OHIO STATE
UNIVERSITY
LIBRARIES








A SILENT
WITNESS
By
R. AUSTIN FREEMAN
Author of "The Mystery of 31, New Inn,"
“The Uttermoet Farthing," etc.
Illustrated by
H. WESTON TAYLOR
PHILADELPHIA
THE JOHN C. WINSTON COMPANY
PUBLISHERS


PR 60!
R445 S5
1915
C. 2
Copyright, 1915, by
TAE JOHN C. WINSTON COMPANY


In compliance with Section 108
of the copyright Revision Act of
1976, The Ohio State University
Libraries has produced this
facsimile on permanent/
durable paper to replace the
irreplaceable, deteriorated
original volume owned by
the Libraries.
1993
TM
04 6. Ohh





To
DOROTHY, CUTHBERT, CARTERET AND GERALD BISHOP
IN MEMORY OF LABORS THAT ARE PAST AND IN
TOKEN OF FRIENDSHIP THAT ENDURES.





一
​



H.Weston Waylon
THE DILATED PUPILS WERE INSENSIBLE TO THE GLARE


CONTENTS
PAGE
11
O
I. THE BEGINNING OF THE MYSTERY....
II. THE FINDING OF THE RELIQUARY. 22
III. "WHO IS SYLVIA?”
30
IV. SEPTIMUS MADDOCK, DECEASED 38
V. THE LETHAL CHAMBER.
57
VI. A COUNCIL OF WAR...
78
VII. AN UNSEEN ENEMY.
94
VIII. “IT'S AN ILL WIND-
107
IX. THORNDYKE TAKES UP THE SCENT.. 124
X. THE UNHEEDED WARNING.
135
XI. A CHAPTER OF ACCIDENTS.
147
XII. MISS VYNE...,
166
XIII. A MYSTERIOUS STRANGER.
182
XIV. A LONELY WOMAN..
204
XV. EXIT DR. JARDINE..
224
XVI. ENTER FATHER HUMPERDINCK. 244
XVII. THE PALIMPSEST.
272
XVIII. A VISITOR FROM THE STATES... 292
XIX. TENEBRE..
306
XX. THE HUE AND CRY...
321
XXI. THE FINAL PROBLEM.
338
XXII. THORNDYKE REVIEWS THE CASE.. 358
(7)





ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
THE DILATED PUPILS WERE INSENSIBLE
TO THE GLARE ...
Frontispiece
HAPPENING TO LOOK UP, I CAUGHT THE EYE
OF MRS. SAMWAY.
52
THE POINT OF
FIXATION WAS SYLVIA'S
CRUCIFIX
196
AND SO I HELD HER, WHISPERING ENDEAR-
MENTS
319
(9)





CHAPTER I
THE BEGINNING OF THE MYSTERY
T
\HE history upon which I am now embarking
abounds in incidents so amazing that, as
I look back on them, a something approach-
ing to skepticism contends with my vivid
recollections and makes me feel almost apologetic
in laying them before the reader. Some of them
indeed are so out of character with the workaday
life in which they happened that they will appear
almost incredible; but none is more fraught with
mystery than the experience that befell me on a
certain September night in the last year of my
studentship and ushered in the rest of the astounding
sequence.
It was past eleven o'clock when I let myself out
of my lodgings at Gospel Oak; a dark night, cloudy
and warm and rather inclined to rain. But, despite
the rather unfavorable aspect of the weather, I
turned my steps away from the town, and walking
briskly up the Highgate Road, presently turned into
Millfield Lane. This was my favorite walk and the
pretty winding lane, meandering so pleasantly from
Lower Highgate to the heights of Hamstead, was
familiar to me under all its aspects.
On sweet summer mornings when the cuckoos
called from the depths of Ken Wood, when the path
was spangled with golden sunlight, and saucy
squirrels played hide and seek in the shadows under
the elms (though the place was within earshot of
Westminster and within sight of the dome of St.
(11)


12
A SILENT WITNESS
Paul's); on winter days when the Heath wore its
mantle of white and “the ring of gliding steel”
came up from the skaters on the pond below; on
August evenings, when I would come suddenly on
sequestered lovers (to our mutual embarrassment)
and hurry by with ill-feigned unconsciousness. I
knew all its phases and loved them all. Even its
name was delightful, carrying the mind back to
those more rustic days when the wits foregathered
at the Old Flask Tavern and John Constable tramped
through this very lane with his color-box slung over
his shoulder.
It was very dark after I had passed the lamp at
the entrance to the lane. Very silent and solitary
too. Not a soul was stirring at this hour, for the
last of the lovers had long since gone home and the
place was little frequented even in the daytime.
The 'elms brooded over the road, shrouding it in
shadows of palpable black, and their leaves whispered
secretly in the soft night breeze. But the darkness,
the quiet and the solitude were restful after the long
hours of study and the glare of the printed page,
and I strolled on past the ghostly pond and the little
thatched cottage, now wrapped in silence and dark-
ness, with a certain wistful regret that I must soon
look my last on them. For I had now passed all
my examinations but the final “Fellowship,” and
must soon be starting my professional career in
earnest.
Presently a light rain began to fall. Foreseeing
that I should have to curtail my walk, I stepped
forward more briskly, and, passing between the
posts, entered the narrowest and most secluded part
of the lane. But now the rain suddenly increased,
and a squall of wind drove it athwart the path. I
drew up in the shelter of one of the tall oak fences


BEGINNING OF THE MYSTERY
13
by which the lane is here inclosed, and waited for
the shower to pass. And as I stood with my back
to the fence, pensively filling my pipe, I became for
the first time sensible of the utter solitude of the place.
I looked about me and listened. The lane was
darker here than elsewhere; a mere trench between
the high fences. I could dimly see the posts at the
entrance and a group of large elms overshadowing
them. In the other direction, where the lane doubled
sharply upon itself, was absolute, inky blackness,
save where a faint glimmer from the wet ground
showed the corner of the fence and a projecting
stump or tree-root jutting out from the corner and
looking curiously like a human foot with the toes
pointed upward.
The rain fell steadily with a soft, continuous
murmur; the leaves of the elm-trees whispered
together and answered the falling rain. The Scotch
pines above my head stirred in the breeze with a
sound like the surge of the distant sea. The voices
of Nature, hushed and solemn, oblivious of man like
the voices of the wilderness; and over all and through
all, a profound, enveloping silence.
I drew up closer to the fence and shivered slightly,
for the night was growing chill. It seemed a little
lighter now in the narrow, trench-like lane; not
that the sky was less murky, but because the ground
was now flooded with water. The posts stood out
less vaguely against the background of wet road,
and the odd-looking stump by the corner was almost
distinct. And again it struck me as looking curiously
like a foot-a booted foot with the toes pointing
upward.
The chime of a church clock sounded across the
Heath, a human voice, this, penetrating the desolate
silence. Then, after an interval, the solemn boom
of Big Ben came up faintly from the sleeping city.


14
A SILENT WITNESS
Midnight! and time for me to go home. It was of
no use to wait for the rain to cease. This was no
passing shower, but a steady drizzle that might last
till morning. I re-lit my pipe, turned up my collar,
and prepared to plunge into the rain. And as I
stepped out, the queer-looking stump caught my
eye once more. It was singularly like a foot; and
it was odd, too, that I had never noticed it before
in my many rambles through the lane.
A sudden, childish curiosity impelled me to see
what it really was before I went, and the next
moment I was striding sharply up the sodden path.
Of course, I expected the illusion to vanish as I
approached. But it did not. The resemblance
increased as I drew nearer, and I hurried forward
with something more than curiosity.
It was a foot! I realized it with a shock while I
was some paces away; and, as I reached the corner,
I came upon the body of a man lying in the sharp
turn of the path; and the limp, sprawling posture,
with one leg doubled under, told its tale at a glance.
I laid my finger on his wrist. It was clammy and
cold, and not a vestige of a pulse could I detect.
I struck a wax match and held it to his face. The
eyes were wide open and filmy, staring straight up
into the reeking sky. The dilated pupils were
insensitive to the glare of the match, the eyeballs
insensitive to the touch of my finger.
Beyond all doubt the man was dead.
But how had he died? Had he simply fallen dead
from some natural cause, or had he been murdered?
There was no obvious injury, and no sign of blood.
All that the momentary glimmer of the match showed
was that his clothes were shiny with the wet; a
condition that might easily, in the weak light, mask
a considerable amount of bleeding.


BEGINNING OF THE MYSTERY
15
When the match went out, I stood for some
moments looking down on the prostrate figure as it
lay with the rain beating down on the upturned face,
professional interest contending with natural awe
of the tragic presence. The former prompted me to
ascertain without delay the cause of death; and,
indeed, I was about to make a more thorough search
for some injury or wound when something whispered
to me that it is not well to be alone at midnight in
a solitary place with a dead man-perchance a.
murdered man. Had there been any sign of life,
my duty would have been clear. As it was, I must
act for the best with a due regard to my own safety.
And, reaching this conclusion, I turned away,
with a last glance at the motionless figure and set
forth homeward at a rapid pace.
As I turned out of Millfield Lane into Highgate
Rise I perceived a policeman on the opposite side
of the road standing under a tree, where the light
from a lamp fell on his shining tarpaulin cape. I
crossed the road, and, as he civilly touched his
helmet, I said: “I am afraid there is something
wrong up the lane, Constable; I have just seen the
body of a man lying on the pathway.”
The constable woke up very completely. "Do
you mean a dead man, sir?" he asked.
“Yes, he is undoubtedly dead,” I replied.
“Whereabouts did you see the body?” inquired
the constable.
“In the narrow part of the lane, just by the stables
of Mansfield House."
“That's some distance from here,' said the
constable. "You had better come with me and
report at the station. You're sure the man was
dead, sir?"
“Yes, I have no doubt about it. I am a medical


BEGINNING OF THE MYSTERY
17
“Not long, I should think. The body was still
quite limp.
“You didn't see any marks of violence?”
“No. There were no obvious injuries.”
“Which way were you going when you came on
the body?”
“The way we are going now, and, of course, I
came straight back."
“Did you meet or see anyone in the lane?” '
“Not a soul," I answered.
He considered my answers for some time, and then
came the question that I had been expecting.
“How came you to be in the lane at this time of
night?”
“I was taking a walk," I replied, "as I do nearly
every night. I usually finish my evening's reading
about eleven, and then I have some supper and take
a walk before going to bed, and I take my walk
most commonly in Millfield Lane. Some of your
men must remember having met me.”
This explanation seemed to satisfy him, for he
pursued the subject no farther, and we trudged
on for awhile in silence. At length, as we passed
through the posts into the narrow part of the lane,
the inspector asked: “We're nearly there, aren't we?”
“Yes," I replied; "the body is lying in the bend
just ahead.”
I peered into the darkness in search of the foot
that had first attracted my notice, but was not yet
able to distinguish it. Nor, to my surprise, could
I make it out as we approached more nearly; and
when we reached the corner, I stopped short in utter
amazement.
The body had vanished!
“What's the matter?” asked the inspector. “I
thought this was the place you meant."


18
A SILENT WITNESS
'So it is,” I answered. “This is the place where
the body was lying; here, across the path, with one
foot projecting round the corner. Someone must
have carried it away.”
The inspector looked at me sharply for a moment.
“Well, it isn't here now,” said he, "and if it has been
taken away, it must
have been taken along towards
Hampstead Lane. We'd better go and see." With-
out waiting for a reply, he started off along the lane
at a smart double and I followed.
We pursued the windings of the lane until we
emerged into the road by the lodge gates, without
discovering any traces of the missing corpse or meet-
ing any person, and then we turned back and retraced
our steps; and as we once more approached the
crook in the lane where I had seen the body, we
heard a quick, measured tramp.
“Here comes the sergeant with the stretcher,"
observed the inspector; "and he might have saved
himself the trouble." Once more the officer glanced
at me sharply, and this time with unmistakable
suspicion.
“There's no body here, Robson,” he said, as the
sergeant came up, accompanied by two constables
carrying a stretcher. “It seems to have dis-
appeared."
‘Disappeared!” exclaimed the sergeant, bestow-
ing on me a look of extreme disfavor.
"That's a
rum go, sir. How could it have disappeared?”
“Ah! that's the question!” said the inspector.
“And another question is, was it ever here? Are you
prepared to make a sworn statement on the subject,
sir?'
“Certainly I am,” I replied.
“Then,” said the inspector, "we will take it that
there was a body here. Put down that stretcher.


