reassuring.
"All right, then," said Dorrington. "You'd better
sit over yonder at that table and make a noise like
a reporter. A sort of Busy Bee sound, if you know
what I mean. I'll dig into the informer's innards
and bring the truth to light. By the way," he added,
maliciously, "you'd better travel incognito. I'll call
you—let's see—Hildebrand Robinson. It'll be a
new experience for you, Superintendent, to have a
fine alias like that. You can start suspecting your-
self, now. Won't that be nice?"


THE MAN WITH THE ALIASES 133
"The police isn't offering any money," said Sturry
frankly. "What would there be in it for me, if I
went to the police. Just sweet damn all. That would
be about it. But you, see? you would be paying for
a bit of news, they say. And this ii news, see? It
ought to be worth a bit of money to you. What
would you think of paying, I wonder?"
"Nothing for a pig in a poke."
The gardener seemed rather dashed by this.
"But if I was to tell you about it, then where'd I
be?" he pointed out. "Some pigs is worth nothing,
once they're out of the poke. This is one of them
kind of pigs. If I was to tell you what I know, then
you'd know it too; and you wouldn't likely give me
anything for my pains. You don't catch Nathan
Sturry like that, mister."
The journalist's bright eyes fastened themselves
on the face of the gardener for a moment as though
in an attempt to gauge his price.
"Ten bob down, then, and more later if your
stuff's worth it," he snapped.
Apparently he had estimated correctly.
"Ten bob's not much," said Sturry complainingly.
"It ought to be more nor that. What about a
pound?"
But his tone showed that he was prepared to ac-
cept the original offer.
"Here's your ten bob," said Dorrington, passing
a note across. "Now get on with it! I've no time
to waste."
Sturry examined the note carefully before stowing
it away in his pocket. Then a fresh thought seemed


134 THE EYE IN THE MUSEUM
to strike him, and his little piggish eyes showed a
gleam of animation.
"Here's your ten bob's worth, then," he said,
insolently. "Just before that there murder at The
Cedars, a young fellow and his girl came up to see
the Museum. By-and-by, they came outside and be-
gan to potter round about the gardens and at last
they sat down on one of the seats and fell to talking.
I was behind a hedge, near-by, and they didn't notice
me. They thought they was all alone, see? I was
sort of interested-like in their talk. They sounded
at first as if they was quarrelling, and it was that at-
tracted my attention and made me listen. I didn't pay
no particular attention at the time to what they
said; but afterwards things looked a bit different,
once I'd heard some talk about the inquest. What
them two talked about would be a titbit for that
paper of yours, you can take my word. It'd put the
blame on the right shoulders, see?"
He halted for a moment as though trying to see
what effect he had produced.
"And I reckon that's all you get for your ten
bob, mister," he added. "You'll have to fork out
some more for the rest of the story."
He glanced slyly at the journalist, evidently feel-
ing that he had out-manoeuvred him.
Dorrington swung round in his swivel chair and
made a gesture to Ross.
"You'd better take it in hand now," he suggested,
ignoring the gardener completely.
Sturry was evidently all at sea. Just when he
thought he had gained his point, the game had be-


I36 THE EYE IN THE MUSEUM
a little money out of his information had not been
quite so successful as he had hoped. Still, he had
that ten-bob note in his pocket; and most probably
they'd forget about it and let him keep it. That
would always be something. He made up his mind to
take the Superintendent's advice.
"I didn't know there was any harm in it," he
protested. "I hadn't a notion of that, see? I'll tell
you anything you want for to know."
"Very well," said the Superintendent acidly. "Go
ahead with your story. And this time, see you bring
the whole pig out of the poke—every bristle of
him."
Sturry nodded rather disconsolately.
"It was this way," he began. "Young Mr. Sea-
forth—him that's Secretary to the Struan Trust—
he brought his girl up to the Museum that day. I'd
never seen her before but I took notice of her, for
she's a nice-looking piece and worth looking at. Him
I knew, of course; known him for years.
"They sat down on a seat, like as I told you
before; and I was near enough for to hear what
they said. First of all the girl talked a lot about
some aunt of hers and how she hated her. Then
Mr. Seaforth he took a turn and talked a lot about
somebody's will. I wasn't paying much attention
to that, so I can't tell you exactly what they said.
I know they seemed down-in-the-mouth, more than
a bit, but that's all.
"Then, all of a sudden, the girl got angry over
something or other, and I got interested. I thought
it was a row they were having or something like


I38 THE EYE IN THE MUSEUM
Sturry was giving his evidence, Ross had been tak-
ing notes; and he now made the informant sign
them, after reading them over to him. When this
had been done, he passed the notebook to Dorring-
ton for him to initial as a witness.
"That's all you have to tell, Sturry?"
"That's every bit of it that I can remember."
"I'll think over it," said the Superintendent, in
no very cordial tone. "You may not be out of the
wood yet, my friend. And there's just one thing!
Don't you breathe a word of all this to anyone.
That's a bit of good advice for you, even if it costs
you nothing. You bear it well in mind, my man."
And with that he dismissed Sturry, who was glad
to get out of his clutches. As he descended the stairs,
the gardener comforted himself as best he could by
feeling the ten-shilling note in his trousers pocket.
After all, he had made something out of the busi-
ness.
When the sound of his steps on the stairs died
away, the journalist turned to Ross and allowed
his suppressed grin to appear.
"Was it misprision of felony?" he demanded
ironically.
"I didn't say it was," the Superintendent re-
torted with an answering smile. "I said misprision
of felony was a serious offence. So it is. No harm
in stating the fact, is there? I like people to learn
a little about the law."
"Ah," said Dorrigton flippantly, "Latin's a won-
derful language. He sat up like a startled rabbit
when you rolled out 'accessory ex post facto.' The


THE MAN WITH THE ALIASES 139
terror of the unknown, I suppose. And yet if I were
to say suggestio falsi, I don't suppose you'd so much
as blench, Superintendent? Education's a marvel-
lous thing, I always feel."
He paused for a moment, and then went on:
"Like to wash your hands?"
Ross seemed puzzled for a moment; then he
laughed.
"I see what you mean. He was rather a dirty
tool to handle, wasn't he? But I'm paid for handling
that kind of instrument and I've got used to it,
Mr. Dorrington. I even find it interesting at times."
"You surprise me," the journalist retorted, un-
abashed.
Then, in a more serious tone, he demanded:
"What do you think about this story that he gave
us?"
"No use making up one's mind until one's got
all the facts," Ross answered, evasively. "I expect
he told us something like the truth; he could hardly
have made it all up. But the importance of any
fact generally lies in its relation to other facts; and
I don't pretend to have got enough facts yet."
"You don't want me to use the stuff, I take it?"
"I don't see how you could, without being libel-
lous," the Superintendent pointed out cheerfully.
"I suppose that's so," Dorrington confessed.
"Now, is there anything else you want to know?
I hate to draw comparisons, but I'm a fairly busy
man, with very little time on my hands."
Ross ignored the insinuation.
"I'd like to know something about Mrs. Fenton's


I4.0 THE EYE IN THE MUSEUM
husband," he answered. "You mentioned him in
passing, didn't you? Have you anything more about
him in stock?"
The journalist looked thoughtful and paused for
a moment or two before replying.
"Well, it's more or less common talk, so there's
no harm in saying it, since you'll pick it up else-
where if you go looking for it. But we're speaking
in confidence, remember. You're not to quote me
as an authority."
The Superintendent gave a confirmatory nod, and
Dorrington went on.
"It's pretty well an open scandal in the place,"
he exclaimed. "Things had been going from bad
to worse in the Fenton menage for a good while;
but the final burst-up came about two years ago.
I suppose Fenton had stood her as long as he could;
and the last straw was when a girl turned up, stay-
ing here for a visit. Fenton got to know her some-
how. Apparently they got keen on each other. I
gather that she's one of the younger generation that
looks on sex affairs more or less in the way that you
or I might look on a good dinner—sort of thing
that's nice while it lasts but certainly isn't worth
worrying about once it's over. Tastes the same,
whether you say a blessing to start with or not. You
know the sort of thing—there are plenty of 'em
about."
"They used to call them privateers in my young
days," the Superintendent interjected. "I know what
you mean."
"Well, Fenton and this girl—Nancy March, her


THE MAN WITH THE ALIASES I4I
name is—seem to have dispensed with the blessing
and tucked into their dinner; and that didn't tend
to smooth matters in the Fenton household, nat-
urally. In fact, before very long, there was a bit of
an explosion; and Fenton cleared out."
The journalist seemed doubtful whether to go on
or not, but the Superintendent's silent persuasion
overcame his diffidence.
"That's more or less established on the face of
things," Dorrington went on. "The rest of it's partly
guess-work; but the general impression seems to be
that Fenton and the girl have really fallen in love
with each other, and that's made a bit of a differ-
ence. The girl's living with her people, you see,
and they can only meet on the sly. So apparently
they've come round to the notion that it would be
a sound plan to say grace after meat, so to speak,
and regularise things so that they could set up house
together openly. The girl's fond of her people and
they're a bit old-fashioned by her standards. They
don't know anything about her little game. Every-
thing would have been O.K., if Fenton could have
got a divorce; but that wife of his wouldn't take
proceedings. Too spiteful, or something, I expect.
That's how the land lay, if one believes what one
hears. Now, of course, it's plain sailing, since Fen-
ton's a widower."
"Very interesting," the Superintendent com-
mented.
He refrained from betraying the fact that only
part of the story was new to him.
"I expect you're busy," he said, rising to his


142 THE EYE IN THE MUSEUM
feet. "I'd like to drop in some other time and hear
what you make of the whole business. You had
special advantages, being on that jury and seeing
the witnesses give their evidence. If anything turns
up that can be used by the Gazette, I'll let you know
about it at once. In the meantime, you won't for-
get that paragraph about the mysterious visitor?
Thanks."


144 THE EYE IN THE MUSEUM
quarters, so as to keep in touch with the telephone.
About midday, there came a message making an
appointment for him at Dr. Hyndford's house that
afternoon. The badger had been drawn, as he hoped.
The next problem was how to tackle him now that
he had come into the open.
But Ross was in no hurry to draw conclusions
from such evidence as he had. Even if Dr. Hyndford
was the man who had visited Mrs. Fenton on the
night of the murder, that did not necessarily connect
him directly with the crime itself. It was perhaps
curious that he had not come forward and volun-
teered his evidence; but there might be some per-
fectly reasonable explanation for this; and Ross re-
strained himself from any prejudging of the case.
At the present stage, information was what he
wanted: inferences could wait.
"I expect I'd better be rather dull, this after-
noon," he decided at last. "From all I've gathered
about that doctor, he's not simple, even if his name's
Simon. One can meet that type best by playing the
stupid fellow, if one doesn't overdo the acting."
At three o'clock he was ushered into the doctor's
study, prepared to play the part he had assigned to
himself. When he entered, Dr. Hyndford rose from
an easy-chair: a big slow-moving man whose creased
grey flannel suit hardly suggested the successful
practitioner. As he came forward, the Superintendent
had to admit to himself that Dr. Hyndford possessed
the mysterious quality which enables even stupid
men to impose themselves on their fellows. Ross's
glance took in the massive features, the big heavy-


NINE TO ELEVEN P. M. 145
bridged nose, the square jaw, the sullen and sardonic
lips; then his own eyes were fixed by the direct and
rather contemptuous gaze from the doctor's pale-
blue ones.
After a conventional greeting to the Superin-
tendent, Dr. Hyndford made a gesture introducing
a second person:
"My brother," he explained concisely.
Mr. Richard Hyndford proved to be not unlike
Ross's preconceived picture of him. A shade below
normal height, he had none of the formidable ap-
pearance of his brother; and his quick nervous move-
ments were in strong contrast to the doctor's delib-
erateness. When he came forward, at his brother's
introduction, the Superintendent noticed that his
eyes had that faint touch of vagueness which comes
from incipient short-sightedness.
"Hot day for walking up here," said the doctor,
as though to put matters on a friendly footing.
"Have a drink, Superintendent?"
He indicated a try with a decanter and soda on
a table near the window. Superintendent Ross shook
his head.
"You won't? Sure? Well, if it's not bad manners,
I'll take one myself."
He turned to his brother.
"What about you, Dickie?"
"Well . . ." Richard Hyndford hesitated for a
moment. "A small one for me, then. Don't make it
more than two fingers, Simon, please; and fill up
with the soda."
Dr. Hyndford went across to the tray and picked


146 THE EYE IN THE MUSEUM
up one of the soda-water bottles which he wrapped
in his handkerchief before opening it. Seeing the
Superintendent's astonishment at this unusual pro-
cedure, the doctor laughed.
"I'd rather look fussy than run risks," he ex-
plained, holding out his hand for the detective to
examine. "One of these things once cracked at the
neck when I was opening it. You can see the scar
there where it cut me. Since then, I've been on the
careful side where soda's concerned. They had to
put five stitches into the gash."
He gave his brother one tumbler and returned with
the other to his easy-chair. The homely series of
manoeuvres had established a more normal atmo-
sphere.
"You wanted to see me about something or
other?" the Superintendent suggested tentatively, as
though anxious to get to business as soon as pos-
sible.
Dr. Hyndford took a long pull at his whiskey and
gave a faint sigh of satisfaction as he put down his
tumbler again.
"I see from this morning's Gazette that you want
to get in touch with the visitor Mrs. Fenton had on
the night she died," he said unhesitatingly. "Weil,
I was that visitor. If you've any questions to ask,
then ask them. I'll give you all the help I can."
The Superintendent had hardly expected such
bluntness; and he had little difficulty in letting the
doctor see that he was taken aback.
"You were the visitor?" he exclaimed with care-
fully calculated astonishment in his tone. "Then why


NINE TO ELEVEN P.M. 147
didn't you give some evidence at the inquest?"
"'Nobody asked me, sir . . ."' Dr. Hyndford
retorted. "Look here! I'm not so deaf that I can't
hear talk behind my back at times. You must know
as well as I do that there was a damned lot of scandal
talked about Mrs. Fenton and me. We were sup-
posed to be pretty thick. I don't admit it. I don't
deny it. It's a side-issue. Now suppose I'd rushed in
and volunteered my evidence at the inquest. I had
nothing to tell. I went across after dinner and I
left her, alive, at about eleven o'clock. An inquest's
held merely to discover the cause of a death. I've
no sympathy with this modern notion of using it to
drag all sorts of irrelevant private affairs into the
limelight. My evidence wouldn't have thrown any
light on the cause of her death. What would have
happened would have been a damned lot of gossip
and whispering about Mrs. Fenton and me. 'What
was he doing in her house, eh?' and nods and winks.
No need to let that sort of thing loose, was there?
It would have been different if my evidence had
been any use. It wouldn't. But it would have been
used as a handle to dig up a lot of things that are
best left alone. De mortuis . . . and all that sort
of thing, that seems to me sound policy in this case.
So I didn't volunteer evidence."
There had been an increasing twang of irritation
in his voice throughout his explanation, and when
he stopped, his lips set in a hard expression which
betrayed his feelings just as clearly.
"There's something in that," the Superintendent
admitted, frankly. "It's a fresh way of looking at