BEGINNING OF THE MYSTERY
19
There is a gap in the fence farther along. We will
get through there and search the meadow."
The bearers stood the stretcher up against a tree
and we all proceeded up the lane to the place where
the observant inspector had noticed the opening
in the fence. The gravel, though sodden with the
wet, took but the faintest impressions of the feet
that trod it, and, though the sergeant and the two
constables threw the combined light of their lanterns
on the ground, we were only able to make out very
faintly the occasional traces of our own footsteps.
We scrutinized the break in the fence and the earth
around with the utmost minuteness, but could detect
no sign of anyone having passed through. The
short turf of the meadow, on which I had seen sheep
grazing in the daytime, was not calculated to yield
traces of anyone passing over it, and no traces of
any kind were discoverable. When we had searched
the meadow thoroughly and without result, we came
back into the lane and followed its devious course
to the "kissing-gate" at the Hampstead Lane
entrance. And still there was no sign of anything
unusual. True, there were obscure foot-prints in
the soft gravel by the turnstile, but they told us
nothing; we could not even be sure that they had
not been made by ourselves on our previous visit.
In short, the net result of our investigations was that
the body had vanished and left no trace.
“It's a very extraordinary affair," said the inspec-
tor, in a tone of deep discontent, as we walked back.
“The body of a full-grown man isn't the sort of thing
you can put in your pocket and stroll off with with-
out being noticed, even at midnight. Are you per-
fectly sure the man was really dead and not in a
faint?"
“I feel no doubt whatever that he was dead,” I
replied.


20
A SILENT WITNESS
“With all respect to you, sir," said the sergeant,
“I think you must be mistaken. I think the man
must have been in a dead faint, and after you came
away, the rain must have revived him so that he was
able to get up and walk away.”
“I don't think so,'' said I, though with less con-
viction; for, after all, it was not absolutely impossible
that I should have been mistaken, since I had dis-
covered no mortal injury, and the sergeant's sug-
gestion was an eminently reasonable one.
“What sized man was he?" the inspector asked.
"That I couldn't say," I answered. "It is not
easy to judge the height of a man when he is lying
down and the light was excessively dim. But I
should say he was not a tall man and rather slight
in build."
“Could you give us any description of him?”
“He was an elderly man, about sixty I should
think, and he appeared to be a clergyman or a priest,
for he wore a Roman collar with a narrow, dark stripe
up the front. He was clean shaven, and, I think,
wore a clerical suit of black. A tall hat was lying
on the ground close by and a walking-stick which
looked like a malacca, but I couldn't see it very well,
as he had fallen on it and most of it was hidden.”
“And you saw all this by the light of one wax
match," said the inspector.
“You made pretty
good use of your eyes, sir."
“A man isn't much use in my profession if he
doesn't," I replied, rather stiffly.
“No, that's true," the inspector agreed. "Well, I
must ask you to give us the full particulars at the
station, and we shall see if anything fresh turns up.
I'm sorry to keep you hanging about in the wet, but
it can't be helped."
“Of course it can't,” said I, and we trudged on in


BEGINNING OF THE MYSTERY
21
silence until we reached the station, which looked
quite cheerful and homelike despite the grim blue
lamp above the doorway.
Well, Doctor,” said the inspector, when he had
read over my statement and I had affixed my
signature, "if anything turns up, you'll hear from us.
But I doubt if we shall hear anything more of this.
Dead or alive, the man seems to have vanished
completely. Perhaps the sergeant's right after all,
and your dead man is at this moment comfortably
tucked up in bed. Good-night, Doctor, and thank
you for all the trouble you have taken.'
By the time that I reached my lodgings I was
tired out and miserably cold; so cold that I was
fain to brew myself a jorum of hot grog in my shaving
pot. As a natural result, I fell fast asleep as soon
as I got to bed and slept on until the autumn sun-
shine poured in through the slats of the Venetian
blind.
.


FINDING OF THE RELIQUARY
23
incredulity of the police. How he had come there,
what had occasioned his death or insensibility, how
he had disappeared and whither he had gone, were
questions to which no answer seemed possible.
The fatigues of the previous night had left me
somewhat indolent. There was no occasion for me
to go to the hospital today. It was vacation time;
the school was closed; the teaching staff were mostly
away, and there was little doing in the wards. I
decided to take a holiday and spend a quiet day
rambling about the Heath, and, having formed this
resolution, I filled my pipe, slipped a sketch-book
into my pocket and set forth.
Automatically my feet turned towards Millfield
Lane. It was, as I have said, my usual walk, and on
this morning, with last night's recollections fresh in
my mind, it was natural that I should take my way
thither.
Very different was the aspect of the lane this
morning from that which I had last looked upon.
The gloom and desolation of the night had given place
to the golden sunshine of a lovely autumn day.
The elms, clothed already in the sober livery of the
waning year, sighed with pensive reminiscence of the
summer that was gone; the ponds repeated the warm
blue of the sky; and the lane itself was a vista of
flickering sunlight and cool, reposeful shadow.
The narrow continuation beyond the posts was
wrapped, as always, in a somber shade, save where
a gleam of yellow light streamed through a chink
between the boards of the fence. I made my way
straight to the spot where the body had lain and
stooped over it, examining each pebble with the
closest scrutiny. But not a trace remained. The
hard, gravelly soil retained no impress either of the
body or even of our footsteps; and as for the stain


24
A SILENT WITNESS
of blood, if there had ever been any, it would have
been immediately removed by the falling rain, for the
ground here had a quite appreciable slope and must
have been covered last night by a considerable flowing
stream.
I went on to the break in the fence
it was on the
right-hand side of the path-and was at once dis-
couraged by the aspect of the ground; for even our
rough tramplings had left hardly a trace behind.
After an aimless walk across the meadow, now
occupied by a flock of sheep, I returned to the lane
and walked slowly back past the place where I had
sheltered from the rain. And then it was that I
discovered the first hint of any clue to the mystery.
I had retraced my steps some little distance past the
spot where I had seen the body, when my eye was
attracted by a darkish streak on the upper part of
the high fence. It was quite faint and not at all
noticeable on the weather-stained oak, but it chanced
to catch my eye and I stopped to examine it. The
fence which bore it was the opposite one to that in
which the break occurred, and, since I had sheltered
under it, the side of it which looked towards the lane
must have been the lee side and thus less exposed
to the rain.
I looked at the stain attentively. It extended
from the top of the fence
which was about seven
feet high-half-way to the ground, fading away
gradually in all directions. The color was a dull
brown, and the appearance very much that of blood
which had run down a wet surface. The board
which bore the stain was traversed by a vertical
crack near one edge, so that I was able to break off
a small piece without much difficulty; and on
examining that portion of the detached piece which
had formed the side of the crack, I found it covered


FINDING OF THE RELIQUARY
25
with a brownish-red, shiny substance, which I felt
little doubt was dried blood, bere protected by the
crack and so less altered by contact with water.
Naturally, my next proceeding was to scrutinize
very carefully the ground immediately beneath the
stain. At the foot of the fence, a few tussocks of
grass and clumps of undergrown weeds struggled
for life in the deep shade. The latter certainly had,
on close examination, the appearance of having been
trodden on, though it was not very evident. But
while I was considering an undoubted bruise on the
stalk of a little dead-nettle, my eye caught the
glint of some bright object among the leaves. I
picked it out eagerly and held it up to look at it;
and a very curious object it was; evidently an
article of jewelry of some kind, but quite unlike
anything I had ever seen before. It appeared to
be a little elongated, gold case, with eight sides, and
terminating at either end in a blunt octagonal
pyramid with a tiny ring at its apex, so that it
seemed to have been part of a necklace. Of the
eight flat sides, six were ornamented with sunk
quatre-foils, four on each side; the other two sides
were plain except that each had a row of letters
engraved on it-A.M.D.G. on one side, and S.V.D.P.
on the other. There was no hall-mark and, as far
as I could see, no means of opening the little case.
It seemed to have been suspended by a thin silk
cord, a portion of which remained attached to one
ring and showed a frayed end where it had broken
or chafed through.
I wrapped the little object and the detached
fragment of the fence in my handkerchief (for I had
broken off the latter with the idea of testing it
chemically for blood-pigment), and then resurred
my investigations. The appearances suggested that


26
A SILENT WITNESS
the body had been lifted over the fence, and the
question arose, What was on the other side? I
listened attentively for a few seconds, and then,
hearing no sound of footsteps, I grasped the top of
the fence, gave a good spring and hoisting myself
up, sat astride and looked about me. The fence
skirted the margin of a small lake much overgrown
with weeds, amidst which I could see a couple of
waterhens making off in alarm at my appearance,
and beyond the lake rose the dark mass of Ken
Wood. The ground between the fence and the lake
was covered with high, reedy grass, which, imme
diately below my perch, bore very distinct impres-
sions of feet, and an equally distinct set of tracks
led away towards the wood or from the wood to
the fence, it was impossible to say which. But in
any case, as there were no other tracks, it was cer-
tain that the person who made them had climbed
over the fence. I dropped down on the grass and,
having examined the ground attentively without
discovering anything fresh, set off to follow the
tracks.
For some distance they continued through high
grass in which the impressions were very distinct;
then they entered the wood, and here also, in the
soft humus, lightly sprinkled with fallen leaves, the
footprints were deep and easy to follow. But
presently they struck a path, and, as they did not
reappear on the farther side, it was evident that the
unknown person had proceeded along it. The path
was an old one, well made of hard gravel, and, where
it passed through the deeper shade of the wood,
was covered with velvety moss and gray-green
lichen, on which I made out with some difficulty,
the imprints of feet. But these were no longer
distinct; they did not form a connected track; nor


FINDING OF THE RELIQUARY
27
was it possible to distinguish them from the foot-
prints of other persons who might have passed along
the path. Even these I soon lost where I had halted
irresolutely under a noble beech that rose from a
fantastic coil of roots, and was considering how, if
at all, I should next proceed, when there appeared
round a curve of the path a man in cord breeches
and gaiters, evidently a keeper. He touched his
hat civilly and ventured to inquire my business.
“I am afraid I have no business here at all,” I
replied, for I did not think it expedient to tell him
what had brought me into the wood. “I suppose
I am trespassing.
"Well, sir, it is private property,” he rejoined, “and
being so near London we have to be rather par-
ticular. Perhaps you would like me to show you
the way out on to the Heath?”
I accepted his offer with many thanks for his
courteous method of ejecting a trespasser, and we
walked together through the beautiful woodland
until the path terminated at a rustic turnstile.
“That will be your way, sir,” he said, as he let
me out, indicating a track that led down to the
Vale of Health. I thanked him once more and
then asked:
“Is that a private house or does it belong to your
estate?” I pointed to a small house or large cottage
that stood within a fenced enclosure not far from
the edge of the wood.
“That, sir,” he replied, “was formerly a keeper's
lodge. It is now let for a short term to an artist
gentleman who is making some pictures of the
Heath, but I expect it will be pulled down before
long, as there is some talk of the County Council
taking over that piece of land to add to the public
grounds. Good-morning, sir,” and the keeper, with
a parting salute, turned back into the wood.


28
A SILENT WITNESS
As I took my way homeward by the Highgate
Ponds I meditated on the relation of my new dis-
coveries to the mystery of the preceding night. It
was a strange affair, and sinister withal.
That the tracks led from the lane to the wood and
not from the wood to the lane, I felt firmly con-
vinced; and equally so that the body of the
unknown priestor clergyman had undoubtedly
been spirited away.
But whither had it been
carried? Presumably to some sequestered spot in
the wood. And what better hiding-place could
be found? There, buried in the soft leaf-mould, it
might lie undisturbed for centuries, covered only
the deeper as each succeeding autumn shed its
russet burden on the unknown grave.
And what, I wondered, was the connection
between this mysterious tragedy and the queer little
object that I had picked up? Perhaps there was
Its presence at that particular spot might
be nothing but a coincidence. I took it from my
handkerchief and examined it afresh. It was a
very curious object. As to its use or meaning, I
could only form vague surmises. Perhaps it was
some kind of locket, enclosing a wisp of hair; the
hair perhaps of some dead child or wife or husband
or even lover. It was impossible to say.
Of
course, this question could be settled by taking it
to pieces, but I was loath to injure the pretty little
bauble; besides it was not mine. In fact, I felt
that I ought to notify publicly that I had found it,
though the circumstances did not make this very
advisable. But if it had any connection with the
tragedy, what was the nature of that connection?
Had it dropped from the dead man or from the
murderer-as I assumed the other man to be?
Either was equally possible, though the two pos-
sibilities had very different values.
none.


FINDING OF THE RELIQUARY
29
Then the question arose as to what course I
should pursue.
Clearly it would be my duty to
inform the police of the mark on the fence and the
tracks through the grass. But should I hand over
the mysterious trinket to them? It seemed the
correct thing to do, and yet there might after all be.
no connection between it and the crime. In the
end I left the matter to be decided by the attitude
of the police themselves.
I called at the station on my way home and
furnished the inspector with an account of my new
discoveries, of which he made a careful note, assur-
ing me that the affair should be looked into. But
his manner expressed frank disbelief, and was even
a trifle hostile; and his emphatic request that I
would abstain from mentioning the matter to any-
one left me in no doubt that he regarded both my
communications as wild delusions if not as a delib-
erate hoax. Consequently, though I frequently
reproached myself afterwards with the omission, I
said nothing about the trinket, and when I left the
station I carried it in my pocket.
No communication on the subject of this mysteri-
ous affair ever reached me from the police. That
they did actually make some perfunctory investiga-
tions, I learned later, as will appear in this narrative.
But they gave no publicity to the affair and they
sought no further information from me.
own part, I could, naturally, never forget so strange
an experience; but time and the multitudinous
interests of my opening life tended to push it farther
into the background of memory, and there it might
have remained for ever had not subsequent events
drawn it once more from its obscurity.
For my


CHAPTER III
“WHO IS SYLVIA?"
T
\HE winter session had commenced at the
hospital, but at Hampstead the month of
October had set in with something like a
return to summer. It is true that the trees
had lost something of their leafy opulence, and that
here and there, amidst the sober green, patches of
russet and gold had made their appearance, as if
Nature's color-orchestra were tuning up for the
final symphony. But, meanwhile, the sun shone
brightly and with a genial heat, and if, day by day,
he fell farther from the zenith, there was nothing to
show it but the lengthening noonday shadows, the
warmer blue of the sky and the more rosy tint of
the clouds that sailed across it.
Other and more capable pens than mine have set
forth the charm of autumn and the beauties of
Hampstead-queen of suburbs of the world's
metropolis; therefore will I refrain, and only note,
as relevant to the subject, the fact that on many a
day, when the work of the hospital was in full
swing, I might have been seen playing truant very
agreeably on the inexhaustible Heath or in the
lanes and fields adjacent thereto. In truth, I was
taking the final stage of my curriculum rather lazily,
having worked hard enough in the earlier years, and
being still too young by several months to be ad-
mitted to the fellowship of the College of Surgeons;
promising myself that when the weather broke Í
would settle down in earnest to the winter's work.
(30)


SWHO IS SYLVIA?”
31
I have mentioned that Millfield Lane was one of
my favorite haunts; indeed, from my lodgings, it
was the most direct route to the Heath, and I
passed along it almost daily; and never, now, with-
out my thoughts turning back to that rainy night
when I had found the dead-or unconscious-man
lying across the narrow footway. One morning, as
I passed the spot, it occurred to me to make a
drawing of the place in my sketch-book, that I
might have some memorial of that strange adven-
ture. The pictorial possibilities of the lane just here
were not great, but by taking my stand at the turn,
on the very spot where I had seen the body lying,
I was able to arrange a simple composition which
was satisfactory enough.
I am no artist. A neat and intelligible drawing
is the utmost that I can produce. But even this
modest degree of achievement may be very useful,
as I had discovered many a time in the wards or
laboratories-indeed, I have often been surprised
that the instructors of our youth attach such small
value to the power of graphic expression; and it
came in usefully now, though in a way that was
unforeseen and not fully appreciated at the moment.
I had dealt adequately with the fence, the posts,
the tree-trunks and other well-defined forms and
was beginning a less successful attack on the foliage,
when I heard a light, quick step approaching from
Hampstead Lane. Intuition if there is such a
thing-fitted the footstep with a personality, and,
for once in a way, was right; as the newcomer
reached the sharp bend of the path, I saw a girl
of about my own age, simply and serviceably dressed
and carrying a pochade box and a small camp-stool.
She was not an entire stranger to me. I had met
her often in the lane and on the Heath-so often, in


32
A SILENT WITNESS
fact, that we had developed that profound uncon-
sciousness of one another's existence that almost
amounts to recognition-and had wondered vaguely
who she was and what sort of work she did on the
panels in that mysterious box.
As I drew back to make way for her, she brushed
past, with a single, quick, inquisitive glance at my
sketch-book, and went on her way, looking very
much alive and full of business. I watched her as
she tripped down the lane and passed between the
posts out into the sunlight beyond, to vanish behind
the trunks of the elms; then I returned to my sketch
and my struggles to express foliage with a touch
somewhat less suggestive of a birch-broom.
When I had finished my drawing, I sauntered on
rather aimlessly, speculating for the hundredth time
on the meaning of those discoveries of mine in this
very lane. Was it possible that the man whom I
had seen was not dead, but merely insensible? I
could not believe it. The whole set of circum-
stances—the aspect of the body, the blood-stain
on the fence, the tracks through the high grass and
the mysterious gold trinket—were opposed to any
such belief. Yet, on the other hand, one would
think that a man could not disappear unnoticed.
This was no tramp or nameless vagrant. He was
a clergyman or a priest, a man who would be known
to a great number of persons and whose disappear-
ance must surely be observed at once and be the
occasion of very stringent inquiries. But no in-
quiries had apparently been made.
I had seen
no notice in the papers of any missing cleric, and
clearly the police had heard nothing or they would
have looked me up. The whole affair was enveloped
in the profoundest mystery. Dead or alive, the
man had vanished utterly; and whether he was


“WHO IS SYLVIA?"
33
dead or alive, the mystery was equally beyond
solution.
These reflections brought me, almost uncon-
sciously, to another of my favorite walks; the
pretty footpath from the Heath to Temple Fortune.
I had crossed the stile and stepped off the path
to survey the pleasant scene, when my eye was
attracted by a number of streaks of alien color on
the leaves of a burdock. Stooping down, I per-
ceived that they were smears of oil-paint, and
inferred that someone had cleaned a palette on the
herbage; an inference that was confirmed a moment
later by what looked like the handle of a brush
projecting from a clump of nettles. When I drew
it out, however, it proved to be not a brush, but a
very curious knife with a blade shaped like a diminu-
tive and attenuated trowel; evidently a painting-
knife and also evidently home-made, at least in
part, for the tang had been thrust into a short,
stout brush-handle and secured with a whipping
of waxed thread. I dropped it into my outside
breast pocket and went on my way, wondering if
by chance it might have been dropped by my fair
acquaintance; and the thought was still in my
mind when its object hove in sight. Turning a
bend in the path, I came on her quite suddenly,
perched on her little camp-stool in the shadow of
the hedge, with the open sketching-box on her
knees, working away with an industry and con-
centration that seemed to rebuke my own idleness.
Indeed, she was so much engrossed with her occu-
pation that she did not notice me until I stepped
off the path and approached with the knife in my
hand.
"I wonder,” said I, holding it out and raising
my cap, “if this happens to be your property.


34
A SILENT WITNESS
I picked it up just now among the nettles near the
barn."
She took the knife from me and looked at it
inquisitively. “No," she replied, “it isn't mine,
but I think I know whose it is. I suspect it belongs
to an artist who has been doing a good deal of work
about the Heath. You may have seen him.”
“I have seen several artists working about here
during the summer. What was this one like?”
“Well," she answered with a smile, "he was like
an artist. Very much like. Quite the orthodox
get up. Wide brimmed hat, rather long hair and
a ragged beard. And he wore sketching-spectacles
half-moon-shaped things, you know and kid gloves
-which were not quite so orthodox.”
“Very inconvenient, I should think.”
"Not so very:
I work in gloves myself in the
cold weather or if the midges are very troublesome.
You soon get used to the feel of them; and the
man I am speaking of wouldn't find them in the
way at all because he works almost entirely with
painting-knives. That is what made me think
that this knife was probably his. He had several,
I know, and very skilfully he used them, too.”
“You have seen his work, then?”
“Well,” she admitted, “I'm afraid I descended
once or twice to play the 'snooper.' You see, his
method of handling interested me.'
“May I ask what a 'snooper' is?” I inquired.
“Don't you know? It's a student's slang name
for the kind of person who makes some transparent
pretext for coming off the path and passing behind
you to get a look at your picture by false pretences."
For an instant there flashed into my mind the
suspicion that she was administering a quiet "back-
hander,” and I rejoined hastily:


"WHO IS SYLVIA?"
35
>
“I hope you are not including me in the genus
snooper.'
She laughed softly. “It did sound rather like it.
But I'll give you the benefit of the doubt in con-
sideration of your finding the knife-which you had
better keep in trust for the owner.”
“Won't you keep it? You know the probable
owner by sight and I don't; and meanwhile you
might experiment with it yourself.
Very well,” she replied, dropping it into her
brush-tray, “I'll keep it for the present at any rate.
There was a brief pause, and then I ventured to
remark, “That looks a very promising sketch of
yours. And how well the subject comes.”
"I'm glad you like it,” she replied, quite simply,
viewing her work with her head on one side. “I
want it to turn out well, because it's a commis-
sion, and commissions for small oil-paintings are
rare and precious.
“Do you find small oil pictures very difficult to
dispose of?” I asked.
Not difficult. Impossible, as a rule. But I
don't try now. I copy my oil sketches in water-
color, with modifications to suit the market.”
Again there was a pause; and, as her brush
wandered towards the palette, it occurred to me
that I had stayed as long as good manners per-
mitted. Accordingly, I raised my cap, and, hav-
ing expressed the hope that I had not greatly hin-
dered her, prepared to move away.
"Oh, not at all,” she answered; "and thank
you for the knife, though it isn't mineor, at any
rate, wasn't. Good morning."
With this and a pleasant smile and a little nod,
she dismissed me; and once more I went my idle
and meditative way.