I48 THE EYE IN THE MUSEUM
it, certainly. I hadn't thought of it in that light be-
fore."
Dr. Hyndford's lips relaxed a trifle.
"Well, I'm glad you see it," he said, in a not too
conciliatory tone. "I thought no one knew I'd paid
her that visit on the night of her death. It had noth-
ing to do with the case. So naturally the best thing
to do was to keep my mouth shut about it and not
give people a chance to gossip, damn their eyes!
Of course, as soon as I saw that paragraph this
morning, I knew someone had spotted that I'd been
there. It was no good lying low any longer—might
have looked suspicious, in fact. So I rang you up as
soon as I could. Now if you've any questions to ask,
I'll tell you all you want to know."
The Superintendent nodded thoughtfully in reply
to this and pulled out a loose-leaf notebook.
"I'll have to take notes of what you say," he
pointed out, "and I shall want you to sign them
afterwards. It's the usual procedure, I suppose you
know."
Dr. Hyndford's curt nod gave his agreement to
this condition.
"I think," said Ross, "it would save time,
probably, if you simply told me your own story
of what happened that evening—I mean your
movements, and so on. We'd get on quicker, that
way."
Dr. Hyndford again nodded brusquely.
"Very well," he said. "My brother and I dined
here at 7.30 as usual. After dinner, say about 8.15
or a shade later, I sat out in the garden for half an


NINE TO ELEVEN P.M. 149
hour or so. My brother was with me. That's so,
Dickie?"
Mr. Hyndford seemed a shade taken aback by
being brought into the matter at this point.
"Yes, quite true," he confirmed. "I was busy with
one of the beds just then. What I mean is, I was
clearing out some stuff that seemed to me to need
thinning."
The doctor continued:
"Just about that time, I saw young Seaforth come
down the river in his canoe; and Miss Hazlemere
walked across the lawn of The Cedars to join him.
She got into the canoe and they went off together
downstream. I can't give you the exact time of that;
and it's not important so far as I can see. I merely
happened to notice it. A little later, I went down and
got out my own canoe to go over to The Cedars"
"You've missed something, Simon, haven't you?"
Mr. Hyndford interjected. "What I mean to say is:
wasn't it just about then that I happened to men-
tion to you I was expecting Fenton to drop in? I
think it was about that time when I told you about
it."
The doctor threw a rather unpleasant look at his
brother, and Mr. Hyndford seemed to shrink a little
under the baleful glance.
"If you start interrupting, Dickie, I'll be apt to
lose the thread; and I want to have this thing quite
clear."
"Oh, very well," Mr. Hyndford agreed, nervously.
"You tell your story. I mean I won't interrupt again.
That's all right."


150 THE EYE IN THE MUSEUM
The doctor turned back towards the Superintend-
ent and continued:
"After dinner, Mrs. Fenton usually sat in the
drawing-room of The Cedars—the room with the
French window. I went over in my canoe, walked up
to the house, went in through the French window,
and found her there, as I expected."
"Just a moment," interrupted the Superintendent.
"You're a medical man. Did you notice anything
abnormal about her when you saw her then, any-
thing you think suggestive?"
Dr. Hyndford's cold eyes regarded the Superin-
tendent with some slight surprise, not unmingled
with contempt.
"Abnormal?" he demanded. "What exactly do
you mean by abnormal? I saw nothing unusual in
her. She wasn't throwing herself about or going into
hysterics, so far as I remember."
Then a thought seemed to strike him.
"She wasn't drunk," he added, brutally. "I sup-
pose that's what you're after. No, she was quite
sober."
The Superintendent made no comment, and after
a moment the doctor continued:
"We talked about various things—bets she was
thinking of making; some trouble she'd had with
her agent, a man Watchet; her niece, I think. Noth-
ing of any importance that I can remember."
"Did she offer you anything to drink? Whiskey
and soda?" the Superintendent inquired.
"No. There was some whiskey and soda on a
tray—there usually was. But we didn't take any."


NINE TO ELEVEN P. M.
The Superintendent hoped that he had succeeded
in controlling his face sufficiently to suggest that the
matter was of little importance; but Dr. Hyndford
had seen what was behind the question.
"I see," he commented. "It's the used tumblers
you're after. I remember that in the evidence at the
inquest. Probably she had a drink or two herself
after I'd gone. They weren't used while I was there,
so far as I remember."
He paused, as though thinking over the point;
but he was evidently satisfied in his own mind, for
when he spoke again it was to continue his narrative.
"About eleven o'clock, I got up to go. I can't
give you the exact time, but it must have been
round about eleven."
"It was about five to eleven," Mr. Hyndford in-
terrupted. "At least, what I mean to say is that I
remember hearing the clock chime the quarter just
as Fenton left me at the garden gate; and it was ten
minutes or so after that that you came in again,
Simon."
"All right," the doctor agreed impatiently. "Call
it five to eleven if you like. I came into the house
and rang for a drink, so it can't have been much
later than eleven or the maid would have been in
bed. My brother and I sat talking for a while—I
forget what about."
"It was about the green-fly on the roses, part of
the time," Mr. Hyndford put in timidly. "I was
telling you about the new stuff I'd been trying to
cure it with."
"Some rot or other, anyhow," the doctor said,
r


152 THE EYE IN THE MUSEUM
rudely. "I can't remember exactly what it was.
After that, I went up to bed. I remember that all
right, because I slipped on the stair and came down
on all-fours with the devil's own thump. One of the
maids—damned little idiot!—poked her head out of
her room and wanted to know if it was burglars.
As if any burglar would come sneaking into a house
with all the electric lights on!"
"That's a very clear account, doctor," the Super-
intendent said with a fatuous expression, when he
saw that Dr. Hyndford had finished. "I wish all
witnesses would put things as plainly as you've done.
There's just one point I'm not quite clear about.
You went in by the French window of The Cedars.
So it was open then. Did you come out by it? Was
it open when you left the house?"
Dr. Hyndford seemed to reconsider.
"It was open all the evening," he said at last,
"but if I remember rightly, the curtains were drawn
across it. And I'd forgotten something else. Just
as I was going away, Mrs. Fenton found she wanted
something from her room upstairs and I went out
with her into the hall. When I got there, the shortest
way out of the house was by the front door; so I
went out that way. When I got on to the doorstep,
I saw Mr. Marton in the garden over the way with
his telescope. He evidently saw me—it was bright
moonlight—for he called over and asked me to go
across. I said I was in a hurry—if you know Mr.
Marton, you may guess why I said that—and I
walked round the house and down to my canoe
again."


NINE TO ELEVEN P. M. 153
The Superintendent displayed no particular in-
terest in this emendation of the narrative. He would
have the means of checking it later on.
"Just another point, doctor," he said. "You men-
tioned some talk about betting. Did Mrs. Fenton
keep a betting-book or anything of that sort?"
"Of course she did," answered the doctor, in a
tone of slight astonishment. "How else could she
have kept track of her bets?"
"Where did she usually keep it?"
"In the writing-desk in the drawing-room, I
think," Dr. Hyndford answered, after thinking for
a moment or two.
"She didn't keep her old betting-books, did she?"
"How should I know?" the doctor demanded.
The Superintendent tried a new line.
"I suppose you know what scale she betted on?
I mean, was it a question of a tenner now and
again, or did she really bet heavily?"
"I know she plunged, now and again; but really
I've no clear ideas about the general run of her bets.
Once or twice she had a thousand on. I know that.
But I don't think she went in for it on that scale
as a rule."
"I suppose you don't know the name of her
bookmaker?"
Dr. Hyndford shook his head.
"No. In some ways she was rather a secretive per-
son. And I'd no interest in the matter. No business
of mine."
The Superintendent seemed to have come to the
end of his questions. He detached the loose leaves


154 THE EYE IN THE MUSEUM
of his notes from the notebook and handed them
across to the doctor, with a request for his signature.
Dr. Hyndford read over the jottings, pulled out
his fountain-pen, scrawled his name at the foot, and
handed the sheets back to Ross.
"That's all that's official," the Superintendent
pointed out, as he closed his notebook. "But I'd
like your views on one or two points. The plain
truth is, doctor," he admitted ingenuously, "I'm
completely stuck in this case. It seems to have no
head or tail to it. Now you knew Mrs. Fenton well.
You must have some suspicions. A thing that means
nothing to me, might mean a lot to you. Who do
you think did it? You can give me a pointer, per-
haps?"
The doctor's cold eyes met those of the Superin-
tendent squarely.
"No," he said with the utmost concision, in a
tone which would have prevented most people from
pursuing the subject.
The Superintendent, however, showed no sign of
appreciating the atmosphere. Defeated in his frontal
attack, he made a clumsy attempt to get round the
doctor's flank by putting a further question.
"What do you think about her death? Could it
have been accidental?"
"Accidental? What are you talking about?" the
doctor demanded, making no effort to conceal his
contempt at the question. "How could it be acci-
dental? People don't get finger-marks on their necks
by accident."
"You don't see what I mean," the Superintendent


NINE TO ELEVEN P.M.
155
protested in the tone of a schoolboy excusing him-
self. "There's a difference between murder and man-
slaughter; and to tell you the honest truth, I'm not
sure which of them it was. If I were to take a person
by the throat, I might just hit by accident on the
right spot, and the person might die without my
having meant to go that length; but if you took
someone by the throat, you've got anatomical knowl-
edge that I haven't got, and you might be able to
put your fingers intentionally on the right place.
In my case it would be manslaughter; in your case
it would be murder. You see it now?"
Rather to the Superintendent's discomfiture, the
doctor burst into a peal of laughter, which was ob-
viously due to genuine amusement.
"I see," he said, when he had recovered his con-
trol. "This is your line of reasoning. Somebody killed
in a certain way. A medical would know about that
way. Therefore a medical did it. Where is the medi-
cal in the case? Dr. Hyndford. Therefore Dr. Hynd-
ford did it. I'm sorry, Superintendent. You'll have
to guess again. I didn't do it. Try another medical
—say Platt. Oh, I bear no malice; don't worry. I've
no doubt you're doing your best."
The Superintendent winced visibly under the con-
tempt in the doctor's tone.
"Oh, now you're putting words into my mouth,
doctor," he expostulated, feebly. "That wasn't what
I said at all."
"No," said Dr. Hyndford cuttingly, "but it was
what you insinuated, wasn't it? I'm not obtuse,
Superintendent. It's just as well, perhaps, that I can


I56 THE EYE IN THE MUSEUM
put a stop to this before it goes any further. Luckily
for me, as it happens, I was called up that night
before I'd got into ..bed; and I had to go out. My
patient was Mr. Mundford, of 10 Pollen Grove;
and I was with him until 1 a.m., long after Mrs.
Fenton was dead. If you check that, you'll find it
O.K."
Superintendent Ross looked obviously confused
by this fresh piece of evidence.
"You've taken me up quite wrong," he protested.
"I meant just what I said—not what you've twisted
it into, doctor."
"Well, let it go at that," Dr. Hyndford rejoined
in a tone which suggested that he would .not forget
the incident in a hurry. "Now, is that all you
want?"
"I'd just like to ask Mr. Hyndford a question or
two," the Superintendent explained with a crest-
fallen air.
Dr. Hyndford leaned back in his chair, as though
retiring from the business.
"Go on, Dickie," he said, rather like an employer
ordering a subordinate to attend to a customer.
"I'd just like to get one or two points clear in
my mind," the Superintendent explained slowly,
turning to his fresh witness, and opening his note-
book again. "You and Dr. Hyndford were out in
the garden here till about a quarter to nine, I gather.
That's your recollection of the time?"
Mr. Hyndford rubbed the back of his head in a
perplexed manner. Evidently he was doing his best
to tax his memory.
1


NINE TO ELEVEN P. M. 157
"I should think it would be just about that," he
said at last. "What I mean to say is, it's a while
back, now; and I'd really no reason for taking a
note of the time, so it's a bit difficult to be exact.
You understand what I mean? That's the best of
my recollection; but if you asked me to swear to
it within ten minutes, I shouldn't care to do it.
Somewhere about a quarter to nine."
The purely professional side of the Superintend-
ent's mind made the involuntary comment that
Mr. Hyndford would be a nuisance as a witness if
he were ever called. He was evidently of the type
which, by striving after exactitude in detail, suc-
ceeds almost invariably in fogging the clearness of
any statement.
"A quarter to nine, then, roughly," Ross noted
down. "And just before that, you saw Miss Hazle-
mere'and Mr. Seaforth go off together in a canoe.
Then Dr. Hyndford took his canoe over to The
Cedars?"
"Yes. I happened to look up once, and I saw my
brother tying it up on the other bank, at the foot
of The Cedars' garden."
"And after that?" prompted the Superintendent.
"After that? Oh, I don't remember anything much
until Mr. Fenton came in. I'd met him down town
that afternoon, quite by chance; and I asked him
up here in the evening. I hadn't seen him for quite
a while, you know; he's not living here nowadays."
"When did he come in, Mr. Hyndford?"
"Oh, about a quarter past nine. I asked him to
drop in any time after nine; and I remember look-


I58 THE EYE IN THE MUSEUM
ing at my watch before he came, to see how time was
getting on. It was ten past nine, then; and he turned
up soon after that—a few minutes later."
"And then?"
"We had a whiskey and soda, and a talk. Nothing
worth repeating in the talk. I mean it was just odds
and ends, nothing in particular that I remember."
"And he stayed till a quarter to eleven, you said?"
"Yes, the clock struck the quarter while we were
standing at the gate; and he went away just after
that, a few minutes later at the most, probably less."
"And Dr. Hyndford came back almost at once?"
"Yes, I noticed that particularly," Mr. Hyndford
pointed out, with a nervous glance at his brother.
"You see, I'd been rather worried for fear my
brother came in when Fenton was here. It would
have been a bit awkward, perhaps. . . ."
He broke off and threw a nervous glance at his
brother.
"Fenton and I are not particularly sweet on each
other," Dr. Hyndford interjected, cynically. "Your
suggestive mind will supply you with a reason for
that state of affairs, I've no doubt."
The Superintendent ignored both the hint and the
sarcasm.
"And after your brother came in, Mr. Hyndford,
you talked for a while before he went to bed. How
long did you talk?"
"Oh, perhaps ten minutes or so, not more."
"Then what did you do?"
"I went out into the garden; it was a bright
moonlight night, you know."