36
A SILENT WITNESS
It had been quite a pleasant little adventure.
There is always something rather interesting in
making the acquaintance of a person whom one
has known some time by sight but who is otherwise
an unknown quantity. The voice, the manner, and
the little revelations of character, which confirm or
contradict previous impressions, are watched with
interest as they develop themselves and fill in, one
by one, the blank spaces of the total personality.
I had, as I have said, often met this industrious
maiden in my walks and had formed the opinion
that she looked a rather nice girl; an opinion that
was probably influenced by her unusual good looks
and graceful carriage. And a rather nice girl she
had turned out to be; very dignified and self-
possessed, but quite simple and frank—though, to
be sure, her gracious reception of me had probably
been due to my sketch-book; she had taken me for
a kindred spirit. She had a pleasant voice and a
faultless accent, with just a hint of the fine lady
in her manner; but I liked her none the less for
that. And her name was a pretty name, too, if
I had guessed it correctly; for, on the inside of
the lid of her box, which was partly uncovered by
the upright panel, I had read the letters “Syl.”
The panel hid the rest, but the name could hardly
be other than Sylvia; and what more charming
and appropriate name could be bestowed upon a
comely young lady who spent her days amidst the
woods and fields of my beloved Hampstead?
Regaling myself with this somewhat small beer,
I sauntered on along the grassy lane, between hedge-
rows that in the summer had been spangled with
wild roses and that were now gay with the big oval
berries, sleek and glossy and scarlet, like overgrown
beads of red coral; away, across the fields to Golder's


"WHO IS SYLVIA?"
37
Green and thence by Millfield Lane, back to my
lodgings at Gospel Oak, and to my landlady, Mrs.
Blunt,
who had a few plaintive words to say respect-
ing the disastrous effects of unpunctuality—and the
resulting prolonged heat-on mutton cutlets and
fried potatoes.
It had been an idle morning and apparently void
of significant events; but yet, when I look back
on it, I see a definite thread of causation running
through its simple happenings, and I realize that,
all unthinking, I had strung on one more bead to
the chaplet of my destiny,


CHAPTER IV
SEPTIMUS MADDOCK, DECEASED
II
T was getting well on into November when I
strolled one afternoon into the hospital museum,
not with any specific object, but rather vaguely
in search of something to do. During the last
few days I had developed a slight revival of industry
-which had coincided, oddly enough, with a marked
deterioration of the weather-and, pathology being
my weakest point, the museum had seemed to call
me (though not very loudly, I fear) to browse
amongst its multitudinous jars and dry preparations.
There was only one person in the great room;
but he was a very important person; being none
other than our lecturer on Medical Jurisprudence,
Dr. John Thorndyke. He was seated at a small
table whereon was set out a collection of jars and a
number of large photographs, of which he appeared
to be making a catalogue; but intent as he was on
his occupation, he looked up as I entered and greeted
me with a genial smile.
"What do you think of my little collection,
Jardine?” he asked, as I approached deferentially.
Before replying, I ran a vaguely inquiring eye over
the group of objects on the table and was mighty
little enlightened thereby. It was certainly a queer
collection. There was a flat jar which contained a
series of five differently-colored mice, another with
a similar series of three rats, a human foot, a hand-
manifestly deformed—a series of four fowls' heads
and a number of photographs of plants.
(38)


40
A SILENT WITNESS
sex-character of only one parent is inherited, and it is
inherited completely. The characters of maleness
or femaleness pass down unchanged through the
ages with no tendency to diminish or to shade off
into one another. That is a case of Mendelian
inheritance.”
I ran my eyes over the collection and they presently
lighted on the rather abnormal-looking foot hanging,
white and shriveled, in the clear spirit. I lifted the
jar from the table and then, noticing for the first
time that the foot had a supernumerary toe, I
inquired what point the specimen illustrated.
That six-toed foot,” Thorndyke replied, “is an
example of a deformity that is transmitted unchanged
for an indefinite number of generations. This
brachydactylous hand is another instance. The
brachydactyly reappears in the offspring either
completely or not at all. There are no intermediate
conditions."
He picked up the jar, and, having wiped the glass
with a duster, exhibited the hand which was sus-
pended within; and a strange-looking hand it was;
broad and stumpy, like the hand of a mole.
“There seem to be only two joints to each finger
I said.
“Yes. The fingers are all thumbs, and the thumb
is only a demi-thumb. A joint is suppressed in each
digit.
“It must make the hand very clumsy and useless,"
I remarked.
“So one would think. It isn't exactly the type of
hand for a Liszt or a Paganini. And yet we mustn't
assume too much. I once saw an armless man
copying pictures in the Luxembourg, and copying
them very well, too. He held his brush with his
toes; and he was so handy with his feet that he not


42
A SILENT WITNESS
“Yes. I met one of our old students just now.
He is at his wits' end to find a locum tenens. He
has to go away tonight or tomorrow morning, but
he can't get anyone to look after his work. Won't
you go to his relief? It's an easy practice, I believe.”
I turned the question over in my mind and finally
decided to try the venture.
“That's right,” said Dr. Thorndyke. “You'll help
a professional brother, at any rate, and pick up a
little experience. Our friend's name is Batson, and
he lives in Jacob Street, Hampstead Road. I'll write
it down."
He handed me a slip of paper with the address on
it and wished me success; and I started at once
from the hospital, already quite elated, as is the way
of the youthful, at the prospect of a new experience.
Dr. Batson's establishment in Jacob Street was
modest to the verge of dinginess. But Jacob Street
itself was dingy, and so was the immediate neighbor-
hood; a district of tall, grimy houses that might
easily have seen better days. However, Dr. Batson
himself was spruce enough and in excellent spirits
at my arrival, as was evident when he bounced into
the room with a jovial greeting, bringing in with him
a faint aroma of sherry.
“Delighted to see you, Doctor!” he exclaimed in
his large brisk voice (that'"doctor” was a diplomatic
hit on his part. They don't call newly-qualified men
“doctor" at the hospital). “I met Thorndyke this
morning and told him of my predicament. A busy
man is the Great Unraveller, but never too busy to
do a kindness to his friends. Can you take over
tonight?”
“I could," said I.
'Then do. I want particularly to be off by the
eight-thirty from Liverpool Street. Drop in and


SEPTIMUS MADDOCK, DECEASED
43
have some grub about six-thirty; I shall have polished
off the day's work by then and you'll come just in for
the evening consultations."
“Are there any cases that you will want me to
see with you?” I asked.
"Oh, no,” Batson replied, rather airily, I thought.
“They're all plain sailing. There's a typhoid, he's
doing well—fourth week; and there's a tonsilitis
and a psoas abscess—that's rather tedious, but still,
it's improving-and an old woman with a liver.
You won't have any difficulty with them. There's
only one queer case; a heart.”
“Valvular?” I asked.
“No, not valvular; I can tell you that much. I
know what it isn't, but I'm hanged if I know what
it is. Chappie complains of pain, shortness of
breath, faintness and so on, but I can't find anything
to account for it. Heart-sounds all right, pulse
quite good, no dropsy, no nothing. Seems like
malingering, but I don't see why he should malinger.
I think I'll get you to drop in this evening and have a
look at him."
“Are you keeping him in bed?” I asked.
“Yes," said Batson, “I am now; not that his
general condition seems to demand it. But he has
had one or two fainting attacks, and yesterday he
must needs fall down flop in his bedroom when there
was nobody there, and, by way of making things
more comfortable, he drops his medicine bottle and
falls on the fragments. He might have killed him-
self, you know,” Batson added in an aggrieved tone.
“As it was, a long splinter from the bottom of the
bottle stuck into his back and made quite a deep
little wound. So I've kept him in bed since, out of
harm's way; and there he is, deuced sorry for him-
self, but, as far as I can make out, without a single
tangible symptom.


44
A SILENT WITNESS
“No facial signs? Nothing unusual in his color or
expression?"
Batson laughed and tapped his gold-rimmed
spectacles.
“Ah! There you are! When you've got minus
five D and some irregular astigmatism and a pair of
glasses that don't correct it, all human beings look
pretty much alike; a trifle sketchy, don't you know.
I didn't see anything unusual in his face, but you
might. Time will show. Now you cut along and
fetch your traps, and I'll skip round and polish off
the sufferers.'
He launched me into the outer grayness of Jacob
Street and bounced off in the direction of Cumber-
land Market, leaving me to pursue my way to my
lodgings at Gospel Oak.
As I threaded the teeming streets of Camden
Town I meditated on the new experience that was
opening to me, and, with youthful egotism, I already
saw myself making a brilliant diagnosis of an obscure
heart case. Also I reflected with some surprise on
the calm view that Batson took of his defective
eyesight. A certain type of painter, as I had
observed, finds in semi-blindness a valuable gift
which helps him to eliminate trivial detail and to
impart a noble breadth of effect to his pictures;
but to a doctor no such self-delusion would seem
possible. Visual acuteness is the most precious item
in his equipment.
I crammed into a large Gladstone bag the bare
necessaries for a week's stay, together with a few
indispensable instruments, and then mounted the
jingling horse-tram of those pre-electric days, which,
in due course, deposited me at the end of Jacob
Street, Hampstead Road. Dr. Batson had not
returned from his round when I arrived, but a few
*


SEPTIMUS MADDOCK, DECEASED 45
minutes later he burst into the surgery humming
an air from the “Mikado."
“Ha! Here you are then! Punctual to the min-
ute!” He hung his hat on a peg, laid his visiting-
list on the desk of the dispensing counter and began
to compound medicine with the speed of a prestidi-
gitateur, talking volubly all the time.
“That's for the old woman with the liver, Mrs.
Mudge, Cumberland Market; you'll see her prescrip-
tion in the day book. S'pose you don't know how
to wrap up a bottle of medicine? Better watch me.
This is the way.' He slapped the bottle down on
a square of cut paper, gave a few dextrous twiddles
of his fingers and held out for my inspection a little
white parcel like the mummy-case of a deceased
medicine bottle.
“It's quite easy when you've had a little practice,
he said, deftly sticking the ends down with sealing-
wax, "but you'll make a frightful mucker of it at
first." Which prophecy was duly fulfilled that
very evening.
"What time had I better see that heart case?”
said I.
“Oh, you won't have to see it at all. Man's
dead. Message left half an hour ago. Pity, isn't it?
I should have liked to hear what you thought of
him. Must have been fatty heart. I'll write out
the certificate while I think of it. Maggie! Where's
that note that Mrs. Samway left?”
The question was roared out vaguely through the
open door to a servant of unknown whereabouts,
and resulted in the appearance of a somewhat
scraggy housemaid bearing an opened note.
“Here we are,” said Batson, snatching the note
out of its envelope and opening the book of certificate
forms; 'Septimus Maddock was the chappie's


46
A SILENT WITNESS
name, age, fifty-one, address, 23 Gayton Street;
cause of death-that's just what I should like to
know-primary cause,'secondary causes- I wish these
infernal government clerks had got something better
to do than fill printed forms with silly conundrums.
I shall put ‘Morbus Cordis'; that ought to be
enough for them. Mrs. Samway-that's his land-
lady, you know—will probably call for the certificate
during the night.”
"Aren't you going to inspect the body?” I asked.
“Lord, no! Why should I? It isn't necessary,
you know. I'm not an undertaker.
Wish I was.
Dead people good deal more profitable than live
ones.
“But surely,” I exclaimed, “the death ought to be
verified. Why, the man may not be dead at all.”
“I know," said Batson, scribbling away like a
minor poet, “but that isn't my business. Business
of the law. Law wastes your time with a heap of
silly questions that don't matter and leaves out the
question that does. Asks exact time when I last
saw him alive, which doesn't matter a hang, and
doesn't ask whether I saw him dead. Bumble was
right. Law's an ass.
“But still,” I persisted, “leaving the legal require-
ments out of consideration, oughtn't you for your
own sake, and as a public duty, to verify the death?
Supposing the man were not really dead?”
"That would be awkward for him," said Batson,
"and awkward for me, too, if he came to life before
they buried him. But it doesn't really happen in real
life. Premature burial only occurs in novels."
His easy-going confidence jarred on me consid-
erably. How could he or anyone else know what
happened?
"I don't see how you arrive at that,” I objected.


SEPTIMUS MADDOCK, DECEASED
47
“It could only be proved by wholesale disinterment.
And the fact remains that if you don't verify a
reported death you have no security against pre-
mature burial-or even cremation.”
* Batson started up and stared at me, his wide-open,
pale-blue eyes looking ridiculously small through
his deep, concave spectacles.
“By Jove!” he exclaimed, “I am glad you men-
tioned that—about cremation, I mean, because
that is what will probably happen. I witnessed the
chappie's will a couple of days ago, and I remember
now that one of the clauses stipulated that his body
should be cremated. So I shall have to verify the
death for the purpose of the cremation certificate.
We'd better pop round and see him at once."
With characteristic impulsiveness he sprang to his
feet, snatched his hat from its peg, and started forth,
leaving me to follow.
“Beastly nuisance, these special regulations,
said Batson, as he ambled briskly up the street.
'Give a lot of trouble and cause a lot of delay."
“Isn't the ordinary death certificate sufficient in a
case of cremation?” I asked.
“For purposes of law it is, though there is some
talk of new legislation on the subject, but the Com-
pany are a law unto themselves. They have made
the most infernally stringent regulations, and, as
there is no crematorium near London excepting the
one at Woking, you have to abide by their rules.
And that reminds me" here Batson halted and
scowled at me ferociously through his spectacles.
“Reminds you?” I repeated.
“That they require a second death certificate,
signed by a man with certain special qualifications.
He stood awhile frowning and muttering under his
breath and then suddenly turned and bounced off
in a new direction.


48
A SILENT WITNESS
“Going to catch the other chappie and take him
with us,” he explained, as he darted out into the
Hampstead Road. “Be off my mind then. A fellow
named O'Connor. Assistant Physician to the North
London Hospital. He'll do if we can catch him at
home. If not, you'll have to manage him.”
Batson looked at his watch-holding it within four
inches of his nose and broke into a trot as we entered
a quiet square. Halfway up he halted at a door
which bore a modest brass plate inscribed “Dr.
O'Connor," and seizing the bell-knob, worked it
vigorously in and out as if it were the handle of an
air-pump.
“Doctor in?” he demanded briskly of a startled
housemaid; and, without waiting for an answer, he
darted into the hall, down the whole length of which
he staggered, executing a sort of sword-dance, having
caught his toe on an unobserved door-mat.
The doctor was in and he shortly appeared in
evening dress with an overcoat on his arm, and
apparently in as great a hurry as Batson himself.
“Won't it do tomorrow?” he asked, when Batson
had explained his difficulties and the service required.
“Might as well come now,” said Batson persua-
sively; "won't take a minute and then I can go away
in peace.
“Very well,” said O'Connor, wriggling into his
overcoat. 'You go along and I'll follow in a few
minutes. I've got to look in on a patient on my way
up west, and I shall be late for my appointment as
it is. Write the address on my card here."
He held out a card to my principal, and when the
latter had scribbled the address on it, he hustled out
and vanished up the square. Batson followed at the
same headlong speed, and, again overlooking the
mat, came out on the pavement like an ill-started
sprinter.


SEPTIMUS MADDOCK, DECEASED
49
Gayton Street, at which we shortly arrived, was a
gray and dingy side street exactly like a score of
others in the same locality, and Number 23 differed
from the rest of the seedy-looking houses in no
respect save that it was perhaps a shade more dingy.
The door was opened in answer to Batson's indecor-
ously brisk knock by a woman-or perhaps I should
say a lady—who at once admitted us and to whom
Batson began, without preface, to explain the situa-
tion.
"I got your note, Mrs. Samway. Was going to
bring my friend here round to see the patient. Very
unfortunate affair. Very sad. Unexpected, too.
Didn't seem particularly bad yesterday. What
time did it happen?”
"I can't say exactly," was the reply. “He seemed
quite comfortable when I looked in on him the last
thing at night, but when I went in about seven this
morning he was dead. I should have let you know
sooner, but I was expecting you to call.”
,” said Batson, “very unfortunate.
By the way, Mr. Maddock desired that his remains
should be cremated, I think?”
“Yes, so my husband tells me. He is the executor
of the will, you remember, in the absence of any
relatives. All Mr. Maddock's relations seem to be
in America."
“Have you got the certificate forms?” asked
Batson.
“Yes. My husband got all the papers from the
undertaker this afternoon.
“Very well, Mrs. Samway, then we'll just take a
look at the body-have to certify that I've seen it,
"H'm, yes,
you know."
Mrs. Samway ushered us into a sitting-room where
she had apparently been working alone, for an


50
A SILENT WITNESS
unfinished mourning garment of some kind lay on
the table. Leaving us here, she went away and
presently returned with a sheaf of papers and a
lighted candle, when we rose and followed her to a
back room on the ground floor. It was a smallish
room, sparely furnished, with heavy curtains drawn
across the window, and by one wall a bed, on which
was a motionless figure covered by a sheet.
Our conductress stood the candlestick on a table
by the bed and stepped back to make way for Batson,
who drew back the sheet and looked down on the
body in his peering, near-sighted fashion. The
deceased seemed to be a rather frail-looking man of
about fifty, but, beyond the fact that he was clean
shaven, I could form very little idea of his appear-
ance, since, in addition to the usual bandage under
the chin to close the mouth, a tape had been carried
round the head to secure a couple of pads of cotton
wool over the eyes to keep the eyelids closed.
As Batson applied his stethoscope to the chest
of the dead man, I glanced at our hostess not without
interest. Mrs. Samway was an unusual-looking
woman, and I thought her decidedly handsome,
though not attractive to me personally. She seemed
to be about thirty, rather over the medium height
and of fine Junoesque proportions, with a small
head very gracefully set on the shoulders. Her jet-
black hair, formally parted in the middle, was
brought down either side of the forehead in wavy
but very smooth masses and gathered behind in a
neat, precisely-plaited coil. The general effect
reminded me of the so-called “Clytie,” having the
same reposefulness though not the gentleness and
softness of that lovely head. But the most
remarkable feature of this woman was the color of
her eyes, which were of the palest gray or hazel


SEPTIMUS MADDOCK, DECEASED
51
that I have ever seen; so pale, in fact, that they
told as spots of light, like the eyes of some lemurs
or those of a cat seen in the dusk; a peculiarity that
imparted a curiously intense and penetrating quality
to her glance.
I had just noted these particulars when Batson,
having finished his examination, held out the stetho-
scope to me.
May as well listen, as you're here,” said he, and,
turning to our hostess, he added, “Let us see those
papers, Mrs. Samway.
As he stepped over to the table, I took his place
on a chair by the bedside and proceeded to make an
examination. It was, of course, only a matter of
form, for the man was obviously dead; but having
insisted so strongly on the necessity of verifying the
death, I had to make a show of becoming skepticism.
Accordingly I tested, both by touch and with the
stethoscope, the region of the heart. Needless to
say, no heart-sounds were to be distinguished, nor
any signs of pulsation; indeed, the very first touch
of my hand on the chilly surface of the chest was
enough to banish any doubt. No living body could
be so entirely destitute of animal heat.
I laid down the stethoscope and looked reflec-
tively at the dead man, lying so still and rigid, with
his bandaged jaws and blindfolded eyes, and specu-
lated vaguely on his personality when alive and on
the hidden disease that had so suddenly cut him off
from the land of the living; and insensibly—by
habit, I suppose--my fingers strayed to his clammy,
pulseless wrist. The sleeve of his night-shirt was
excessively long, almost covering the fingers, and I
had to turn it back to reach the spot where the pulse
would normally be felt. In doing this, I moved the
dead hand slightly and then became aware of a


52
A SILENT WITNESS
well-marked rigor mortis, or death stiffening in the
arm of the corpse; a condition which I ought to
have observed sooner.
At this moment, happening to look up, I caught
the eye of Mrs. Samway fixed on me with a very
remarkable expression. She was leaning over
Batson as he filled up the voluminous certificate, but
had evidently been watching me, and the expression
of her pale, cat-like eyes left no doubt in my mind
that she strongly resented my proceedings. In some
confusion, and accusing myself of some failure in
outward decorum, I hastily drew down the dead
man's sleeve and rose from the bedside.
"You noticed, I suppose,” said I "that there is
fairly well-marked rigor mortis?”
“I didn't,” said Batson, “but if you did it'll do
as well.
Better mention it to O'Connor when he
comes. He ought to be here now."
“Who is O'Connor?" asked Mrs. Samway.
“Oh, he is the doctor who is going to sign the
confirmatory certificate."
Again a gleam of unmistakable anger flashed
from our hostess' eyes as she demanded:
“Then who is this gentleman?”
“This is Dr. Humphrey Jardine,” said Batson.
"'Pologize for not introducing him before. Dr.
Jardine is taking my practice while I'm away. I'm
off tonight for about a week."
Mrs. Samway withered me with a baleful glance
of her singular eyes, and remarked stiffly:
“I don't quite see why you brought him here."
She turned her back on me, and I decided that
Mrs. Samway was somewhat of a Tartar; though,
to be sure, my presence was a distinct intrusion. Í
was about to beat a retreat when Batson's apologies
were interrupted by a noisy rat-tat at the street
door.


Westonarians

UTAPPENING TO LOOK UP, I CIUGIIT THE EYE OF MRS. SAMWAY





SEPTIMUS MADDOCK, DECEASED
53
“Ah, here's O'Connor,” said Batson, and, as Mrs.
Samway went out to open the door, he added,
“Seem to have put our foot in it, though I don't
see why she need have been so peppery about it.
And O'Connor needn't have banged at the door
like that, with death in the house. He'll get into
trouble if he doesn't look out."
Our colleague's manner was certainly not ingra-
tiating. He burst into the room with his watch
in his hand, protesting that he was three minutes
late already, “and,” he added, “if there is one thing
that I detest, it's being late at dinner. Got the
forms?”
“Yes,” replied Batson, “here they are. That's
my certificate on the front page. Yours is over-
leaf."
Dr. O'Connor glanced rapidly down the long table
of questions, muttering discontentedly.
"Made
careful external examination?' H'm.
made a post mortem?' No, of course, I haven't.
What an infernal rigmarole! If cremation ever
becomes general there'll be no time for anything but
funerals. Who nursed the deceased?”
“I did," said Mrs. Samway. “My husband
relieved me occasionally, but nearly all the nursing
was done by me. My name is Letitia Samway.”
“Was the deceased a relation of yours?"
“No; only a friend. He lived with us for a time
in Paris and came to England with us.”
“What was his occupation?”
“He was nominally a dealer in works of art.
Actually he was a man of independent means.'
"Have you any pecuniary interest in his death?''
'He has left us about seventy pounds. My hus-
band is the executor of the will."
“I see. Well, I'd better have a few words with
Have you


54
A SILENT WITNESS
He rose
you outside, Batson, before I make my examina-
tion. It's all a confounded farce, but we must go
through the proper forms, I suppose.'
“Yes, by all means," said Batson. “Don't leave
any loophole for queries or objections.
and accompanied O'Connor out into the hall, whence
the sound of hurried muttering came faintly through
the door.
As soon as we were alone, I endeavored to make
my peace with Mrs. Samway by offering apologies
for my intrusion into the house of mourning.
“For the time being,” I concluded, “I am Dr.
Batson's assistant, and, as he seemed to wish me to
come with him, I came without considering that my
presence might be objected to. I hope you will
forgive me.
My humility appeared entirely to appease her;
in a moment her stiff and forbidding manner melted
into one that was quite gracious and she rewarded
me with a smile that made her face really charming.
“Of course,” she said, “it was silly of me to be so
cantankerous and so rude, too. But it did look a
little callous, you know, when I saw you playing
with his poor, dead hand; so you must make allow-
ances.' She smiled again very prettily, and at this
moment my two colleagues re-entered the room.
“Now, then,” said O'Connor, “let us see the
body and then we shall have finished."
He strode over to the bed, and, turning back the
sheet, made a rapid inspection of the corpse.
“Ridiculous farce,” he muttered. “Looks all
right. Would, in any case though. Parcel of red
tape. What's the good of looking at the outside of
a body?. Post mortem's the only thing that's any
use. What's this piece of tape-plaster on the
back?