NINE TO ELEVEN P.M. 159
There was something just a shade shame-faced in
Mr. Hyndford's manner as he said this; and the
Superintendent, rather puzzled, pushed his inquiry
harder.
"What did you do in the garden?"
Mr. Hyndford became rather confused.
"Well, you see," he confessed at last, turning
rather red, "when I'd been out there for a good
white—it was a hot night, you may remember, and
I liked the cool air—I happened to look across at
The Cedars; and, quite by accident, I saw a man's
figure in the garden. I couldn't see him very well;
but I was a bit curious, if you understand. There was
a burglary not very far off here not long ago. So,
naturally, I was a bit inquisitive about this fellow."
"What time was that?" the Superintendent de-
manded.
"Well, it must have been getting on for twelve
o'clock, I should think. After half-past eleven, any-
how; I'm fairly sure of that."
"And what did you do when you saw this man?"
"Well, naturally, I was a bit suspicious. You see
what I mean? I think anyone would have been, if
they'd seen a man lurking about in a neighbour's
garden at that time of night. So I came into the
house here and picked up a pair of glasses."
He halted again and turned red.
"Anything else?" demanded the Superintendent,
feeling that Mr. Hyndford was concealing something.
Mr. Hyndford glanced sheepishly at his brother
as he answered.
"I took an old revolver out of a drawer. It's a very


l60 THE EYE IN THE MUSEUM
old thing, but it would be useful enough at short
range. What I mean to say is, it's one of those old
things with a leaden bullet, a good man-stopper.
You see," he added, with a certain unconscious
pathos, "I've never been a rap of good in a scrap,
Superintendent. I'm not like you in physique. So
I thought I'd take the revolver, just in case I needed
to hold the fellow up."
The doctor's sneering chuckle underlined his
brother's rather pitiful confession of physical impo-
tence. Mr. Hyndford winced.
"Then I went out again," he continued hurriedly,
as though to cover up the matter. "I really needn't
have bothered; for when I put up my glasses, the
fellow was just creeping away out of the garden. I
watched him off the premises and then I came back
into the house."
"You didn't think of telephoning to the police
about it?" asked the Superintendent. "We might
have laid hands on the fellow."
"No," Mr. Hyndford said, with a marked hesita-
tion. "What I mean to say is, he'd gone away by
then. ... I didn't really think ... I mean, he'd
gone off the premises. . . ."
He shot a glance at his brother, who was examin-
ing him with a sort of contemptuous curiosity.
"You're not making much of it, Dickie. Why not
give the show away and be done with it?"
"I think I see what you mean, Mr. Hyndford,"
the Superintendent interrupted. "Perhaps you recog-
nised this man and thought he had a right on the
premises—say, like Mr. Seaforth?"


162
THE EYE IN THE MUSEUM
to this side of the affair, but he forebore to push
the matter further. He had enough to go on for the
present.
"I think that's all I need for the present," he said,
as he detached his notes from his book and handed
them across to Mr. Hyndford. "If you'll just read
these over and sign them, it'll be all right."
Mr. Hyndford complied, and the Superintendent
prepared to take his leave.
"Have a drink before you go, Superintendent?"
the doctor inquired as he heaved his bulk out of his
easy-chair. "Just to show there's no ill-feeling,"
he added in a rather grim tone which belied his
word.
"No, thanks," Ross replied. "There's no ill-feeling
so far as I'm concerned, doctor. And that reminds
me"—he seemed struck by an after-thought—"you
haven't any digitalis tincture you could show me,
have you? I'd like to see the stuff. You've got some
in your dispensary, perhaps?"
The doctor apparently guessed what might lie
behind these inconsequent inquiries.
"No, Superintendent, I haven't any in stock," he
said with a sardonic smile. "There isn't a heart case
amongst my patients, so I've no need of it. And
there's no use keeping the tincture on the off-chance
of requiring it. It deteriorates too much if you keep
it. You draw blank there, I'm afraid. And if you're
thinking of pushing your inquiries, the druggist I
deal with is Rilston in Main Street. He'll be able
to tell you I haven't bought digitalis for ages. Satis-
fied?"


NINE TO ELEVEN P.M. 163
"Completely," the Superintendent assured him,
covering his defeat as best he could.
And with that he took his leave.
The house of the amateur astronomer was his
next port of call: and there he was lucky enough to
find Marton at home. But here the Superintendent
was doomed to another disappointment. He had
hoped to score a point against the doctor; but yery
few questions sufficed to confirm Dr. Hyndford's
story even more completely than might have been
expected.
As it chanced, Marton had just completed a draw-
ing of Jupiter when the doctor appeared at The
Cedars' front door that night. Marton produced the
drawing for the Superintendent's inspection, and
pointed out that, following the usual custom of
astronomers, he had not only dated it, but had added
the exact hour and minute at which it was begun
and completed. He was thus able to establish defi-
nitely that Dr. Hyndford had left the Cedars at
10.47 p.m.
An even more important contribution by Marton
was the fact that when the door of The Cedars
opened, he had caught a glimpse of Mrs. Fenton
in the hall, talking to the doctor. That was definite
confirmation of the doctor's statement that he had
left Mrs. Fenton alive when he went home.
Superintendent Ross was very thoughtful as he
betook himself to the police headquarters after leav-
ing the astronomer. Dr. Hyndford had left a bad
impression by his needless discourtesy; but the de-
tective had to admit that perhaps this was merely


164 THE EYE IN THE MUSEUM
the doctor's way. He had never been described to
Ross as an amiable character; and a man of his
type, in a perfectly safe position, might possibly
find it amusing to be rude to the police. A guilty
man would be more circumspect in his treatment
of a detective, in all probability.
The Superintendent had one last shot in his locker.
The business of detaching the loose leaves of notes
from their cover and handing them separately to
each of the brothers had not been done without
forethought. The finger-prints on the glass in Mrs.
Fenton's drawing-room were among the few definite
clues in the case; and Ross meant to identify them
if possible, without exciting suspicions by actually
asking anyone to make a print of his own fingers.
On the notes in his pocket, he now had the prints
of both the doctor and his brother; and when he
reached headquarters he proceeded to develop the
prints in the usual manner. When he had brought
them up, he compared them in turn with the en-
larged photograph of the prints on the tumbler.
"Damnation!" said the Superintendent, as he
glanced from one set to the other, "all three are
different. Another blank end!"


166 THE EYE IN THE MUSEUM
A glance at his watch assured him that he had
still a chance of catching James Corwen before his
office closed; so, picking up his hat, he made his
way to the solicitor's premises, which were only
a couple of hundred yards up the street.
"You probably have Mr. Fenton's address," he
explained when he was shown into James Corwen's
private room. "The place where he's staying in
Stanningmore at present, I mean. I want to see him,
if possible."
"He's at Hollingworth's Hotel," the solicitor an-
swered.
"May I use your 'phone? . . . Thanks."
Superintendent Ross hunted up the number in the
directory and got his connection. By a stroke of
luck, Fenton was in the hotel, and Ross was able
to speak to him.
"I'd like some information, Mr. Fenton. I'll come
to the hotel, if you like; but perhaps it would cause
less talk if you dropped into the headquarters in
Main Street. It's more private there. . . . Thanks.
In half an hour, then."
Ross put down the telephone and found James
Corwen regarding him with a certain veiled interest;
but, true to his policy, the solicitor made no com-
ment and waited for the Superintendent to begin.
"While I'm here, I'd like to ask a question or two,
Mr. Corwen. You have the information all at hand.
I suppose you're settling up Mrs. Fenton's money af-
fairs: finding out what debts she had, and so forth?"
"We haven't got probate yet," the solicitor pointed
out, "but we're looking into things."


MRS. FENTON'S HUSBAND 167
"Have you any notion about the extent of her
betting transactions?"
"We haven't troubled much about them," James
Corwen pointed out. "They're not legal transac-
tions, strictly speaking."
"No, of course not. You've no idea on what scale
they were?"
"I really don't know," the solicitor said, im-
patiently. "My impression is that she didn't gamble
in thousands, because she hadn't thousands to
gamble with."
He halted, as though something had struck him,
then continued in a less decided tone:
"Of course, now and again she may have plunged,
if she was able to raise money for it in some quarter
or other."
"Does Miss Hazlemere come into anything under
Mrs. Fenton's will?" the Superintendent demanded.
James Corwen's eyes twinkled with a faint malice.
"Not a penny!" he said with emphasis.
He glanced at the Superintendent's face and
added:
"If you'll take my advice, Superintendent, you
won't push this case of yours against Miss Hazle-
mere. You haven't enough evidence to hang a cat
on."
"You think so?" said Ross placably. "It's quite
possible. I've never had any experience of hanging
cats—as yet."
James Corwen evidently thought it inadvisable to
probe into the possible meaning of this cryptic
remark.


168 THE EYE IN THE MUSEUM
"Anything else you want to know?"
"What's the value of Mrs. Fenton's estate?"
James Corwen's gesture implied that it amounted
to very little.
"Her private income came from money that her
husband placed with trustees at the time of their
marriage. As there were no children, that money
goes back to him, under one of the provisions of the
settlement deed."
"H'ml That's an interesting point," the Super-
intendent admitted. "How much is it?"
"About £10,000."
The Superintendent did not put into words his
reflection that Fenton had an obvious interest in
his wife's decease. Instead, he asked a fresh ques-
tion. "Will anyone be better off, so far as her ordi-
nary estate's concerned?"
The lawyer shook his head.
"It'll barely cover her debts. In fact, some peo-
ple will be left out in the cold—Dr. Hyndford, for
one."
"How's that?" the Superintendent inquired, prick-
ing up his ears at the doctor's name.
"He holds some I.O.U.'s of hers for fairly big
figures. They're no better than waste paper now.
If she had lived, she might have repaid the money;
but the estate will be far too small to cover them."
The Superintendent seemed to grow thoughtful,
all of a sudden. He had been struck by the doctor's
complete lack of sympathy over Mrs. Fenton's
death; but if the man were a heavy loser, financially,
it might account for his feelings.


MRS. FENTON'S HUSBAND 169
"Could you get hold of these I.O.U.'s?" Ross
asked. "I'd like to see them."
"I daresay I could make some excuse to handle
them," James Corwen answered, doubtfully. "Hynd-
ford knows they're no better than trash, so he will
hardly want to cling to them."
"Oh, he knows the state of affairs, does he?"
"Yes. He mentioned the I.O.U.'s to me after her
death and I told him very plainly how the land lay.
My impression is that in any case he might have
had some difficulty in getting the money. It's quite
clear that he advanced it to her so that she might
use it for betting; and I would like to know counsel's
opinion as to how that sort of loan stands in re-
spect to the Gaming Acts of 1710 and 1835. It
might make a pretty case," the solicitor ended, in
a professional tone.
"You think she used it for betting?"
"Well, it was about £10,000. There's no trace of
her having spent anything like that sum on solid
things. Obviously she gambled it away."
The Superintendent nodded, as though this rea-
soning satisfied him.
"What about this insurance policy she took out?
It was mentioned at the inquest. What company
was it?"
"The Canterbury and Mercantile United. It was
only for £500. I suspect she used it occasionally to
secure a bank overdraft when she had run things too
fine."
"It's quite on the cards," the Superintendent
agreed in an indifferent tone. "Well, that's all I


170 THE EYE IN THE MUSEUM
wanted, thanks. I must go off and see about the
hanging of this cat you were talking about."
And, leaving this parting shot to rankle in James
Corwen's mind, he made his way back to the police
station.
The constable to whom he had given instructions
about Watchet appeared as Superintendent Ross
entered the station. He had not been able to get hold
of the estate agent. Watchet had made three appoint-
ments with clients for that day, according to the
office-boy; but he had kept none of them; and
inquiries revealed that Watchet had left Stanning-
more the previous night. He had given no address
to which letters might be sent on; and apparently
no one knew when he meant to come back.
"Cut his stick, has he?" the Superintendent
mused. "I'll need to think this out before acting
drastically. By the way, when Mr. Fenton calls,
send him in to me at once."
He had not long to wait. Mr. Fenton proved to
be a fair-haired, slightly built man, with good teeth
which showed when he smiled. The Superintendent,
judging by male standards, thought him good-look-
ing, but rather ordinary on the whole. As he came
into the room, it was evident that he was striving
to conceal a certain nervousness.
Ross, noticing this, went straight to the point be-
fore his visitor had time to accustom himself to his
surroundings.
"I have some information about you, Mr. Fen-
ton," he said bluntly. "Why didn't you come for-
ward and give your evidence at the inquest on Mrs.


MRS. FENTON'S HUSBAND 171
Fenton? You must have known perfectly well that
you should have stated frankly that you were at
The Cedars that night."
Fenton was taken completely aback and showed
it clearly.
"How do you know I was there?" he demanded,
his face whitening under its tan.
"That's my business," Ross answered curtly. "I
know you were there. In fact, I know a good deal
more than you evidently think I do. My advice to
you, sir, is to tell the whole truth. You can see for
yourself that you've done no good by this attempt to
conceal things."
Fenton's face showed that he felt he was caught
in a trap. Quite obviously, when he was summoned
to the police-station, he had not expected to find
the Superintendent so sure of his ground; and he
had no story ready.
"You know I was at The Cedars?" he said, slowly,
as though fighting for time in which to think. "Well,
suppose I was? What else do you know?"
"I know quite enough to check any statements
you make, Mr. Fenton."
"Are you bringing a charge against me?"
"No," said the Superintendent. "But if you don't
tell your own version of the story, it'll look very
suspicious. What's to hinder you from making a
statement? All I want to know is your account of
what you did on the evening of your wife's death."
Fenton thought for a moment or two before an-
swering.
"That evening's a while back," he pointed out.


172 THE EYE IN THE MUSEUM
"I can't guarantee to remember exactly every detail
just as it happened. Suppose I make a slip some-
where, quite honestly; I may quite well do that,
since it's not a matter of yesterday. Then you'll
probably think I'm lying. I really can't remember
everything."
"Tell me what you do remember," said the Super-
intendent, pulling his notebook in front of him on
the desk. "Start at dinner-time, say."
"I had dinner at my hotel," Fenton began. "The
waiter knows me and he could corroborate that.
Then after dinner I went into the lounge and had
some coffee. I remember the waiter who brought me
it, and perhaps he'd be able to recall seeing me. I
think on that night I spoke to another man staying
at the hotel for a few minutes; but he's gone away
now."
He paused, as though expecting some comment,
but the Superintendent merely waited with his pen
ready to write.
"I had arranged to look up Mr. Hyndford about
nine o'clock," Fenton continued, moistening his lips
nervously as he spoke. "I sat in the lounge for a
while, and then I left the hotel. That must have
been somewhere about ten to nine. I remember go-
ing over to the hotel desk and looking at the letter-
rack to see if anything had come for me. I don't
think I gave up my key; at least, I can't remem-
ber doing it. Usually I don't, when I go out. It's
only a nuisance doing it."
"When did you reach Mr. Hyndford's house?"
the Superintendent demanded.