SEPTIMUS MADDOCK, DECEASED 55
“Oh, said Batson, “that is a little cut that he
made by falling on a broken bottle. I stuck the
plaster on because you can't get a bandage to hold
satisfactorily on the back. Besides, he didn't want
a bandage constricting his chest.”
“No, of course not,” O'Connor agreed. "Well,
it's all regular and straightforward. Give me the
form and I'll fill it up and sign it.” He seated him-
self at the table, looked once more at his watch,
groaned aloud and began to write furiously.
“The Egyptians weren't such bad judges, after
all," he remarked as he laid down the pen and rose
from his chair. “Embalming may have been
troublesome, but when it was done it was done for
good. The deceased was always accessible for
reference in case of a dispute, and all this red tape
was saved.
Good-night, Mrs. Samway.'
He
buttoned up his coat and bustled off, and a minute
or so later we followed.
“By Jove!" exclaimed Batson, “this business has
upset my arrangements finely. I shall have to buck
up if I'm going to catch my train. There's all the
medicine to be made up and sent out yet, to say
nothing of dinner. But dinner will have to wait
until the business is all settled up.
hurry, Jardine. I'll just run on and get to work.”
He broke into an elephantine trot and soon dis-
appeared round a corner, and when I arrived at the
surgery, I found him posting up the day-book with
the speed of a parliamentary reporter.
Batson's dexterity with medicine bottles and
wrapping paper filled me with admiration and
despair. I made a futile effort to assist, but in the
end he snatched away the crumpled paper in which
I was struggling to enswathe a bottle, dropped it
into the waste-paper basket, snatched up a clean
Don't you


56
A SILENT WITNESS
sheet and-slap! bang! in the twinkling of an eye
he had transformed the bottle into a neat little
white parcel as a conjurer changes a cocked hat
into a guinea pig. It was wonderful.
My host was a cheerful soul, but restless. He got
up from the table no less than six times to pack
some article that he had just thought of; and after
dinner, when I accompanied him to his bedroom, I
saw him empty his trunk no less than three times to
make sure that he had forgotten nothing. He
quite worried me. Your over-quick man is apt to
wear out other people's nerves more than his own.
I began to look anxiously at the clock, and felt a
real relief when the maid came to announce that the
cab was at the door.
'Well, good-bye, Doctor!” he sang out cheerily,
shaking my hand through the open window of the
cab. “Don't forget to keep the stock bottles filled
up. Saves a world of trouble. And don't take too
long on your rounds. Ta! ta!''
The cab rattled away and I went back into the
house, a full-blown general practitioner.


CHAPTER V
THE LETHAL CHAMBER
A
YOUNG and newly qualified doctor emerg-
ing for the first time into private practice is
apt to be somewhat surprised and discon-
certed by the new conditions. Accustomed
to the exclusively professional and scientific at-
mosphere of the hospital, the sudden appearance
of the personal element as the predominant factor
rather takes him aback. He finds himself in a new
and unexpected position. No longer a mere imper-
sonal official, a portion of a great machine, he is the
paid servant of his patients, who are not always
above letting him feel the conditions of his service.
The hospital patient, drilled into a certain respect-
ful submissiveness by the discipline of the wards, has
given place to an employer, usually critical, some-
times truculent and occasionally addicted to a dis-
agreeable frankness of speech.
The locum tenens, moreover, is peculiarly suscep-
tible to these conditions, especially if, as in my case,
his appearance is youthful. Patients resent the
substitution of a stranger for the familiar medical
attendant and are at no great pains to disguise the
fact. The “old woman with the liver” (to adopt
Batson's pellucid phrase) hinted that I was rather
young, adding encouragingly that I should get the
better of that in time; while the more morose
typhoid bluntly informed me that he hadn't bar-
gained for being attended by a medical student.
Taken as a whole, I found private practice dis-
(57)


58
A SILENT WITNESS
appointing and soon began to wish myself back
in the wards and to sigh for my quiet, solitary
rambles on Hampstead Heath.
Still, there were rifts in the cloud. Some of the
patients appreciated the interest that I took in their
cases, evidently contrasting it with the rather casual
attitude of my principal, and some were positively
friendly. But, in general, my reception was such as
to make me slightly apprehensive whenever a new
patient appeared.
On the fourth evening after Batson's departure,
Mrs. Samway was announced and I prepared myself
for the customary snub. But I was mistaken.
Nothing could be more gracious than her manner
towards me, though the object of her visit occa-
sioned me some embarrassment.
“I have called, Dr. Jardine,” she said, “to ask
you if you could let me have the account for poor
Mr. Maddock. My husband is the executor, you
know, and, as we shall be going back to Paris quite
shortly, he wants to get everything settled up.
I was in rather a quandary. Of the financial side
of practice I was absolutely ignorant and I thought
it best to say so. “But," I added, “Dr. Batson
will be back on Friday evening, if you can wait so
long.'
Oh, that will do quite well,” she replied, “but
don't forget to tell him that we want the account at
once."
I promised not to forget, and then remarked that
she would, no doubt, be glad to be back in Paris.
"No," she answered, "I shall be rather sorry.
Of course Camden Town is not a very attractive
neighborhood, but it is close to the heart of London;
and then there are some delightful places near and
quite accessible. There is Highgate, for instance.”


60
A SILENT WITNESS
“I daresay,” she said, “it is more sanitary and
wholesome than burial, but there is something
rather dreadful about it. Perhaps it is because we
are not accustomed to the idea.
“Did you go to the funeral?" I asked.
“Yes. Mr. Maddock had no friends in England
but my husband and me, so we both went. It
was very solemn and awesome. The coffin was
laid on the catafalque while a short service was
read, and then two metal doors opened and it was
passed through out of our sight. We waited some
time and presently they brought us a little terra-
cotta urn with just a handful or two of white ash
in it. That was all that was left of our poor friend
Septimus Maddock. Don't you think it is rather
dreadful?"
“Death is always rather dreadful,” I answered.
“But when we look at the ashes of a dead person,
we realize the total destruction of the body; whereas
the grave keeps its secrets. If we could look down
through the earth and see the changes that are
taking place, we should probably find the slow
decay more shocking than the swift consumption
by fire. Fortunately we cannot. But we know
that the final result is the same in both."
Mrs. Samway shuddered slightly, and drew her
wraps more closely about her.
“Yes,” she said with a faint sigh; "the same end
awaits us all-but it is better not to think about it."
We were both silent for awhile. I sat with my
gaze bent rather absently on the case-book before
me, turning over her last somewhat gloomy utter-
ance, until, chancing to look up, I found her pale,
penetrating eyes fixed on me with the same strange
intentness that I had noticed when she had looked
at me as I sat by the body of Maddock. As she


THE LETHAL CHAMBER
61
met my glance, she looked down quickly but with-
out confusion, and with a return to her habitual
reposefulness.
Half-unconsciously I returned her scrutiny. She
was a remarkable looking woman. A beautiful
woman, too, but of a type that is, in our time and
country, rare: an ancient or barbaric type in which
womanly beauty and grace are joined to manifest
physical strength. I felt that some unusual racial
mixture spoke in her inconsistent coloring; her
clear, pink skin, her pale eyes and the jet-black
hair that rippled down either side of her low fore-
head in little crimpy waves, as regular and formal
as the "archaic curls” of early Greek sculpture.
But predominant over all other qualities was
that of strength. Full and plump, soft and almost
ultra-feminine, lissom and flexible in every pose
and movement, yet, to me, the chief impression
that her appearance suggested was strength-sheer,
muscular strength; not the rigid bulldog strength
of a strong man, but the soft and supple strength
of a leopard. I looked at her as she sat almost
limply in her chair, with her head on one side, her
hands resting in her lap and a beautiful, soft,
womanly droop of the shoulders; and I felt that
she could have started up in an instant, active,
strong, formidable, like a roused panther.
I was going on, I think, to make comparisons
between her and that other woman who was wont
to trip so daintily down Millfield Lane, when she
raised her eyes slowly to mine; and suddenly she
blushed scarlet.
“Am I a very remarkable looking person, Dr.
Jardine?” she asked quietly, as if answering my
thoughts.
The rebuke was well merited. For an instant a


62
A SILENT WITNESS
paltry compliment fluttered on my lips; but I
swallowed it down. She wasn't that kind of woman.
“I am afraid I have been staring you out of
countenance, Mrs. Samway,” I said apologetically.
“Hardly that,” she replied with a smile; “but
you certainly were looking at me very attentively.”
"Well,” I said, recovering myself
, “after all, a
cat may look at a king, you know.”
She laughed softly-a very pretty, musical laugh
-and rose, still blushing warmly.
“And so," she retorted, “by the same reasoning,
you think a king may look at a cat. Very well,
Dr. Jardine. Good night.'
She held out her hand; a beautifully shaped
hand, though rather large—but, as I have said, she
was not a small woman; and as it clasped mine,
though the pressure was quite gentle, it conveyed,
like her appearance, an impression of abundant
physical strength.
I accompanied her to the door and watched her
as she walked up the dingy street with an easy,
erect, undulating gait; even as might have walked
those women who are portrayed for the wonder of
all time on the ivory-toned marble of the Par-
thenon frieze. I followed with my eyes the dig-
nified, graceful figure until it vanished round the
corner, and then went back to the consulting room
dimly wondering why a woman of such manifest
beauty and charm should offer so little attraction
to me.
Batson's practice, among its other drawbacks,
suffered from a deadly lack of professional interest.
Whether this was its normal condition, or whether
his patients had got wind of me and called in other
and more experienced practitioners, I know not;
but certainly, after the stirring work of the hos-


THE LETHAL CHAMBER
63
pital, the cases that I had to deal with seemed very
small beer. Hence the prospect of a genuine sur-
gical case came as a grateful surprise and I hailed
it with enthusiasm.
It was on the day before Batson's expected return
that I received the summons, which was delivered
to me in a dirty envelope as I sat by the bedside
of the last patient on my list.
“Is the messenger waiting?” I asked, tearing
open the envelope.
“No, Doctor. He just handed in the note and
went off. He seemed to be in a hurry."
I ran my eye over the message, scrawled in a
rather illiterate hand on a sheet of common note-
paper, and read:
SIR,
Will you please come at once to the Mineral Water Works in
Norton Street. One of our men has injured himself rather badly.
Yours truly,
J. PARKER,
P.S.-He is bleeding a good deal, so please come quick.
The postscript gave a very necessary piece of in-
formation. An injury which bled would require
certain dressings and surgical appliances over and
above those contained in my pocket case; and to
obtain these I should have to take Batson's house
on the way. Slipping the note into my pocket,
I wished my patient a hasty adieu and strode off
at a swinging pace in the direction of Jacob Street.
The housemaid, Maggie, helped me to find the
dressings and pack the bag—for she was a handy,
intelligent girl, though no beauty; and meanwhile
I questioned her as to the whereabouts of Norton
Street and the mineral water factory.
“Oh, I know the place well enough, sir," said
she, “though I didn't know the works were open.


64
A SILENT WITNESS
Norton Street is only a few minutes' walk from here.
It's quite close to Gayton Street; in fact, these
works are just at the back of the Samways' house.
You go up to the corner by the market and take the
second on the right and then
“Look here, Maggie,” I interrupted, "you'd bet-
ter come and show me the way, as you know the
place. There's no time to waste on fumbling for
the right turning."
“Very well, sir,” she replied; and the bag being
now packed with all necessary instruments and
dressings, we set forth together.
“Is this a large factory?" I asked, as she trotted
by my side, to the astonished admiration of Jacob
Street and the neighborhood in general.
“No, sir,” she replied. “It's quite a small place.
The last people went bankrupt and the works were
empty and to let for a long time. I thought they
were still to let, but I suppose somebody has taken
them and started the business afresh. It's round
here.'
She piloted me round a corner into a narrow by-
street, near the end of which she halted at the
gate of a yard or mews. Above the entrance was
a weather-beaten board bearing the inscription,
“International Mineral Water Company,” and a
half-defaced printed bill offering the premises to
let; and at the side was a large bell-pull. A vigor-
ous tug at the latter set a bell jangling within, and,
as Maggie tripped away up the street, a small wicket
in the gate opened, disclosing the dimly-seen figure
of a man standing in the inner darkness.
"Are you the doctor?” he inquired.
I answered “Yes,” and, being thereupon bidden
to enter, stepped through the opening of the wicket,
which the man immediately closed, shutting out
the last gleam of light from the street lamp outside.