mrs. fenton's husband 173
"That would be shortly after nine, I expect. I
don't really know to a minute. It must have been
after nine, because one doesn't usually drop in on
a man just on the tick of the time when one makes
an engagement of that sort."
"You found Mr. Hyndford at home?"
"Of course. We talked for a while about one
thing and another—I really forget what we did talk
about. Japan, I think, and the Customs examination
at Victoria, and a play or two that's on in town, and
some other things of that sort. Just the usual things
one does talk about when one's a bit at a loose end,
you understand. And then we had a drink. And
then we talked for a while longer. And by and by I
began to feel I'd stayed long enough; so I cleared
out. Hyndford came out to the gate with me, I
remember, and we remarked on what a fine
night it was. And—I'd nearly forgotten that—the
clock near by struck three-quarters while we were
still talking at the gate: that was 10.45, I know.
And I didn't stay more than a minute or two after
that."
He glanced at Ross's face as though trying to
discover how much of all this the Superintendent
knew already; but Ross had too much experience
to betray things of that sort.
"After that," Fenton went on, "I walked back
towards town. It was a nice night, so I turned down
towards the bridge, and I stood on it for a while
watching the moonlight on the river. I should think
that would be somewhere round about ten or a
quarter past eleven most likely. And as I was stand-


mrs. fen ton's husband 175
you understand? So I went along one of the paths
and sneaked up to the window. I'd seen that it was
closed. Sounds rather a low trick, of course; but
I'd a right to do as I liked in my own garden, hadn't
I? So I went up quietly to the French window and
I tried to get a look through the curtains, just to see
who was inside."
His nervousness seemed to return in full strength
at this stage in his narrative. Whether because he
disliked telling of his spying on his wife, or for
some other cause, he seemed to find difficulty with
his story.
"There was only one place where the curtains were
not properly drawn together," he went on, "and
I tried to see into the room through the hole between
them. All I could see was the end of the settee,
with a woman's feet and ankles. I looked for a while,
but she didn't move; and I could hear no sound of
talking in the room. That wasn't what I'd come to
see; and there seemed to be no good waiting. She
was alone, evidently. So as soon as I'd made up my
mind about that, I slipped off the terrace, made my
way through the garden, and got back into the little
lane again.
"Naturally I took good care that Marton didn't
see me as I came out of the little lane. He was busy
mucking about with that telescope of his, so I don't
think he saw me. I wasn't exactly anxious to meet
anyone, just then; I was feeling rather low-down,
somehow; though I'd been doing nothing I hadn't
a perfect right to do, you understand? So I put my
best foot foremost, and came round by the bridge


I76 THE EYE IN THE MUSEUM
again, and so back to my hotel. The night-porter
might be able to tell you when I got in that night;
I didn't look at my watch."
"When you were in the garden," the Superintend-
ent asked, "did you notice anything—anything at
all—that might help to fix the time? It may be
important."
Fenton rubbed his chin in perplexity.
"I don't remember anything," he said at last.
"You see, one doesn't bother about the time much,
does one? Oh, yes! I do remember one thing: there
was a light in the Struan Museum up above. I just
happened to notice it, and wondered what they
could be about at that time of night. But that's all I
can call to mind," he concluded, in a rather despond-
ent tone. "Not much good, is it?"
Superintendent Ross detached his notes from the
loose-leaf cover.
"You saw nothing of Dr. Hyndford that evening,
then?" he asked.
"Nothing. I never came across him. In fact, I
haven't seen him since I came back to Stanning-
more this time."
"There's just one thing I want to know," said the
Superintendent abruptly. "You tell me you saw into
the drawing-room at some time round about half-
past eleven. Knowing what you know now, do you
believe Mrs. Fenton was alive or dead at the time
you saw her?"
Fenton looked extremely confused when this ques-
tion was shot at him.
"Well, really," he said hesitatingly, "I don't . . .


I78 THE EYE IN THE MUSEUM
I wanted to get rid of my wife, everyone knew that.
But that doesn't mean I've any grudge against
Hyndford now, you understand? I wasn't jealous
of him in the very slightest."
"You don't seem to be much cut up over the
affair," said Ross in a dry tone.
"Well, why should I be?" Fenton demanded, with
a revealing flash of brutality. "My wife was just a
drag on me—nothing more. She and I had parted
for good, long ago. She drank, and she had the tem-
per of a fiend. I'm not much of a hypocrite, really;
and I see no need to cry into a pocket-handkerchief
just because she's gone."
He studied the Superintendent's face for a mo-
ment, and then added:
"If you want the plain truth, there it is, whether
you like it or not."
Superintendent Ross made no pretence of of-
fended virtue.
"I'm not adding these points to my notes," he
said, as though the subject had no interest for him.
"Here are the sheets I've written on. You might
read them over, and if you find they're correct, just
put your signature at the foot."
He handed over his notes, and Fenton read
through them carefully.
"That seems correct," he admitted, putting his
name to the documents.
"You'll leave your address if you go away from
Stanningmore," the Superintendent cautioned him.
"I may want to see you again."
Fenton agreed to this, and the Superintendent let


MRS. FENTON'S HUSBAND 179
him go. As soon as he was out of the office, Ross
powdered the papers and brought up his visitor's
finger-prints on them.
Fenton's finger-prints were identical with those
on the tumbler which had stood in the drawing-room
of The Cedars on the night of the murder.
"Well, somebody's doing a hell of a lot of hard
lying in this case," reflected the Superintendent,
whose mental imagery was often more vivid than
his viva voce expression of it.
He put away the leaves of notes bearing Fenton's
incriminating finger-prints, and then sat down at
his table to wrestle with the whole problem. Taking
a sheet of paper, he jotted down the following to
help him in his speculation.
1. The intermittent administration of digitalis would
provide the false suggestion that Mrs. Fenton's heart was
deranged.
2. Veronal would put her to sleep, and thus make it
possible to assault her without leaving traces of a struggle.
3. Pressure on the vagi would cause death by what
would, at a casual examination, appear to be failure of
the heart's action, following naturally on the earlier symp-
toms of derangement.
He read over this thoughtfully after he had
written it down. It seemed to point convincingly to
a single thread of purpose connecting the main
points of the case together. Satisfied with that, he
turned next to a list of the various possible culprits;
and under each name he set down the pros and cons
which occurred to him, thus:


l80 THE EYE IN THE MUSEUM
Joyce Hazlemere.—She had digitalis plants in her
garden.
She could have made an extract from them simply
enough.
She had easy access to the bottles of Paronax.
She once had a dose of veronal in her possession and
might have preserved it instead of using it.
She might have succeeded in administering veronal to
Mrs. Fenton at dinner-time, say in whiskey and soda.
She had ample time to kill Mrs. Fenton when she found
her, probably asleep, in the drawing-room on her return at
midnight.
She had a fairly good motive.
But: She would hardly know about the vagus nerve un-
less she had read up about it or had consulted an expert.
Seatorth.—He could only have worked in conjunction
with Joyce Hazlemere. If he did, then all that fits her
case will apply equally to his.
Fenton.—He suppressed the fact that he was near the
house that night, until it was dragged out of him.
The finger-prints on the tumbler will not fit his story.
He had a very strong motive for wishing to be rid of his
wife.
But: He could not have administered the digitalis unless
by collusion with someone who had ready access to the
Paronax bottles.
He could not have administered the veronal in time for
it to take effect before the crime was committed, unless
he was in The Cedars, unknown to anyone, before Dr.
Hyndford came over at about 8.45.
His story, such as it is, was partly corroborated by R.
Hyndford's evidence.
Dr. Hyndford.—He might have administered the
digitalis if he had access to the Paronax bottles—i. e. if he
was able to get into Mrs. Fenton's bedroom.


mrs. fenton's husband 181
He has the technical knowledge about the vagus nerve.
He might, after leaving by the front door, have walked
round the house, entered by the French window, and
killed Mrs. Fenton. By Marton's evidence, he left the house
at 10.47. By R. Hyndford's evidence the doctor got
home at 10.55 approximately. It leaves very little time,
but it might just have been possible.
But: His story is completely confirmed by both his
brother and Marton, whose times agree as well as can be
expected.
Mrs. Fenton was awake when he left the house, for
Marton saw her. She could not have been killed without
a struggle at that time, even if Dr. Hyndford had re-
entered the house.
He actually stands to lose money by her death—a con-
siderable sum.
Watchet.—No access to the Paronax bottles.
No chance of administering veronal.
Unlikely to have expert knowledge of the vagus nerves.
No really strong motive for murder, since he seems to
have been embezzling all round and it would come to
light even if he silenced Mrs. Fenton.
The Maid at The Cedars.—She had the same chances
as Miss Hazlemere so far as the digitalis plants, the
Paronax bottles, and the veronal were concerned.
But: She could hardly have had the special knowledge
required to use these opportunities, much less an acquaint-
ance with the vagus nerves and their function.
She had no motive which would be strong enough to
cause her to commit the murder.
Superintendent Ross considered for a time after
writing down these notes, then he added three fresh
jottings:


182
THE EYE IN THE MUSEUM
1. Dr. Hyndford's story excludes any chance that he
administered the veronal.
2. The soda-water had been opened, but there were no
finger-prints on the glass of the bottles.
3. Why was the French window closed? And when
was it closed?
The Superintendent went back to the beginning
and conned over what he had written.


CHAPTER X: LO.U.
Superintendent Ross had assumed that there
would not be much expedition in James Corwen's
procedure; and it was therefore a pleasant surprise
when the lawyer rang up in the late forenoon of the
following day with the news that he had obtained
Mrs. Fenton's I.O.U.'s from Dr. Hyndford.
When the detective entered the solicitor's private
room, James Corwen glanced up at him with an
inscrutable expression; invited him with a gesture
to take the client's chair; and then, putting down
his pen, waited for his visitor to make the first move.
"You've got these papers?" the Superintendent
asked, perfunctorily.
"I have. I made some sort of excuse about them,
and gave him a receipt for them temporarily."
James Corwen paused for a moment; then turn-
ing square on his guest, he demanded:
"Have you still got my client on your list of pos-
sible culprits?"
A faint sardonic tinge in the lawyer's tone caught
the ear of the Superintendent and made him all
alert.
"I've brought no charge against her yet," he ob-
served rather stiffly.
"Not enough evidence to hang a cat, was how I
estimated it," James Corwen reminded him. "But


184 THE EYE IN THE MUSEUM
perhaps I was wrong. I forgot there are tom-cats as
well as tabby-cats."
He leaned back in his chair, evidently taking a
cynical pleasure in the Superintendent's bewilder-
ment at this turn in the conversation.
"You couldn't say it in plain English, I suppose?"
the detective suggested crossly.
"No. This conversation isn't privileged," the so-
licitor pointed out, blandly. "I'm not inclined to
run the risk of slander, even in a good cause. But I
think I can promise to divert your attention into a
fresh channel for all that, Superintendent."
He rang the bell and, evidently by pre-arrange-
ment, his clerk Groombridge came into the room,
followed by Seaforth. James Corwen opened a
drawer in his desk and took out four papers, which
he spread out before him.
"These are the I.O.U.'s which Dr. Hyndford gave
me this morning," he explained. "When he handed
them to me, I glanced at them casually. They
seemed to me perfectly in order. When the doctor
had gone, I happened to ring for my clerk here.
He takes an interest in handwriting; and, just as a
joke, I showed him these documents. He takes that
sort of thing seriously; and as it chances, he has
made a study of Mrs. Fenton's writing."
A fresh light was dawning in the Superintendent's
mind.
"And there's a screw loose?" he demanded.
"I think we'll leave cats and screws aside just
now," James Corwen said decidedly. "Groombridge
will tell you what he noticed. That is a matter of


I . o. U .
185
fact. Any inferences you may draw from his state-
ment will be a matter for yourself. I wish it to be
quite clear that I am making no insinuations. I am
simply calling your attention to certain . . . well,
shall I say, peculiarities which may interest you.
Now, Groombridge."
The clerk took his cue and came forward rather
nervously.
"This is how it is, Superintendent," he explained.
"I've always taken an interest in handwriting. It's
been a hobby of mine for years. And in this office,
of course, I get a lot of manuscript material through
my hands, written by all sorts of different people.
Now, Mrs. Fenton's handwriting's always interested
me specially. It's got some characteristics that don't
occur in normal script at all. You know she"
He glanced rather apprehensively at his employer.
"Well, she wasn't strictly temperate, if I may put
it that way."
"She drank like a fish at times," Seaforth growled,
with evident impatience. "You needn't make any
bones about it to Superintendent Ross, Groom-
bridge."
Groombridge was rather taken aback by this
blunt description.
"She was very intemperate," he paraphrased,
finally. "Now, Superintendent, anything of that sort
leaves its mark on a person's handwriting. For in-
stance, there's writer's cramp. I've had that myself,
once or twice. Now when I get writer's cramp, my
handwriting changes. It takes on an irregular char-
acter. There's a sort of angularity in it and I don't


I90 THE EYE IN THE MUSEUM
his work, he gets engrossed and forgets the finer de-
tails, just as you see there. I mean that he thinks
more of copying the broad character of the lettering
and omits the finer detail like the shake of the pen.
Then, after a moment or two, he remembers the
quivering of the pen, puts it in for a bit, and then
forgets about it again. That's what the I.O.U. looks
like, doesn't it?"
"You're quite right, so far as that goes," Ross
conceded. "But you haven't proved your case yet,
to my mind. These things might be accidental."
"Then it's no use showing you the points where
the pen was lifted by the two writers," Groombridge
declared. "It just happens that in alcoholism you
get frequent pen-lifting in the middle of writing,
and that approximates to the way in which the
forger lifts his pen often as he goes along, so as to
get an idea of what his work looks like. But now
there's another point. You see how Mrs. Fenton's
occasionally retouched her words—she wrote them,
and then went back over them and gave a touch
here and a touch there. So does the forger in the
I.O.U. Just compare them, will you? and see if you
make anything out of that."
Superintendent Ross studied the two texts
minutely for a time.
"I see what you mean," he said at last. "When
Mrs. Fenton touched up her writing, she did it to
make it more legible; and her retouching is bold and
obvious. In the I.O.U., these afterthoughts are con-
cealed as far as possible. They're not meant to im-
prove legibility. They're put in to improve the


I . o . u .
191
resemblance between the forgery and Mrs. Fenton's
real writing. Is that what you're after?"
"That's it," said Groombridge, with an obvious
air of giving a good mark to a promising pupil.
"Now you'll admit that there's something there?
Here's the final proof. It's quite conclusive, to my
mind. Look at Mrs. Fenton's way of writing a
capital I. She makes it like a Roman numeral 1,
doesn't she? Not like the usual capital I in writing."
"Well, it's the same in the I.O.U., isn't it?" Ross
demanded. "What's wrong with that?"
Groombridge pushed forward a sheet of paper.
"Just write a capital I in that way, will you?" he
asked. "Don't think about it. Put it down quick."
The Superintendent took out his pen and made
the character.
"Now," said Groombridge, "I'll make a copy of
that as well as I can."
He took up a pen and made the three necessary
strokes on the paper, below the Superintendent's
letter.
"We'll let this dry naturally," he said. "Now,
Superintendent, did you see any difference between
our ways of writing?"
Superintendent Ross shook his head.
"Can't say I did," Ross admitted. "It's just three
strokes."
Groombridge made no comment on this, but
turned to something fresh.
"Here's a capital O in Mrs. Fenton's letter—here,
at the word 'On.' You see she makes a closed oval.
That's how it appears in the I.O.U. as well, natu-