THE LETHAL CHAMBER
65
“It's rather dark,” said the unseen custodian,
taking me by the arm.
"It is indeed,” I replied, groping with my feet
over the rough cobbles; “hadn't you better get a
light of some kind?”
“I will in a minute,” was the reply. “You see,
all the other men have gone home. We close at
six sharp. This is the way.
This is the way. I'll strike a match.
The man is down in the bottling room.”
My conductor struck a match, by the light of
which he guided me through a doorway, along a
passage or.corridor and down a flight of stone steps.
At the bottom of the steps was a flagged passage,
out of which opened what looked like a range of
cellars. Along the passage I walked warily, fol-
lowed by the stranger and lighted, very imper-
fectly, by the matches that he struck; the glimmer
of which threw a gigantic and ghostly shadow of
myself on the stone floor, but failed utterly to
pierce the darkness ahead. I was exactly opposite
the yawning doorway of one of the cellars when
the match went out, and the man behind me
exclaimed:
“Wait a moment, Doctor! Don't move until I
strike another light."
I halted abruptly; and the next moment I re-
ceived a violent thrust that sent me staggering
through the open doorway into the cellar. In-
stantly, the massive door slammed and a pair of
heavy bolts were shot in succession on the outside.
“What the devil is the meaning of this?” I
roared, battering and kicking furiously at the door.
Of course, there was no answer, and I quickly
stopped my demonstrations, for it dawned on me
in a moment that the factory was untenanted save
by the ruffian who had admitted me; that I had
5


66
A SILENT WITNESS
been decoyed here of a set purpose, though what
that purpose was I could not imagine.
But it was not long before I received a pretty
broad hint as to the immediate intentions of my
host. A gentle thumping at the door of my cellar
attracted my attention and caused me to lay my
ear against the wood. The sound that I heard was
quite unmistakable. The crevices of the door were
being filled, apparently with pieces of rag which
my friend was ramming home, presumably with a
chisel. In fact, the door was being “caulked” to
make the joints air-tight.
The object of this proceeding was clear enough.
I was shut up in an air-tight cavity in which I was
to be slowly suffocated. That was quite obvious.
Why I was to be suffocated, I could form no sort of
guess excepting that I had fallen into the hands of
a homicidal lunatic. But I was not greatly alarmed.
The air in a good-sized cellar will last a considerable
time and I could easily poke out anything that my
friend might stuff into the keyhole. Then, when the
men arrived in the morning, I could kick on the
cellar door, and they would come and let me out.
There was nothing to be particularly frightened
about.
But stay! Were there any men? The injured
man was evidently a myth. Supposing the other
men were a myth too! I recalled Maggie's remark,
that she "had thought the place was to let still.”
Perhaps it was. That would be rather more serious.
At this point my cogitations were broken in upon
by sounds from the adjoining cellar; the sound
of something moving about and dragging some heavy
body. And it struck me at once as strange that I
should hear these sounds so distinctly, seeing the
massive door of my own cellar was closely sealed


68
A SILENT WITNESS
turned on the taps, and the liquid was escaping and
congealing into snow with the cold produced by its
own rapid evaporation and expansion. Of course
the snow would quickly absorb heat and, without
again liquefying, evaporate into the gaseous form.
In a very short time both cellars would be full of the
poisonous gas, and I-well, in a word, I was shut up
in a lethal chamber.
It has taken me some time to write this explana-
tion, which, however, flashed through my brain in the
twinkling of an eye as the light of the match fell on
that sinister cloud of snowflakes. In a moment I
had my coat off, and was stuffing it for dear life into
the opening. It was but a poor protection against
the gas, which would easily enough find its way
through the interstices of the fabric; but it would
stop the direct stream of snow and give me time to
think.
On what incalculable chances do the great issues
of our lives depend! If I had been a short man I
must have been dead in half an hour; for the opening
through which the cloud of snow was pouring was
well over seven feet above the floor and would have
been quite out of my reach. Even as it was, with
my six feet of stature and corresponding length of
arm, it was impossible to ram my coat into the
opening with the necessary force, for I had to stand
close to the wall with my arm upraised at a great
mechanical disadvantage. Still, as I have said,
imperfect as the obstruction was, it served to stop
the inrushing cloud of snow. It would take some
time for the heavy gas in the adjoining cellar to rise
to the level of the opening, and, meanwhile, I could
be devising other measures.
I lit another match and looked about me. The
cellar was much smaller than I had thought and was


THE LETHAL CHAMBER
69
absolutely empty. The floor was of concrete, the
walls of rough brickwork and the ceiling of plaster,
all cracked and falling in. There was plenty of
ventilation there, but that was of no interest to me.
Carbonic acid gas is so heavy that it behaves almost
like a liquid, and it would have filled the cellar and
suffocated me even if the top of my prison had been
open to the sky. The adjoining cellar was already
filling rapidly, and when the gas in it reached the
level of the opening, it would percolate through my
coat and come pouring down into my cellar. But
that, as I have said, would take some time-if the
dividing wall was moderately sound. This important
qualification, as soon as it occurred to me, set me
exploring the wall with the aid of another match;
and very unsatisfactory was the result. It was a
bad wall, built of inferior brick and worse mortar,
and was marked by innumerable holes where wall-
hooks and other fastenings had been driven in
between the bricks. My brief survey convinced me
that, so far from being gas-tight, the wall was as
pervious as a sponge, and that whatever I meant
to do to preserve my life, I must set about without
delay.
But what was I to do? That was the urgent, the
vital question. Escape was evidently impossible.
There were no means of stopping up the numberless
holes and weak places in the wall. The only vulner-
able spot was the door. If I could establish some
communication with the outer air, I could, for a time
at least, disregard the poisonous gas with which I
should presently be surrounded.
The first thing to be considered was the keyhole.
That must be unstopped at once. Fumbling in my
bag—for I had grown of a sudden niggardly with
my matches—I found a good-sized probe, which I


70
A SILENT WITNESS
insinuated into the keyhole; and, in a moment, my
hopes in that direction were extinguished. For the
end of the probe impinged upon metal. The keyhole
was not stopped with rag, but with a plate of metal
fixed on the outside. With rapidly-growing alarm,
but with a tidiness born of habit, I put the probe
back in the bag and began feverishly to review the
situation and consider my resources.
And then I
had an idea; only a poor, forlorn hope, but still an
idea.
There is a certain ingenious type of pocket-knife,
devised principally in the interest of the cutlery
trade, that innocent persons (usually of the female
persuasion) are wont to bestow as presents on their
masculine friends. Such a knife I chanced to possess.
It had been given to me by an aunt, and sentimental
considerations had induced me to give it an amount
of room in my trousers' pocket that I continually
grudged. However, there it was at this critical
moment, with its corkscrew, gimlet, its bewildering
array of blades, its hoof-pick, tooth-pick, tweezers,
file, screw-driver and assorted unclassifiable tools;
a ponderous lump of pocket-destroying uselessness
-and yet, the appointed means of saving my life.
The gimlet was the first tool that I called into
requisition. Very gingerly-for these tools are
commonly over-tempered and brittle I bored in the
thick plank a hole at about the level of my mouth,
and as I worked I turned over my further plans.
When the gimlet was through the door, I selected
a tool on whose use I had often speculated-a
sharp-edged spike,
like a diminutive and very stumpy
bayonet—which I proceeded to use broach-wise
to enlarge the hole. When this tool worked loose,
I exchanged it for the screw-driver, with which I
managed to broach the hole out to about half an


THE LETHAL CHAMBER
71
inch in width. And this was as large as I could
make it, and it was not large enough. True, one
could breathe fairly comfortably through a half-
inch hole, but, with the deadly gas circulating around,
a freer opening was very desirable.
Then I bethought me that the magic knife con-
tained a saw-a wretched, thick-bladed affair, but
still a saw—which would actually cut wood if you
gave it time. This implement suggested a simple
plan which I forthwith put into execution, working
as rapidly as I could without running the risk of
breaking the tools. My plan was to make a second
hole some two inches diagonally below the first,
and from each hole to carry two saw-cuts at right
angles to one another. The two pairs of cuts would
intersect and take a square piece out of the door,
giving me a little window through which I could
breathe in comfort.
It was a trifling task, but yet, with the miserable
tools I had, it took a considerable time to execute;
the more since the saw-blade was wider than the
holes, excepting at its point. However, it was
accomplished at last, and I had the satisfaction of
pushing out the little separated square of wood and
feeling that I now had free access to the pure air out-
side my dungeon.
But it was none too soon. As I rested from my
labors, it occurred to me to test the condition of the
air inside. Lighting a wax match, I held the little
taper so that the flame ascended steadily, and then
lowered it slowly. As it descended the flame
changed color somewhat, and about eighteen inches
from the floor it went out quite suddenly. There
was, then, a layer of the pure gas about eighteen
inches deep covering the floor, and, no doubt, rising
pretty rapidly.


72
A SILENT WITNESS
This was rather startling, and it warned me to
have recourse without delay to my breathing hole.
For though carbonic acid gas behaves somewhat
as a liquid, it is not a liquid: like other gases, it
has the power of diffusing upwards, and the air of
the cellar must be already getting unsafe. Accord-
ingly, after carefully wiping the surface of the door
with my handkerchief, I applied my mouth, with
some distaste, to the opening and took in a deep
draught of undoubtedly pure air.
The position in which I had to stand with my
mouth to the hole was an irksome one, and I foresaw
that it would presently become very fatiguing.
Moreover, when the gas reached the level of my head,
it would be difficult to prevent some of it from finding
its way into my mouth and nostrils; and if it did,
I should most assuredly be poisoned. This con-
sideration suggested the necessity of making another
hole at a lower level to let out the gas and allow me
to rest myself by a change of position. But this
new task had to be carried out with my mouth
glued to the breathing-hole; and very awkward and
tiring I found it and very slow was the progress that
I made. This second hole was smaller than the
first, for time was precious, and I reflected that I
could easily enlarge it by fresh saw-cuts, each two
of which would take out a triangular piece of wood.
But it was tedious work, and its completion left
me with aching arms; indeed, I was beginning to
ache all over from the constrained position. Taking
a deep breath and shutting my mouth I stood up and
stretched myself. Then I lit a match and looked at
my watch.
Half-past eight. I had been over two
hours in the cellar. And meanwhile the patients
were waiting for me at the surgery, and, no doubt,
murmuring at the delay. How soon would my


THE LETHAL CHAMBER
73
ous.
absence lead to inquiries? Or were inquiries being
made even now?
Looking at the match that I still held in my hand,
I noticed that its flame was pallid and bluish; and
as I lowered it slowly, it went out when it was a
little over two feet from the floor. The gas, then,
was still rising, though not so rapidly as I had
feared, but, from the altered color of the flame, it
was evident that the air of the cellar, generally,
contained enough diffused gas to be actively poison-
After a time, the erect position began to grow
insupportably fatiguing. I felt that I must sit
down for a few minutes' rest, even though prudence
whispered that it was highly unsafe. I struggled
for awhile, but eventually, conquered by fatigue,
sat down on the floor with my mouth applied closely
to the lower breathing-hole. I persuaded myself
that I would sit only just long enough to recover
some of my strength, but minute after minute
sped by and still I felt an unaccountable reluctance
to rise.
Suddenly I became conscious of a vague feeling
of drowsiness; of a desire to lean back against the
wall and doze. It was only slight, but its significance
was so appalling that I scrambled to my feet in a
panic, and, putting my mouth to the upper breath-
ing-hole, took several deep inspirations. But I
soon realized that the upright position was impossible.
The drowsy feeling continued and there was growing
with it a lassitude and weakness of the limbs that
threatened to leave me only the choice between
sitting or falling. A wave of furious anger swept
over me and roused me a little; a burst of hatred
of the cowardly wretch who had decoyed me, as
I now suspected, to my death. Then this feeling


74
A SILENT WITNESS
passed and was succeeded by chilly fear, and I sank
down once more into a sitting position with my mouth
pressed to the lower opening.
The time ran on unreckoned by me. Gradually,
by imperceptible degrees, my mental state grew
more and yet more sluggish. Anger and fear and
ever dwindling hope flitted by turns across the
slowly fading field of my consciousness. Intervals
of quiet indifference almost of placid comfort-
-began to intervene, with increasing lassitude and
a growing desire for rest. To lie down; that was
what I wanted. To lay my head upon the stony
floor and sink into sweet oblivion.
At last I must have actually dozed, though,
fortunately, without removing my mouth from the
breathing-hole, for I had no sense of the passage
of time, when I was suddenly aroused by the loud
and continuous jangling of a bell.
I listened with a sort of dull eagerness and keeping
awake with a conscious effort.
The bell pealed wildly and without a pause for
what seemed to me quite a long time.
Then it ceased, and again my consciousness began
to grow dim. After an interval, I know not how
long, there came to me dimly and only half per-
ceived, the closing of a door, the patter of quick foot-
steps, and then the voice of a man calling me by
name.
I struggled to get on to my feet, but could not
But I still held the clasp-knife and was
able to rap with it feebly on the door. Again I
heard the voice it sounded nearer now, and yet
infinitely far away—and again I rapped on the door
and shouted through the breathing-hole; a thin,
muffled cry, such as one utters in a troubled dream.
And then the drowsiness crept over me again and
I heard no more.
move.