194 THE EYE IN THE MUSEUM
try the I.O.U. The vertical's over-laid by the two
horizontals. Both the hair-lines lie like this =. So
the forger wrote his vertical line first and then put
in the two horizontals—quite different from Mrs.
Fenton's way of doing it."
"Very neat," said the Superintendent admiringly.
"And if you can prove that Mrs. Fenton invariably
made her I's that way, I think it would weigh heav-
ily with a jury."
"There's more yet," Groombridge pointed out,
with a faint trace of exultation showing in his
emaciated face. "There's this O. Look at your own
O. It's a closed oval, but you can see the join clear
enough. I'll put it under the microscope for you.
See? Your join is at the summit of the O. You
started with your pen at the very top and began
with a full downstroke, so that the join is right at
the summit of the character. Now my O—here it is
—was started half-way down on the left side, and
I finished on a downstroke; so the join in my case
is about the middle of the left-hand line instead of
being at the top, like .yours. Mrs. Fenton's joins are
all at the tops of her O's. The forger's join is on the
left side, like mine. That's conclusive, I think,
isn't it?"
The Superintendent lifted his eye from the mi-
croscope and caught James Corwen eyeing him with
a certain sardonic amusement, as though he were
enjoying a double jest which included Ross and
the clerk's graphology in a comprehensive con-
tempt.
"Damn that man," the Superintendent reflected,


i. o . u . 195
crossly. "He doesn't believe a bit in all this, but he
sees he can use it to extricate that girl from the mess.
That's all he cares about."
To avoid the solicitor's derisive glance, Ross
turned to Groombridge.
"You'd better take good care of these things,"
he cautioned. "And of course all this is strictly con-
fidential. You mustn't go talking about it outside.
If it's needed in court, it'll be quite time enough to
use it then."
Groombridge's lean face lighted up at the last
sentence. His inward vision conjured up a picture of
himself in the witness-box, holding an audience in-
tent upon his exposition of the peculiarities of the
documents. What a chance of fame for that un-
published work: Some Minor Characteristics of
Handwriting, by Benjamin Groombridge, Notary
Public. "Who's Groombridge?" "Oh, that fellow
who gave the crucial evidence in the Fenton murder
case, you remember? Very smart man." That would
be a reward for all these years spent in poring over
manuscripts. And James Corwen would be impressed
then, in spite of himself. Groombridge, for some
reason which he could not even have formulated to
himself, was deeply desirous of gaining his em-
ployer's esteem. Surely, now that his expert knowl-
edge had opened up an unlooked-for line in this
murder case, James Corwen would have to take him
more seriously. Graphology would be justified in
spite of all the sneers.
The lawyer's harsh voice awakened him abruptly
from his day-dream:


196 THE EYE IN THE MUSEUM
"That's all we need you for, Groombridge. And
clear all this rubbish off my desk, will you?"
No impression, then, in spite of it all. His work
was just "rubbish" in Corwen's opinion: merely
something one could use to throw dust in the eyes of
that sharp Superintendent and put him off the scent
of the firm's client. Rather mournfully, Groom-
bridge collected his papers, picked up his little mi-
croscope, and made his way out of the room. Two
sentences had been enough to knock him off his tiny
pedestal and turn him back into a mere clerk again.
When the door had closed behind him, James
Corwen turned to the Superintendent with a glance
of interrogation.
"Very ingenious," said Ross, in a judicial tone.
"It's a complex case."
If the solicitor could restrain himself, Seaforth
could not.
"That knocks the bottom out of any case against
Miss Hazlemere, anyhow," he broke in trium-
phantly.
Superintendent Ross seemed amazed by this point
of view.
"I don't see that it has anything to do with Miss
Hazlemere," he explained patiently. "You're going
too fast for me, Mr. Seaforth. First, I've brought
no charge against Miss Hazlemere. Second, even if
this I.O.U. is forged, I've seen no proof yet that
the forgery has benefited anybody. In fact, Mrs.
Fenton's death has apparently cut clean across that
part of the business since her assets are next door to
nil. There's a good deal to be done yet, I'm afraid."


I . o. u.
197
He picked up the remaining I.O.U.'s which
Groombridge had left on the desk and scrutinised
them carefully.
"H'm! If she got through all that in such a hurry,
she must have been plunging heavily."
He opened his notebook and jotted down the
dates and the values of the I.O.U.'s:—
Closing his notebook, he resumed his study of the
papers.
"I suppose Groombridge certifies that these are
forgeries as well—the whole lot, I mean?" he asked.
"So he told me,'" James Corwen confirmed. "You
can ask him yourself as you go out."
The Superintendent seemed to have passed to a
fresh line of thought.
"Let's see," he said in an almost absent-minded
tone, "I think you said Mrs. Fenton took out a
£500 insurance with the Canterbury and Mercan-
tile United. What date was that, can you re-
member?"
"It was 10th August, 1926."
"A month after the date of the latest I.O.U.,"
said Ross in a reflective tone. "And I suppose the
cash from that insurance forms part of her estate
now?"
James Corwen nodded. He seemed to have lost
10th May, 1926
25th May, 1926
17th June, 1926
9th July, 1926
£1,500
£3,000
£2,000
£2,500


198 THE EYE IN THE MUSEUM
interest in the Superintendent, now that he had
sprung his mine with the forgeries; and he turned
to his desk with the air of a man who has work to
do.
"Hadn't you better get on with your cat-hanging,
Superintendent?" he suggested gruffly. "I've given
you all the help I can, for the present."
Ross could not ignore the plain dismissal.
"I'll see what I can do," he retorted, without be-
traying any vexation at the lawyer's manner.
"Groombridge is outside? I'll just ask him about
these other three I.O.U.'s as I go out."
Superintendent Ross, after leaving the lawyer's
office, sauntered along the street towards the police
headquarters. He found that walking stimulated his
brain; and he had enough to make him thoughtful
at this stage in the case. Despite his assertion that
pure reason was the only thing that should count in
a criminal case, he found that he was giving weight
to something which was no more than a sort of in-
stinctive feeling. He could not shake himself free
from the idea that in spite of all the apparent criss-
crossing of trails, there must be a single simple so-
lution of the whole problem. And yet, if Groom-
bridge's evidence amounted to anything, here was
a second root cropping up in the equation. He had
already formulated an explanation which would
cover the forgeries; but unfortunately he could not
see his way to make the rest of the case dovetail
logically into his hypothesis. His mind rejected the
view that two sets of criminals had been at work
simultaneously and that the interlacing of their


I . o . u .
199
doings had been mere chance; and yet, on a basis
of pure reason, that hypothesis was the easiest.
Wrapped in his thoughts, he halted unconsciously
before a shop-window; and when someone, in pass-
ing, brushed against him, he came out of his brown
study and lifted his eyes to find a show of glass and
china on the shelves before him. He examined the
display incuriously until at last his glance lighted
on a set of tumblers ranged in a row just above his
eye-level. At that, he woke up and studied the pat-
tern etched on the glass. It seemed familiar; and he
recalled that it was the same as that on the tumbler
found in the drawing-room on the night of the
murder. For quite a minute, the Superintendent
scrutinised the pattern, as though he had just de-
tected something of importance; then, with a rather
less troubled countenance, he turned away from the
window and, at a quicker pace, made his way to the
police station.
Sitting down at his desk, he took note-paper and
wrote a letter to the Canterbury and Mercantile
United Insurance Co. asking for particulars of any
insurances which had been effected on Mrs. Fen-
ton's life.


CHAPTER XI: THE FINANCIAL SIDE OF
THE CASE
When Superintendent Ross called upon Dr. Hynd-
ford next day, he made no previous appointment. On
this occasion, he felt, it was inadvisable to put the
doctor on the alert, so he selected a time just before
the consulting hour, when his quarry was certain to
be at home. It was after lunch, and as the Superin-
tendent entered the gate he found Mr. Hyndford
loitering in the garden, smoking a cigarette and
passing his flower-borders in indolent review. Ross,
confronted with an expert, did not exhibit the in-
terest in botany which he had made so much of in
the garden of The Cedars. He confined himself to
vague praise of some of the most familiar plants:
begonias, calceolarias, foxgloves, dahlias, and gera-
niums; and then despite Mr. Hyndford's evident
desire to exhibit his finer specimens, the Superin-
tendent tore himself away and went up to the front
door.
Dr. Hyndford received him in no very concili-
atory fashion.
"Well, what do you want now?" he demanded.
"You've come at an awkward time. I'm just going
to see some patients."
"I shan't detain you more than a moment," the


FINANCIAL SIDE OF THE CASE 201
Superintendent assured him smoothly. "I only want
to ask a question or two."
"Then ask them," Dr. Hyndford snapped. "It's
these I.O.U.'s I handed to Corwen the other day,
I suppose? Was it you or he who unearthed this
mare's nest?"
Ross ignored this sneer.
"The I.O.U.'s are all right," he said, watching the
doctor's face keenly. "But everything connected
with Mrs. Fenton is of importance now, and I want
to understand her affairs as well as I can. What
I don't understand is why you lent her such a con-
siderable sum."
"She was ... an intimate friend of mine," said
the doctor, slowly. "She got into difficulties at times
with her bookmakers—it wasn't always a case of
cash bets, of course, with her—and once or twice
I had to come to the rescue. Is that clear?"
The Superintendent nodded.
"You gave her cheques, I suppose?" he asked.
Dr. Hyndford laughed contemptuously.
"Think it's likely?" he demanded. "Would you
give a woman your cheque for money of that sort?
I'm not a fool, Superintendent. When a man pays
over money to another man's wife, he doesn't ad-
vertise the business, if he's got any sense. No, I drew
the stuff in notes on my own cheque and handed the
notes over to her."
The Superintendent allowed a slightly foolish
expression to pass across his face. If the doctor was
bluffing, he meant to call the bluff; but he wanted
to manage it without seeming to use force majeure.


FINANCIAL SIDE OF THE CASE 203
putting you to a lot of unnecessary trouble, doctor."
Dr. Hyndford sat down at his desk and wrote a
few lines.
"That do you?" he demanded. "Now, is there
anything else? I've no time to spare."
Ross's mouth seemed dry, and he swallowed once
or twice rather painfully.
"If it wouldn't be troubling you," he suggested,
"I'd like a glass of cold water. The road up here's
very dusty."
Dr. Hyndford seemed to bear no malice.
"A whiskey and soda?" he proposed.
"No," the Superintendent declined. "I'd rather
have some plain soda, thanks, if it isn't too much
trouble. I'm frightfully thirsty."
Dr. Hyndford rang the bell and gave an order.
In a few moments a maid brought a tray with soda
and a tumbler. Superintendent Ross fell upon it with
obvious relief, poured out a fair quantity, and drank
it at a draught.
But as he poured the rest of the soda into his
glass, he had to admit that his long shot had missed
the mark. The tumbler in his hand had a pattern
entirely different from that which he had found in
the drawing-room of The Cedars. He finished his
soda and turned to meet Dr. Hyndford's pale blue
eyes.
"There's just one thing more," he said in a ten-
tative tone, "I take it that you're a loser over these
I.O.U.'s. At least, I understand from Mr. Corwen
that the estate wouldn't cover one of them, let alone
the lot."


204 THE EYE IN THE MUSEUM
Dr. Hyndford's face showed unconcealed annoy-
ance, and his answer indicated its cause.
"You seem to be taking a damned lot of interest
in things which I'd have thought were my private
business," he said angrily. "What does it matter to
anyone except myself whether I drop money or
not? But if you're losing any sleep over it, Superin-
tendent, you can calm your nerves. I'm not out a
penny on these I.O.U.'s, you'll be glad to hear. It's
another of your mare's nests. I hold an insurance
policy for £10,000 on Mrs. Fenton's life. Cheer up!
That weight's off your mind."
"Well, I'm very glad to hear it," said the Super-
intendent politely. "What company is it in? I insure
with the Bromwich Union, myself."
"Stirring newsl" said the doctor, with uncon-
cealed contempt. "My policy's in the Canterbury
and Mercantile. And I buy my stamps at the post-
office, invariably. Any other bits of information I
can give you? If not, I heard a patient come in,
and I'd like to get to my work."
As the Superintendent made his way towards the
town, he had to admit to himself that Dr. Hynd-
ford had succeeded in mystifying him. The doctor
had been far franker that Ross had anticipated. He
had thrown open his banking-account and thus saved
the police a considerable amount of trouble. And he
had admitted without any ado that he held an insur-
ance policy which covered him against all loss
through the I.O.U.'s. On the face of things, that
looked like a man who had nothing to conceal and
nothing to fear through facts coming to light. But,


206
THE EYE IN THE MUSEUM
"You want the record of cash paid in and cheques
drawn by Dr. Hyndford?" he asked, when he had
satisfied himself. "I can get you that. . . . But
perhaps there's an easier way. The doctor's a bit
slack with his pass-book. It's never up to date, and
he may have left it with us to be written up. It
would contain all you want, I expect, if we happen
to have it here just now."
"If it goes back three years or so, it would give me
all I need," the Superintendent agreed. "At least, it
would do for a start. I'll probably want to ask your
teller a question or two as well, though."
Laxey summoned a clerk and gave some instruc-
tions. As it chanced, Dr. Hyndford's pass-book was
in the bank's charge at the moment; and when it
was produced, the Superintendent found that it
covered the whole period in which he was interested,
for the doctor's banking transactions per annum
were not very extensive.
A rapid examination satisfied the Superintendent
that the entries to the credit of the bank could be
ascribed roughly as follows. A monthly cheque of
almost constant value he put down as money drawn
for the payment of household bills. Sundry items
under £20 were probably payments of larger ac-
counts by cheque. Other cheques, running up to a
hundred or a couple of hundred pounds in value at
each transaction, suggested the doctor's losses on
betting. All these the Superintendent left aside, con-
fining his attention to still larger entries which oc-
curred from time to time.
Turning to the other side of the account, Ross


FINANCIAL SIDE OF THE CASE 207
ignored the steady dribble of minor increments,
which could obviously be identified as cheques from
patients. Occasional figures of larger value he put
down as representing the doctor's gains in his bet-
ting transactions. After eliminating these, a series
of figures remained which represented considerable
sums. One or two of these the Superintendent left
aside, owing to the dates attached to them; and by
concentrating his attention on the remainder he
began to fit things together. In a very short time he
had drawn up a schedule which he copied into his
notebook:
£
26th April
29th April
3rd May
Paid in
Paid in
Paid in
300
500
1,200
9th May
(10th May
Drew out
I.O.U.
1,500
1,500)
13th May
15th May
Paid in
Paid in
1,200
1,300
24th May
(25th May
Drew out
I.O.U.
3,000
3,000)
3rd June
4th June
Paid in
Paid in
700
1,400
16th June
(17th June
Drew out
I.O.U.
2,000
2,000)
30th June
Paid in
2,400
8th July
(9th July
Drew out
I.O.U.
2,500
2,500)


FINANCIAL SIDE OF THE CASE 209
with it?" the Superintendent demanded. "She's
dead, and nobody would dispute it."
"Perfectly correct," Laxey admitted. "But under
the Life Assurance Act of 1774, you've got to estab-
lish an insurable interest—I mean you've got to
prove clearly that you've suffered a pecuniary loss
at least equal to the value of the insurance. I under-
stand that Dr. Hyndford is a creditor of Mrs. Fen-
ton's estate and that the estate may not cover the
debt. But until they get probate and settle things
up, that state of affairs is too indefinite for the In-
surance people to act on. The money will be paid
eventually, of course; but not till the whole pro-
cedure is in order."
"I see," said the Superintendent, thoughtfully
rubbing his chin. "A bit complicated, I gather. Now
I suppose you've got someone who might remember
a few things about the entries in this pass-book.
I'd like to see him—the man at the paying-in coun-
ter is the one I want."
"We've got only one teller there. Everything goes
through his hands. I'll send for him."
In a few moments the official came into the room,
and Ross was relieved to find that he seemed to be
uncommonly alert.
"I'd like you to remember, if you can, something
about these transactions here," the Superintendent
said, opening the pass-book at the proper page.
"April 26th. Three hundred pounds paid in by Dr.
Hyndford. Was that notes or a cheque? Perhaps
you can recall something about it."
The teller glanced at the manager.


FINANCIAL SIDE OF THE CASE 211
Thanks. And of course this is bank business, so
you'll say nothing about it."
Superintendent Ross had got all he wanted now
and he did not linger at the bank. His afternoon's
work had thrown light on the Fenton case from an
entirely fresh angle, and he began to see his way
through some parts of the maze. It was too early
yet to be confident, however.
At the police headquarters, on his return, he
found a telegram from the Canterbury and Mercan-
tile United Insurance Company which helped to
make him more certain that he was on the right
track. From it he learned that the £10,000 policy
had been taken out by Dr. Hyndford almost im-
mediately after Mrs. Fenton herself had insured
her life for £500.
"Now's the time to bluff hard," he said reflec-
tively to himself as he put down the paper.
He summoned one of his subordinates.
"To-morrow morning, you're to detach a man to
watch Dr. Hyndford. Plain clothes, of course; but
you may tell your man that it doesn't matter much
if he's spotted. So long as he's not obtrusive enough
to give ground for complaint, I don't mind much
what he does. If the doctor stays indoors, let your
man hang about the road and keep an eye on the
premises. . . . Oh, by the way, there's always a
chance that Dr. Hyndford may give him the slip
by going on the river. Don't worry if he does; but
report it to me at once."
He considered for a moment or two, then put a
question about Watchet, the estate agent. It ap-


212 THE EYE IN THE MUSEUM
peared that no trace of him had yet been found;
but this did not seem to perturb the Superinten-
dent. Dismissing his subordinate, Ross picked up
his hat and went to the office of the Stanningmore
Gazette.
"This is your busy time, I know," he explained
to Dorrington when he had found his way to the
sub-editor's room: "Don't bother to tell me all about
it, for I'm not going to detain you. I just dropped
in to let you see I wasn't forgetting you."
"Meaning you want us to do something for you,"
Dorrington interpreted ironically. "All right. Out
with it. I've really no time to spare."
"It's just a titbit for you. You can put in a nice
prominent paragraph to this effect: 'The Cedars
Mystery. We learn on absolutely reliable authority
that the police hope to make an arrest within the
next two days.' And of course you can add some-
thing about the genius of that deservedly popular
officer, Superintendent Ross, if you like; I leave that
entirely to your good taste."
The Superintendent's expression showed clearly
enough that this last suggestion was not to be taken
seriously.
"You've got the murderer, have you?" Dorring-
ton demanded. "Tell us all about it, will you?"
"No, you're very busy," the Superintendent
pointed out blandly. "It'll keep for the present. A
sort of Surprise for a Good Boy, perhaps, later on."
And without giving the sub-editor time to argue,
Ross left the office.
As he walked back to the police station, he conned


FINANCIAL SIDE OF THE CASE 213
over some of the facts which he had gathered in the
afternoon.
"Three thousand pounds is a biggish sum for a
little country bank to handle," he reflected. "He
could hardly have avoided including some £100
notes in that lot; and these ought to be traceable
if the banks have had their eyes open. That's one
possible line to work. Then there are these items
in his banking account. He must have taken me for
a flat ass, luckily, when he threw all that stuff
open to me. It's like Whittaker Wright on a small
scale."
As he entered the police station, a fresh idea oc-
curred to him. He went to the telephone and rang
up Joyce Hazlemere.
"There's just one question I want to ask, Miss
Hazlemere," he explained, when she had come to the
instrument. "Can you remember anything at all
about where Mrs. Fen ton kept her betting-books?
She must have had some place where she generally
put them."
Joyce Hazlemere's voice betrayed her mistrust of
the detective.
"I really can't tell you much," she said. "I do re-
member once or twice seeing several old ones in a
drawer of her writing-desk in the drawing-room. But
that's all I can think of."
"You don't know the name of any bookmakers
she dealt with?" Ross inquired.
"No. I never took the slightest interest in her
betting."
The quiver in the girl's voice touched the Super-


2l8 THE EYE IN THE MUSEUM
As Superintendent Ross glanced over this epistle,
two phrases caught his eye. He re-read the document
thoughtfully, and other points attracted his atten-
tion. An application of powder failed to reveal any
finger-prints; and the detective smiled when he got
the negative result. Taking the paper carefully by
its edges, he deposited it in a drawer.
"That fellow Groombridge might try his talents
on it," Ross reflected. "I'll show it to him later on.
He'll be interested."
He had little difficulty in connecting the arrival
of the pseudonymous letter with the appearance of
the paragraph about an impending arrest, which had
been printed that morning in the Stanningmore Ga-
zette. If an informer had a grudge to pay off, now
was the time for him to strike, while the police were
still apparently hesitating. Ross had planned the
insertion of the paragraph with that very object in
view; and he was glad to find this confirmation of
his reading of the situation.
"Things ought to begin to move a bit, soon," he
reflected with satisfaction.


222 THE EYE IN THE MUSEUM
so even your brothers lying wont help you if I split now.
Pay the money the way I directed and I'll keep quiet; but
if you refuse, then I'll go straight to the police. It will be
£5,000 now, and cheap at the price.
Yours obediently,
ONE WHO KNOWS
The Superintendent put the paper aside and
turned to other matters.
Picking up the revolver, he laid it carefully on
a book so that he could support it without leaving
finger-prints on it; then he carried it over to the
desk and pulled down the hanging lamp so as to
bring a strong light to bear on the weapon. A brief
examination with a pocket lens seemed to satisfy
him temporarily; but before putting the revolver
down again, he lifted it to his nose and sniffed
slowly, once or twice, as he detected a very faint
smell of rubber mingling with the fumes of the
burned powder.
He laid the book and revolver on the desk and
glanced round the room in search of something.
"Get me that measuring-glass over yonder," he
directed the constable. "Got a clean handkerchief?
Well, rub the thing with it—hard—and don't leave
any of your own finger-marks on the glass. Hold it
by the base. That'll do. Here!"
He took the glass gingerly from the constable and
again glanced round the room.
"See if you can find some oil or grease—vaseline
or olive oil would do. He's sure to have had some
stuff of the sort amongst his things."


"kowtow! kowtow to yen how!" 223
After a short search, the constable managed to
unearth a small bottle of olive oil.
"Take a drop of that on the corner of your hand-
kerchief and rub it on the tips of the last three fing-
ers of his right hand. Then clean off as much as
you can with a dry bit of the handkerchief—I don't
want more than a film of oil left on the skin.
That'll do."
As the constable moved out of the way, Super-
intendent Ross lifted the dead man's hand and
pressed the tips of the treated fingers one by one
on the surface of the measuring-glass to register
the prints. Then, going back to the light again, he
compared the prints on the revolver butt with those
on the glass.
"They're the same, so far as one can see," he
intimated for the benefit of the constable.
The curtain of the window behind the dead man's
chair waved softly in a faint draught, and the con-
stable moved as though he meant to adjust it.
"The window's open?" questioned the Superin-
tendent. "All right; leave it alone."
Putting down the measuring-glass, he passed be-
hind the dead man's seat to approach the window
himself; and as he did so, his attention was attracted
by a faint grating sensation on his boot-sole. He was
about to stoop down and examine the floor when the
door opened and Mr. Hyndford's perturbed coun-
tenance appeared. Evidently he preferred to face
the sight of his brother's body rather than remain
alone in the hall.
"Oh, by the way, Mr. Hyndford," the Superin-


226 THE EYE IN THE MUSEUM
The constable, having nothing to occupy him
during these operations, had evidently begun to
meditate on his superior's proceedings, for at length
he ventured to put a question.
"It's a clear enough case of suicide, isn't it, sir?
The muzzle of the pistol was in his mouth when he
fired. You couldn't murder a man by shoving a
pistol into his mouth. He could struggle and pre-
vent you, easy enough."
"Oh, yes. The revolver-muzzle was in his mouth
right enough," the Superintendent agreed. "His
cheeks are all lacerated with the sudden rush of gas
at high pressure when the shot was fired. That's
clear enough."
"And his finger-prints are on the butt of the pis-
tol," the constable pursued.
"Quite obviously."
"Um!" said the constable undecidedly.
He was evidently anxious to know why the Super-
intendent had swept up the material from the floor;
but Ross's demeanour did not encourage further
questioning.
"That's about all for the present," the detective
said as he completed his task. "You're to stay here
on guard until you're relieved. Don't leave the
room; and don't let anyone come into it except the
police surgeon. He'll be here any minute now. I'll
see that someone's sent along very soon to take
your place."
Picking up his three packets from the desk, the
Superintendent left the room. In the hall he almost
ran into Mr. Hyndford, who was pacing restlessly


228 THE EYE IN THE MUSEUM
this—it simply knocks you out next morning, I
know from experience."
Mr. Hyndford paid no attention to the suggestion.
"I read the letter that Simon left on his desk,"
he said in the tone of a man who has decided to
make a clean breast of something. "You can't guess
who the writer is? No? What I mean to say is,
he accuses me of having lied about something. That's
not true. At least, I mean, I may have made a
mistake in gauging the times I gave you—about
when Simon .came back that night, you know. But
that's not lying. I was giving you the thing as near
as I could make it, you understand? I just made
the best guess I could."
"It's no matter now," said the Superintendent,
brutally. "Any case there was against your brother
is over and done with, obviously."
He jerked his head carelessly in the direction of
the consulting-room, and Mr. Hyndford winced at
the gesture.
"Oh, so you suspected him?" he said dully. "Well,
it's all over with the poor chap now. Did you find
out that it was he who gave Mrs. Fenton the Par-
onax bottles? No? Well, he did, I know. He got
them from America, direct by post, you know. I
saw the parcels once or twice. . . ."
"Just one plain hint, Mr. Hyndford," the Super-
intendent interrupted. "You're coming very near to
making yourself an accessory after the fact, by
what you're saying."
He broke off sharply, though his tone, in the last
words, suggested that he had meant to say more.


"kowtow! kowtow to yen how!" 229
"Now take my advice about a sleeping-draught,"
he continued in a different strain. "I'm going off
now. By the way, would you mind signing these
notes of mine—your account of this affair to-night.
The constable will witness your signature. The sur-
geon will be here almost immediately. There's really
no need for you to sit up and work yourself into a
state of nerves."


CHAPTER XIV: THE EYE IN THE
MUSEUM
When he returned to his temporary rooms, Super-
intendent Ross unwrapped both the revolver and
the threatening letter and tested them carefully with
an insufflator; but on neither article could he de-
tect any prints other than those of Dr. Hyndford's
fingers.
The powder in the pill-box fell under examina-
tion in its turn. So far as he could make out, it
appeared to be ordinary sand, such as is used in
gardens. The Superintendent tapped the paper on
which it rested and noticed with satisfaction that
the grains did not cohere to any extent. Evidently
the sand had been fairly well dried, either by the
sun or by artificial heat.
"And if it had been dried by the sun outside, it
wouldn't have stuck to anyone's shoes. So it didn't
come into the consulting-room that way," Superin-
tendent Ross inferred. "Besides, there was far too
much of it for that. Nobody goes about with half
an ounce of sand on their soles."
Instead of going to bed, he sat down in an arm-
chair and considered the Fenton case in all its bear-
ings once again. He had now enough evidence in
hand to feel sure that his solution was the right one.


THE EYE IN THE MUSEUM 23I
If Groombridge confirmed his views, there was a
fair case to take to a jury. But to ensure a conviction
the Superintendent wanted more than that; and
his summons to old Jim Buckland was in the nature
of a long shot which might just hit the mark. If old
Jim failed to give him the final confirmation he
hoped for, then the case would have to come into
court as it stood, except for some further points
which could be worked up after an arrest had been
made.
Having made up his mind, the Superintendent
suddenly realised that he was very sleepy, and with
an unsuppressed yawn he went upstairs to bed.
Early in the following forenoon he was rung up
by Seaforth.
"I've got hold of the keeper, Buckland, for you,
Superintendent. He'll be at our office in a quarter
of an hour, if that suits you."
Seaforth's voice was much less hostile than it had
been hitherto. Obviously he had inferred that he
and Joyce Hazlemere were no longer on the suspect
list.
"Thanks," said Ross, heartily. "Now there's just
one other thing. I'd like to have a talk with your
clerk Groombridge for a few minutes, before I see
Buckland. Can you fix that up for me if I come
round immediately? . . . Yes, that'll suit. Good-
bye."
When he reached the office, he was shown into
James Corwen's private room, and the lawyer looked
up with a smile as his visitor entered.
"Some more of your graphological inquiries on


232 THE EYE IN THE MUSEUM
the carpet, Superintendent?" he inquired, with his
usual slight tinge of derision. "I had you shown in
here, since I don't suppose you want to thrash these
weighty problems out with Groombridge in front of
a lot of idle clerks in the outer office."
"Very good of you to think of it," the Superin-
tendent said gratefully. "And by the way, I sup-
pose you still have those I.O.U.'s of Dr. Hynd-
ford's? I'd like to have another look at them."
"I've no objection," James Corwen answered,
opening a drawer in his desk and taking out the
packet of papers. "But it's beyond me why you
worry about the matter any longer. The man's dead,
isn't he? You can't bring a case against a corpse
—not with any advantage to anyone, so far as I
can see."
Superintendent Ross refused to rise to the bait.
"One can always learn something by going into
things," he suggested, vaguely.
"A bit of private research, eh?" said Corwen,
sharply. "You're not going to try any of your cat-
hanging tricks in this room, are you? If so, I'll have
to think about my duty to my client."
"I'm not thinking of bringing any charge against
Miss Hazlemere," the Superintendent said, bluntly.
"As to hanging, if one cat's dead, there are always
plenty left to hang, either toms or tabbies."
"Oh," said the lawyer, thoughtfully. "A bright
idea, perhaps. Or perhaps not so bright. . . ."
"Time will tell," the Superintendent retorted with
deliberate sententiousness.
Seaforth came into the room, followed by Groom-


THE EYE IN THE MUSEUM 233
bridge carrying his microscope, at which James Cor-
wen threw a scornful glance.
"So he's committed suicide?" Seaforth said, turn-
ing to the Superintendent. "It's all over the town.
Great excitement among the populace, I gather. He
slipped through your fingers at the last."
Ross ignored the faint tone of sarcasm in Sea-
forth's voice.
"He's certainly quite dead," he said seriously.
Then, as though dismissing that subject, he turned
to the amateur graphologist.
"Now, Mr. Groombridge, if you'll be so good as
to give me the help of your expert knowledge, I'll
be much obliged to you."
Groombridge, unused to treatment so flattering,
beamed with pleasure as the Superintendent care-
fully withdrew some papers from a large envelope
and laid them on the desk.
"Here's the first exhibit," he said, handing
Groombridge the envelope of the pseudonymous
letter addressed to himself. "What do you make of
it?"
Groombridge examined it closely for a time, us-
ing a pocket lens at certain points. Seaforth and
the Superintendent watched him eagerly; James
Corwen preserved a certain aloofness which hardly
concealed his real interest in the affair.
"There's not much to be made out of that,"
Groombridge admitted frankly as he laid the en-
velope on the desk. "It's supposed to be written
by a half-educated person, if you go by the spell-
ing. But then the lines of the script are perfectly


234 THE EYE IN THE MUSEUM
level although there's been no pencil line drawn to
guide the writer. That would be unusual, in my
experience of semi-educated scripts. It's been writ-
ten with a very broad-pointed pen—a blunt-shaped
nib, if you see what I mean. That was meant to
disguise the writing, so probably the writer uses a
fine nib in his ordinary day's work. You can see
he wasn't accustomed to the nib he was using. Two
or three times, he's failed to get the ink to run, alto-
gether. There's a scratch on the surface of the pa-
per at the S, for instance, made with no ink on the
pen. Then he's gone over it again, to ink it in, but
the scratch is plain enough. He's been holding his
pen at some abnormal slope, I should think, to help
to disguise his script; and so he hasn't been able
to manage the proper flow of ink."
Superintendent Ross made no comment, but
merely handed Groombridge the pseudonymous let-
ter itself, cautioning him not to finger-mark it.
"He spells it 'Supperintenant' this time," Groom-
bridge pointed out. "That doesn't mean much,
though. But again you'll notice how neatly he's
managed to keep his lines spaced."
"Anything else?" questioned the Superintendent.
"It's a poor attempt," Groombridge commented,
with confidence. "He starts off by running two sen-
tences into one with no period or capital. Then he
forgets that he's not supposed to know about punc-
tuation, and he puts in a colon. A colon's not very
often seen in letters nowadays, or even in printing
either, if it comes to that. The colon's gone out of
fashion very much. People don't take the pains


THE EYE IN THE MUSEUM 235
they used to do with the punctuation of their sen-
tences. Now after that colon, he remembers again
that he's supposed to be semi-illiterate, so on he
rushes with no punctuation till he comes to 'true.'
There he forgets again, and puts a period and a
capital at 'He.' And he ends up with a semi-colon
and a full-stop in his last sentence. I'd be much
surprised if that was a genuine semi-illiterate writer,
very much surprised indeed. And, finally, he has a
comma after 'Yours obediently.' What half-educated
man would know to put that, will you tell me?"
"Anything else?" the Superintendent asked.
"The spelling's interesting," Groombridge pointed
out. "He can spell words like 'patent,' 'medicine,'
'contradict,' 'statement,' and 'obediently' quite ac-
curately. And yet he writes 'wich' for 'which' and
'lite' for 'light.' That's a bit far-fetched, in my opin-
ion. It's not conclusive, though."
"Anything more?"
The Superintendent was taking pains to conceal
the fact that Groombridge was reaching precisely
the conclusions at which he himself had already ar-
rived. He wanted an absolutely independent con-
firmation of his own ideas.
"Oh, yes," said Groombridge, in reply to the
question. "It all tells the same tale. See, it starts un-
grammatically. He writes: 'that done for Mrs. Fen-
ton' and 'he give her the patent medicine.' But after
that he forgets to be ungrammatical, for the next
bits are in plain, straightforward English. Then he
suddenly recollects, and he leaves out 'and' or 'then'
before the word 'came.' And finally, he winds up


236 THE EYE IN THE MUSEUM
with 'Yours obediently.' Semi-illiterates don't use
the word 'obediently' much nowadays, in my experi-
ence, though it's always a possibility."
"Is that all?"
"No, not quite. There's the phrase 'if he can
contradict this statement.' That sticks in my throat,
I must confess. It's out of tune with the rest alto-
gether, like 'Yours obediently' or even worse."
"I don't see much display of graphological lore
in all this," James Corwen commented in a tone
which a grumpy uncle might have used while watch-
ing a children's game.
"No, sir. It's just a case of using common sense,
so far," Groombridge defended himself, with the
air of a rabbit in a corner. "I took it that the Super-
intendent wanted this."
"Mr. Groombridge interests me very much," Su-
perintendent Ross said, freezingly. "Common sense
is rarer than you'd think, Mr. Corwen. Now here's
a third document. You might compare it with the
last one and tell us what you think about it."
He handed over the threatening letter, supported
on a sheet of paper so that Groombridge did not
need to touch it with his fingers.
"This is written by the same hand as the other
two," Groombridge pronounced. "It's disguised in
exactly the same way. Handwriting slope changed
from the natural, I should say, and the broad nib
used to change the style. Same sort of thing in the
punctuation, you'll notice. Sentences run together
at the start, when he was keeping the point in mind;
and then a relapse into natural ways of doing things


238 THE EYE IN THE MUSEUM
tween the lines of writing in the I.O.U. and in the
letter. And what's more, they both have almost the
same clear margin on the left-hand side between
the writing and the edge of the sheet. That's a point
that most forgers forget all about. When they
start to imitate another person's writing, they
don't mask their own peculiarities in things like
that."
"That's good enough for me," the Superintendent
said. "It's a fresh bit of information—very ingen-
ious. Now there's just one thing more. I'd like to
borrow your microscope for a moment if I may, to
examine a powder."
"Here's a slide," Groombridge volunteered, pro-
ducing it.
The Superintendent brought out a tiny package
and strewed some grains on the glass.
"What do you make of it?" he asked.
Groombridge peered down the tube.
"Sand, I should say," he decided. "I'm familiar
with the appearance of sand-grains, because some-
times I come across it stuck to the ink in old docu-
ments—they used sand to dry their ink before
blotting-paper was invented, you know."
He looked again through the microscope and then
gave up his place to the Superintendent.
"Oh, it's sand, sure enough."
The Superintendent removed the glass slide and
tapped the powder off it, back into the original
holder.
"That's all the help I need at present, Mr.
Groombridge," he explained. "Thanks very much


240 THE EYE IN THE MUSEUM
great responsibility, being in charge of a collection
like that."
"Can you remember exactly where you were at
half-past eleven that night?"
Buckland considered for a moment or two, then
his face brightened.
"Half-past eleven, sir? I can tell you that, as it
happens. I generally go round the Museum about
eleven o'clock, just when I go to bed. That night,
I went round as usual, I remember. I was going
away first thing the next morning—Mr. Seaforth'll
tell you it was under doctor's orders—and after I'd
gone round the whole place and seen that everything
was safe and fast, I went up into the tower to the
camera obscura. It's a hobby of mine, that. I like
to have a look round the town with it. And as I
was going away for a while, I thought I'd just take
a last look with it."
"Camera obscura?" said the Superintendent in-
quiringly.
"It's an arrangement that throws a picture on
a screen," Seaforth interjected. "By shifting the
lenses you can turn on views of most parts of the
town—make the places seem quite near at hand."
"Indeed!" The Superintendent was suddenly
alert. "And you were having a look round with it,
Buckland? But it was night then, wasn't it? How
about that?"
"It was a full moon that night, sir. I could see
things clear as day, almost."
The Superintendent nodded.


244 THE EYE IN THE MUSEUM
the road finally, and I didn't trouble to keep him
in sight longer."
"And you saw nothing else of interest?"
Old Jim glanced rather apprehensively at Sea-
forth.
"Well, sir," he said, hesitatingly, "I did turn back
to The Cedars again just for a moment later on.
It was just a sort of precaution, you understand?
I wanted to see if that man had come back again,
because I hadn't quite liked the look of his doings.
And just as I got The Cedars on the screen again,
I saw Mr. Seaforth here in his canoe with Miss
Hazlemere, coming in to the bank at the foot of the
garden. So I turned away at once, knowing that
they wouldn't care for me to be overlooking them
just then. Besides, with Mr. Seaforth there, The
Cedars was quite safe and there was no need for
me to be keeping an eye on it any longer."
"What time was that?" the Superintendent asked
in an indifferent tone.
"It would be a minute or two after midnight,"
old Jim answered readily. "I remember quite well
now that the Town Clock struck twelve just before
that, and I began to think it was quite time I was
in my bed, seeing I had an early start and a long
journey before me next morning."
"What I don't understand," said the Superintend-
ent, "is why you haven't come forward with all
this evidence long ago. You must have known it
was important."
Old Jim was plainly taken aback by this.
"Me, sir? But how could I have come forward


246 THE EYE IN THE MUSEUM
"You'll have another curiosity to show the visi-
tors now," he pointed out to Jim Buckland, "some-
thing to match Mr. Struan's Eye."
"Indeed, sir?" the keeper asked in mild surprise.
"And what will that be? I don't quite see what you
mean."
"Your own eye, Buckland. Perhaps it's cleared
up The Cedars case, for all one can tell." He glanced
at the Superintendent for confirmation, but got no
response. "You'll need to leave it to the Museum
when you die—a second historical specimen."
Old Jim appeared to have no relish for this rather
morbid suggestion.
"I think, sir, that Mr. Struan's Eye stands by
itself. I shouldn't dream of such a thing as you
say."
James Corwen ignored this by-play completely.
He turned to Ross.
"It doesn't take X-rays to see through this part
of the business, Superintendent. Am I right in sup-
posing that you have no intention of bringing any
charge against my client now?"
"No immediate intention, certainly," Ross quali-
fied the statement, though his smile showed that it
was purely for form's sake that he did so.
"Ah, then I shall have to consider the question of
my fees for my trouble in the matter," said James
Corwen. "You've given me a lot of bother with
these cat-hanging notions of yours, Superinten-
dent."
"I found your reminiscences of great assistance,"
Ross acknowledged in a tone which was half grate-


THE EYE IN THE MUSEUM 247
ful, half quizzical. "One of them, in fact, turned
out to be the key to the whole affair."
He broke off, as though his mind had been
switched on to a fresh line of thought; and in his
apparent absorption he whistled absent-mindedly
below his breath. James Corwen pricked up his ears.
Kowtow! Kowtow to the great Yen How!
And wish him the longest of lives. . . .
The lawyer smiled in his usual bleak fashion as
he appreciated the adroitness with which Ross had
conveyed his meaning without enlightening the other
two people in the room.
"I had a suspicion all along that you'd find some-
thing to interest you there," he said, unemotionally.
"I was thinking along the same lines myself. I sup-
pose you hit on the veronal? It put me on to the se-
quence of events."
The Superintendent made a gesture admitting this.
"Without the veronal, there would have been a
struggle when she was attacked," he said. "There-
fore on the face of things the veronal was a crucial
factor in the business. The fact that Miss Hazlemere
once had a dose of veronal in her possession com-
plicated things for me a bit, though."
James Corwen's facial expression betrayed little
of his feelings, though his words carried something
of annoyance.
"You gave me a lot of trouble," he said. "But I
suppose I shouldn't complain. I started with the
handicap of knowing Miss Hazlemere well. She


CHAPTER XV: THE RACE TO THE SEA
With his case practically completed, Superintend-
ent Ross's next step was to procure a Justice's
warrant. He was fairly sure that he had excited no
suspicion in Richard Hyndford's mind, so nothing
would be lost by observing every tittle of the legal
formalities. The murderer was not likely to take
fright and make off at this stage in the affair. Ross
contented himself with setting a plain-clothes man
to keep a close watch on the suspect; and this time
his instructions were to make the supervision effec-
tive and unobtrusive.
In timing his arrest, the Superintendent was in-
fluenced mainly by ulterior factors. Once he had
Richard Hyndford in his grip, he meant to get a
statement from him if it was humanly possible with-
out violating the forms of the law; and the longer
his prisoner could be kept awake, the better chance
there was of breaking down his resistance. For that
reason, it was expedient to make the arrest as late
in the evening as possible without having actually
to drag the man from his bed. Ross fixed on ten
o'clock as being the best time; and, wishing to be
comparatively fresh himself when the trial of en-
durance came, he slept for a couple of hours in the
afternoon.
As he and an attendant constable drew near the


252 THE EYE IN THE MUSEUM
wounded arm, pointed the road; and Ross walked
with an effort after the escaping criminal. Twenty
yards down the path, he came in view of the river
and realised that the fugitive had found a surer
instrument of escape than the car. Just visible in
the dusk, a canoe with a man's figure in it was
sliding swiftly out from the bank toward mid-
stream; and beyond it lay the dark outline of the
motor-launch moored in the fairway.
"We'll get him yet!" the Superintendent prom-
ised himself as he turned and moved laboriously
back to his subordinate.
"He's off in his launch," he explained.
And at that moment the roar of the motor broke
on the stillness of the evening.
"Go into the house; ring up headquarters; tell
them to send a car with four men in it along the
other side of the river—the other side, you under-
stand? They're to keep that launch in sight and nab
the beggar if he tries to get ashore."
With less pain, he moved again down the path
till he could see the water. The launch was slipping
away from her moorings, heading down-stream as
he expected.
"Down-stream, they're to go," he instructed the
constable. "And tell them to send up someone to
fix that arm of yours. You'll have a compound
fracture if you aren't careful of it. Now hurry—as
fast as you can go."
He himself made his way to the garage, where the
plain-clothes man was waiting.
"Get into the car," Ross ordered. "Or, wait! Fill


THERACETOTHESEA 255
car seems travelling at a fair old lick. P'raps that's
them."
"We'll get a bit ahead of the launch, then," Ross
explained, as he speeded up the car. "Once we've
got him between the two of us, we can afford to play
tricks."
In a short time they pulled level with the launch
and then shot ahead. A few minutes later, the Super-
intendent reversed the car, so that its headlights
pointed towards the position where he expected his
supporting motor to be found.
"There's their light, if it is they," he said, with
some relief as the glare of the big lamps shone on
the further side of the river. "Now, Heaven send
that somebody on board knows Morse fairly well."
He bent forward and, using the switch, sent a
message in longs and shorts by flashing and dowsing
his headlights.
"They've seen it," the constable exclaimed in
high delight. "They're pulling up and signalling
back."
"Well, you don't expect them to drive when their
headlamps are jumping like a guttering candle, do
you?" growled the Superintendent, whose temper
was impaired by the pain he still felt. "Of course
they've stopped."
He signalled again, watched the response, and
then swung his car round to face down-stream.
"I'm going to let her out, get well ahead, and
see if we can pick up a boat anywhere. We'll need
to try to board the launch somehow, though it's a
poor chance."


256 THE EYE IN THE MUSEUM
Leaving the launch far in the rear, the car rushed
ahead, whilst the constable kept his eye open for
any boat which might be lying by the river-side.
"Stop!" he cried at last. "We passed one there,
sir. If you go back a bit we can have a look at it."
Ross reversed the car and in a few moments they
were both running a light skiff into the water.
"No oars, of course," said Ross, as they thrust
the boat into the water and jumped in. "Take up
the floor-boards and paddle like blue blazes. It's
a narrow bit here, and we may just manage to get
in his way."
Hardly had they got near the middle of the river
than the launch was upon them, its exhaust roaring
in their ears. At the stern sat Hyndford's black
figure, outlined against the dull light of the sky.
Suddenly they were dazzled by the glare of a pro-
jector unexpectedly switched on; the black bow of
the launch swung slightly as it came down upon
them; then their frail skiff, clean hit, was stove in
by that swift-flying stem; and they found them-
selves in the water, grasping haphazard at the
smooth sides of their destroyer.
The Superintendent had the luck to get a firm
grip on the gunwale and for a moment he had hopes
that he might scramble aboard; but Hyndford,
leaving the tiller, sprang forward. Ross felt a hand
on his face; a ruthless thumb searched for his eye;
and just in time, he dropped back into the tumbling
wash of the launch as it swept ahead into the
gloom.
"I'll have him yet!" Ross assured himself as he


THE RACE TO THE SEA 257
swam for the shore. "I hope that constable's got
clear."
He had been carried further downstream than
his companion, and when he ran back to the car,
he found the constable was there before him.
"All right, sir?"
"All right. Get in."
Ross had little fear of meeting anything on that
road at this hour of the night; and he let the car
out on full throttle, taking risks as they came. Soon
the launch was left behind once more; and still
they flew on through the dark behind the long cones
of the headlights. Suddenly an exclamation from the
Superintendent startled the constable.
"I have it!"
And shortly afterwards he was again amazed by
a swift application of the brakes as they tore past a
wayside cottage.
"Out you get! There's a clothes-line in that gar-
den. I saw it against the sky. Cut twenty feet off it
—if there's as much. Hurry!"
Far behind them they could hear the throb of the
launch's exhaust; and in the distance an occasional
flash showed the movement of the companion car
keeping level with the fugitive. The constable dashed
back along the road, entered the garden, cut off the
clothes-line, and raced back to the car with his
prize.
"Got it?" the Superintendent demanded. "Good.
Then get over that wall and bring me up two or
three stones from the bank of shingle at the water-
side. Two or three pounds weight each stone. And


258 THE EYE IN THE MUSEUM
see they're of a shape that you can tie the rope se-
curely on to them. Hurry!"
Completely mystified, the constable did what he
was bidden. When the car was again coursing
through the night, the Superintendent gave instruc-
tions that a stone was to be tightly tied to each end
of the rope.
"What are you going to do with this, sir?" the
constable ventured to inquire at length, when he had
completed his task.
"Dodge out of The Swiss Family Robinson," Ross
said shortly. "I used to practise with it when I was
a kid, thank goodness. One never knows what'U turn
up useful."
Again he let the car out. They were near the
river-mouth now, and the constable completely
failed to understand the Superintendent's plan of
campaign.
"Lucky that beggar has no firearms," Ross re-
flected aloud.
He slowed the car slightly.
"There's a group of fishermen's huts just ahead,"
he explained. "I know one of the men, so there'll be
no trouble. As soon as I stop the car, your job is to
unship the headlights so that you can move them
about freely. Mind you don't snap the wires. I'm
going to use them as search-lights. I want them kept
on the launch so that I can see what I'm doing. I'll
get you a man to handle the second one. That's all
you've got to look after."
He swung the car sharply onto a little quay be-
side the road and left it pointing riverwards. Then,


260 THE EYE IN THE MUSEUM
his superior made the constable swing his lamp up-
stream, ready to pick up the fugitive as soon as he
came in sight. The fisherman followed his example
with the second lamp.
"Here she comes!"
The throbbing of the exhaust grew louder and all
at once the boat itself appeared in the beams of the
lamps. On she came, spectral in the glare, with the
bone in her teeth flashing as it divided into twin
waves along her sides. In the stern they could see
the figure of Hyndford, crouching at the tiller with
something in his hand, something which looked like
a bar.
"Keep the light square in his eyes if you can," the
constable urged.
He had no idea of what the Superintendent meant
to do; but it was obvious that a dazzled man would
be at a disadvantage against one whose eyes were
tuned to the dark.
The launch was almost level with them now,
every detail of her clean-cut against the gloom of
the further shore. With the tail of his eye, the con-
- stable took in a movement on the Superintendent's
boat. Hyndford rose to his feet at the tiller, holding
his bar ready to strike. As he did so, the launch
rushed into the invisible trap. She checked, wrenched
clear, checked again, and slowed down as the drag
of the nets stopped her way. The engine, baffled by
the fouled propeller, coughed and stopped, the
failure of the exhaust coming with surprise on the
ear.
Then, suddenly something happened which the


THE RACE TO THE SEA 263
has a fair turn of speed. Then he could have got
ashore, turned the launch's head out to sea, and let
her go under full power. That would have left no
trail to show where he'd landed; and he might have
dodged us. But I think he imagined he'd thrown
dust in our eyes completely, and a bolt was the last
thing he thought it would come to, though he had
his bearer bonds in readiness if the worst came to
the worst."
He suddenly remembered the second car.
"Hold up that lamp, constable. Point it across the
river."
And, manipulating the switch, he flashed the news
of the capture across the water to their auxiliaries.


CASE FOR THE PROSECUTION 265
from his wife and left Stanningmore. Mrs. Fenton was
addicted to betting.
(Witness: John Fenton.)
2. Up to 1926, Mrs. Fenton's health was quite normal.
Her indulgence in alcohol had no marked effect on her
constitution.
(Witness: Dr. Hubertus Platt.1)
3. Between April and July, 1926, a series of transac-
tions took place, involving the bank accounts of the accused
and his brother, the late Simon Hyndford, M.D. The
accused banked with Leiston's Bank, whilst his brother
had an account with the North-Eastern Midland Bank.
The accused drew cheques in favour of his brother. Dr.
Hyndford cashed these cheques at the North-Eastern Mid-
land Bank and took notes for them. These notes were then
passed to Richard Hyndford, who paid them into his ac-
count at Leiston's Bank. A fresh cheque in favour of Dr.
Hyndford was then drawn by the accused, and the process
went through the same cycle. By this means, with a capital
of £3,000, it was possible to simulate a transaction putting
Dr. Hyndford in possession of notes to the value of £9,000.
(Witnesses: Frederick Richmond of Leiston's Bank and
James Laxey of the North-Eastem Midland Bank.2)
4. A series of four I.O.U.'s form part of the exhibits.
These documents purport to be drawn up and signed by
Mrs. Fenton on 10th May, 25th May, 17th June, and 9th
July, 1926. The dates interleave with the above-mentioned
banking transactions. Thus on 9th May, Dr. Hyndford
drew £1,500 from his bank; and the first I.O.U. is dated
1 See pages 40, 45-46. 2 See pages 207 ft.


268
THE EYE IN THE MUSEUM
13. On 30th May, 1928, John Fenton returned to Stan-
ningmore temporarily, taking a room at Hollingworth's
Hotel. On 3rd June, he met the accused in the street; and
the accused invited him to come and see him that evening
about 9 p.m.
(Witness: John Fenton.1)
14. The moon was nearly full that night. This was an
awkward time to select for the commission of the crime,
owing to the chance of discovery in the moonlight. But by
choosing that particular night, it was possible to take ad-
vantage of John Fenton's presence in Stanningmore, in
order to throw suspicion upon him. As this chance might
not recur, the accused and his brother took the risk of the
moonlight.
15. At 7.30 p.m., Mrs. Fenton and Joyce Hazle-
mere dined. Both partook of the same food. Joyce
Hazlemere felt no ill-effects. Joyce Hazlemere went on
the river after dinner with her fiance, Leslie Seaforth, in
a canoe.
(Witness: Joyce Hazlemere.2)
16. According to the statements of the accused and the
late Dr. Simon Hyndford, Dr. Hyndford at 8.45 p.m. went
across the river and visited Mrs. Fenton. This was just
after Joyce Hazlemere had left the house. Dr. Simon Hynd-
ford entered The Cedars by the French window of the
drawing-room, which was then open.8
17. The house-parlourmaid at The Cedars had left in
the drawing-room, as was customary, a tray with a whiskey
1 See pages 157, 172. 2 See page 6S.
3 See page 149, ISO.


270 THE EYE IN THE MUSEUM
hall. The case for the prosecution will be that he waited
with her till the dose of veronal was taking effect, so that
she would fall asleep almost as soon as he was off the
premises.
(Witness: Joshua Marton.1)
22. At 11.10 p.m., the accused crossed the river to The
Cedars in a canoe, which he proceeded to conceal behind
some bushes in the garden of The Cedars.
(Witness: James Buckland.2)
23. The case for the prosecution will be that he entered
the house by the open French window, found Mrs. Fenton
asleep under the influence of the veronal, and killed her
by applying pressure to the vagus nerves and internal
carotid arteries. He had brought with him the tumbler used
at his own house by John Fenton. This he had kept free
from other finger-prints, and he now exchanged it for the
tumbler on the tray which his brother had used, taking his
brother's tumbler away with him. He then secured Mrs.
Fenton's betting-books from the drawer in the writing-desk
where she kept them usually. After this, in order to delay
the discovery of the body as long as possible from anyone
entering the house from the river, he went out on to the
terrace and closed the catch of the French window behind
him by means of a loop of thread passed over the end of
the lever handle. The two free ends of the thread were
slipped under the door; and when the two valves of the
door were closed, the lever was pulled down by tugging on
the two ends of the thread. When the catch was in place,
a pull on a single end of the thread brought it away from
1 See page 163. 2 See page 242.


CASE FOR THE PROSECUTION 271
the catch and under the door, so that no trace was left of
any closing of the valves from the outside.
24. At about 11.30 p.m., John Fenton was in the garden
of The Cedars and made his way to the French window.
(Witness: James Buckland.1)
25. John Fenton, looking through the curtained window,
saw his wife's feet and ankles on a settee. His evidence
suggests that by this time she was dead.
(Witness: John Fenton.2)
26. Shortly after midnight, Joyce Hazlemere returned,
found the French window closed, and entered the house by
the front door. She discovered Mrs. Fenton's body in the
drawing-room, recalled Leslie Seaforth and brought him to
the house. Leslie Seaforth then rang up Dr. Hubertus Platt.
(Witness: Joyce Hazlemere.8)
27. Dr. Platt came at once and found life extinct.
(Witness: Dr. Hubertus Platt.4)
28. A post-mortem examination showed the following.
The stomach of the deceased contained a non-fatal dose
of veronal and also some material which gave the effect
of digitalis. On the neck of the deceased, just over the most
accessible positions of the vagus nerves and the internal
carotid arteries, were two faint pressure-marks. Pressure at
these points was believed to be the cause of death. There
was no sign of constriction of the windpipe such as an
1 See page 244. 2 See pages 175-176. 3 See page 45.
4 See page 46.


272 THE EYE IN THE MUSEUM
ordinary person would use to kill a victim. The pressure
on the vagi and carotids could have been applied only by
someone with special knowledge, either a medical man or
someone trained in jiu-jitsu (since these points are at-
tacked in one of the jiu-jitsu holds).
(Witness: Amyas Keymer, M.D.1)
29. The accused resided in Japan for years and had the
opportunity of learning jiu-jitsu.
(Not contested.)
30. Immediately after Mrs. Fenton's death, the accused
removed his bearer bonds from the North-Eastem Midland
Bank and Dr. Simon Hyndford substituted for them, as
security for his overdraft, the £10,000 policy on Mrs.
Fenton's life.
(Witness: James Laxey of the North-Eastem Midland
Bank.2)
31. On 27th June, a letter signed "One Who Knows"
reached Superintendent Ross. The letter accused Dr. Simon
Hyndford of the murder of Mrs. Fenton.
(Witness: Superintendent Ross.3)
32. This letter was written by the same person who
forged the I.O.U.'s purporting to be signed by Mrs. Fenton.
(Witness: Laurence Groombridge, N.P.4)
33. Shortly after midnight on 27th June, information
was received that Dr. Simon Hyndford had committed
1 See pages 47-51. 2 See page 208. 3 See page 217.
4 See pages 237-238.


CHAPTER XVII: THE SPRINGS OF
ACTION
"So Dickie Hyndford didn't manage to slip through
your fingers after all?"
James Corwen's voice had something in it which
sounded like a tinge of regret.
"If he'd got past us at the river-mouth, he might
have led us a dance for a while," the Superintendent
admitted. "He meant to coast along the shore in
one direction or the other for the best part of the
night, then land and send the boat off again straight
out to sea with the engine running. That would have
covered his trail temporarily; and I expect he might
have got away by rail if he'd chosen his landing-
place skilfully. But we'd have had him in the end."
"I suppose so," Corwen agreed.
"And of course he had about £3,000 worth of
bearer bonds on him when I arrested him—enough
to give him a fresh start somewhere."
James Corwen reflected for a moment and changed
the subject.
"It was the veronal that gave me the first inkling
of the possibilities of the case," he said, inconse-
quently.
"I'd like to hear just how much you guessed, if
it's no trouble to you," Ross suggested.


276 THE EYE IN THE MUSEUM
James Corwen's gesture seemed to disclaim any
special merit in the matter.
"Oh, I didn't make much of it, really," he ac-
knowledged frankly. "The veronal was what made
me think, to start with. Veronal's a scheduled poison
—even I knew that. Therefore it could have been
procured only by some authorised person, and it
could have been administered only by Mrs. Fenton
herself or by someone who was in the house that
evening."
"Yes?" prompted Ross.
"The only people likely to have veronal in their
control were: a druggist, a doctor, and a research
chemist. There was no research chemist on the scene
at all; so I ruled that out. The druggist had no in-
terest in Mrs. Fenton's death; so he was off the
map. That left a doctor. There were two doctors
in Mrs. Fenton's circle: Platt and Hyndford. Piatt
had no interest in her, except a professional one;
Hyndford . . . well, he might have had some rea-
son for wanting her out of the way."
"You didn't stop there, of course?"
James Corwen carried the chain on to another
link.
"At that point, the method of killing took my
attention. The effect of pressure at that point in the
neck was new to me. It was a case of special knowl-
edge. Who had special knowledge of that sort? A
doctor or, possibly, a jiu-jitsu expert. Simon Hynd-
ford was a doctor; Dickie had been in Japan. Either
of them would have the information. Eliminate
everyone else who had either no access to veronal or


THE SPRINGS OF ACTION
28l
tendent, didn't fit in with his doings. If you change
a single word in one of Byron's couplets, you get a
picture of Dickie as I believed he really was:
He was a hater, of the good old school
Who still become more constant as they cool.
Perhaps now you will be able to see how I looked
at the Fenton case from the start. It was a play
within a play, like that scene in Hamlet. The super-
ficial part of it was the murder of Mrs. Fenton; that
was what you saw. But the latent part of it was the
manoeuvring of Dickie Hyndford towards his re-
venge, the final squaring of an account that he'd
kept open for the best part of a quarter-century.
Mrs. Fenton was a mere pawn in that game."
"And you saw all this?" the Superintendent de-
manded.
"Not all at once," James Corwen admitted. "One
thing fitted in after another. And of course I had no
proof; it was merely suspicion. All I could do was
to give you a bit of information now and again
without seeming to do so. I trusted to you to find
your way to the solution eventually."
"I got the impression you rather liked Richard
Hyndford."
"My business was to get my client off," James
Corwen pointed out. "And the surest way to manage
that was to turn your attention elsewhere. But if I
had shown animus against both the Hyndfords, you
would probably have discounted my information."
"That's true enough," said Ross reflectively.


THE SPRINGS OF ACTION 285
"And but for two bits of bad luck, I expect he'd
have pulled it off," the Superintendent admitted.
"One was the chance that Groombridge happened
to be a bit of a graphologist. The other was old Jim
Buckland's eye, up there in the Museum. Neither of
them singly would have helped much. But the two
of them put together were enough to clear up the
case. There's always a lot of luck in this detective
business."
THE END