THE LETHAL CHAMBER
75
The next thing of which I was conscious was a
sounding thwack on the cheek with something wet
that felt like a dead fish.
I opened my eyes and
looked vaguely into two faces that were close to
mine and seemed to be lighted by a lamp or candle.
The faces were somehow familiar, but yet I failed
clearly to recognize them, and, after staring stupidly
for a few moments, I began to doze again. Then
the dead fish returned to the assault and I again
opened my eyes. Another vigorous flop caused me
to open my mouth with an unparliamentary gasp.
"Ah!
That's better," said a familiar and yet
“unplaced” voice. “When a man is able to swear,
he is fairly on the road to recovery.” Flop!
The renewed attentions of the dead fish (which
turned out later to be merely a wet towel) evoked
further demonstrations on my part of progressing
recovery, accompanied by a nervous titter in a
female voice. Gradually the clouds rolled away,
and to my returning consciousness the faces revealed
themselves as those of Maggie, the housemaid, and
Dr. Thorndyke. Even to my muddled wits, the
presence of the latter was somewhat of a puzzle, and
in the intervals of anathematizing the deceased
fish—which I had not yet identified -I found myself
hazily speculating on the problem of how my revered
teacher came to be in this place, and what place this
was.
“Come, now, Jardine,” said Dr. Thorndyke,
emptying a jug of water on my face and receiving
a volley of spluttered expletives in exchange, "pull
yourself together. How did you get in that cellar?”
“Hang' 'f I know,” said I, composing myself
for another nap. But here the wet towel came once
more into requisition, and that with such vigor that,
in a fit of exasperation, I sat up and yawned.


76
A SILENT WITNESS
“I think you'd better fetch a cab," said Thorn-
dyke, as Maggie wrung out the towel afresh; "but
leave the gate open when you go out.”
“Wasser cab for?” I asked sulkily. “Can't I
walk?"
“If you can, it will be better," said Thorndyke.
"Let us see if you are able to stand." He hoisted
me on to my feet and he and Maggie, taking each
an arm, walked me slowly up and down the cobbled
yard, which I now began to recognize as appertain-
ing to the Mineral Water Works. At first I staggered
very drunkenly, but by degrees the drowsy feeling
wore off and I was able to walk with Thorndyke's
assistance only.
“I think we might venture out now,” said he, at
length, piloting me towards the gate; and when I had
stumbled rather awkwardly through the wicket, we
set forth homeward.
On my arrival home, Thorndyke ordered a supply
of strong coffee and a light meal, after which
it being obvious that I was good for nothing in a
professional sense—he suggested that I should go to
bed.
“Don't worry about the practice,” said he. “I
will send for my friend Jervis, and between us we
will see that everything is looked after. If Mag-
gie will give me a sheet of paper and an envelope
I will write a note to him; and then she can take a
hansom to my chambers and give the note either
to Dr. Jervis or my man Polton. Meanwhile, I
will stay here and see that you don't go to sleep
prematurely.”
He wrote the note, and Maggie, having made
such improvements in her outward garb as befitted
the status of a rider in hansoms, took charge of it
and departed with much satisfaction and dignity.


THE LETHAL CHAMBER
77
Thorndyke made a few inquiries of me as to the
circumstances that had led to my incarceration
in the cellar, but finding that I knew no more than
Maggie-whom he had already questioned—he
changed the subject; nor would he allow me again
to refer to it.
“No, Jardine," he said. “Better think no more
of it for the present. Have a good night's rest and
then, if you are all right in the morning, we will
go into the matter and see if we can put the puzzle
together.”


CHAPTER VI
A COUNCIL OF WAR
AWOKE somewhat late on the following morn-
ing; indeed, I was but half awake when there
came a somewhat masterful and peremptory
tap at my bedroom door, followed by the
appearance in the room of a rather tall gentleman
of some thirty years of age. I should have diagnosed
him instantly as a doctor by his self-possessed,
proprietary manner of entering, but he left me no
time for guessing as to his identity.
“Good-morning, Jardine,” he said briskly, jingling
the keys and small change in his trousers' pockets,
"my name is Jervis. Second violin in the Thorn-
dyke orchestra. I'm in charge here pro tem. How
are you feeling?”
“Oh, I'm all right. I was just going to get up.
You needn't trouble about the practice. I'm quite
fit."
“I'm glad to hear it,” said Jervis, “but you'd
better keep quiet all the same. My orders are
explicit, and I know my place too well to disobey.
Thorndyke's instructions were that you are not to
make any visits or go abroad until after the in-
quest."
"Inquest?” I exclaimed.
“Yes. He's coming here at four o'clock to hold
an inquiry into the circumstances that led to your
being locked up in a cellar, and until then I'm to look
after the practice and keep an eye on you.
What
time do you expect the offspring of the flittermouse?”
(78)


A COUNCIL OF WAR
79
“Who?” I demanded.
“Batson. He's coming back today, isn't he?
“Yes. About six o'clock tonight.
“Then you'll be able to clear out. So much the
better. The neighborhood doesn't seem very whole-
some for you."
“I suppose I can do the surgery work?” said I.
“You'd better not. Better follow Thorndyke's
instructions literally. But you can tell me about the
patients and help me to dispense. And that reminds
me that a person named Samway called just now,
a rather fine-looking woman-reminded me of a
big, sleek tabby cat. She wouldn't say what she
wanted. Do you know anything about her?”
“I expect she came about her account. But
she'll have to see Batson. I told her so only a night
or two ago.
“Very well,” said Jervis, “then I'll be off now,
and you take things easy and just think over what
happened last night, so as to be ready for Thorn-
dyke.
With this he bustled away, leaving me to rise and
breakfast at my leisure.
His advice to me to think over the events of the
previous night was rather superfluous. The experi-
ence was not one that I was likely to forget. To
have escaped from death by the very slenderest
chance was in itself a matter to occupy one's thoughts
pretty completely, apart from the horrible circum-
stances, and then there was the mystery in which the
whole affair was enveloped, a mystery which utterly
baffled any attempt to penetrate it. Turn it over
as I would-and it was hardly out of my thoughts
for a minute at a time all day—no glimmer of light
could I perceive, no faintest clue to any explanation
of that hideous and incomprehensible crime.


A COUNCIL OF WAR
81
fulness of a photographer handling a wet plate, I
noted mentally that the habit of delicate manipula-
tion contracted in the laboratory makes itself evident
in the most trifling of everyday actions.
"I see," he remarked, turning the envelope over
and scrutinizing it minutely, “that this is addressed
to ‘Dr. H. Jardine.' It appears, then, that he knows
your Christian name. Can you account for that?”
"No, I can't. The only letter I have had here was
addressed 'Dr. Jardine,' and I have signed no certifi-
cates or other documents.'
He made a note of my answer, and drawing the
missive from its envelope, read it through.
“The handwriting,” he remarked, "looks disguised
rather than illiterate, and the diction is inconsistent.
The blatantly incorrect adverb at the end does not
agree with the rest of the phraseology and the correct
punctuation. As to the signature, we may neglect
that, unless you are acquainted with anyone in these
parts of the name of Parker."
"I am not,” said I.
“Very well. Then if you will allow me to keep
this note, I will file it for future reference. And now
I will ask you a few questions about this adventure
of yours, which is really a most astonishing and
mysterious affair; even more mysterious, I may add,
than it looks at the first glance. But we shall come
to that presently. At the moment we are concerned
with the crime itself—with a manifest attempt to
murder you—and the circumstances that led up to
it; and there are certain obvious questions that
suggest themselves. The first is: Can you give any
explanation of this attempt on your life?”
“No, I can't,” I replied. "It is a complete
mystery to me. I can only suppose that the fellow
was a homicidal lunatic."
6


82
A SILENT WITNESS
“A homicidal lunatic," said Thorndyke, “is the
baffled investigator's last resource. But we had
better not begin supposing at this stage. Let us
keep strictly to facts. You do not know
of anything
that would explain this attack on you?”
“No."
“Then the next question is: Had you any property
of value on your person?”
“No. Five pounds would cover the value of
everything I had about me, including the instru-
ments.
“Then tnat seems to exclude robbery as a motive.
The next question is: Does any person stand to
benefit considerably by your death? Have you any
considerable expectations in the way of bequests,
reversions or succession to landed property or titles?”
“No," I replied with a faint grin. "I shall come in
for a thousand or two when my uncle dies, but I
believe the London Hospital is the alternative
legatee, and I suppose we could hardly suspect the
hospital governors of this little affair. Otherwise,
the only person who would benefit by my death
would be the undertaker who got the contract to
plant me.'
Thorndyke nodded and made a note of my answer.
“That,” said he, “disposes of the principal motives
for premeditated murder. There remains the
question of personal enmity—not a common motive
in this country. Have you, as far as you know, an
enemy or enemies who might conceivably try to kill
you?"
“As far as I know, I have not an enemy in the
world, or anyone, even, who would wish to do me a
bad turn.'
“Then,” said Thorndyke, “that seems to dispose
of all the ordinary motives for murder; and I may


A COUNCIL OF WAR
83
say that I have only put these questions as a matter
of routine precaution-ex abundantia cautelae, as
Hervis says, when he is in a forensic mood—because
certain other facts which I have learned seem to
exclude any of these motives except, perhaps,
robbery from the person.”
“You haven't been long picking up those other
facts,” remarked Jervis. “Why the affair only
happened last night.”
"I have only made a few simple inquiries,” replied
Thorndyke “This morning I called on Mr. High-
field, whose name, as solicitor and agent to the
landlords, I copied from the notice on the gate at
the works last night. He knows me slightly, so I
was able to get from him the information that I
wanted. It amounts to this:
“About four months ago, a Mr. Gill wrote to him
and offered a lump sum for the use of the mineral
water works for six months. Highfield accepted the
offer and drew up an agreement, as desired, granting
Gill immediate possession of the premises and the
small stock and plant, of which the residue was to be
taken back at a valuation by the landlords at the
expiration of the term.
"I noted Gill's address, as it appeared on the
agreement, and sent my man, Polton, to make
inquiries. The address is that of a West Kensington
lodging house at which Gill was staying when he
signed the agreement. He had been there only three
weeks, he left two days after the date of the agree-
ment and the landlady does not know where he
went or anything about him.'
“Sounds a bit fishy,” Jervis remarked. “Did he
tell Highfield what he wanted the premises for?”
"I understood that something was said about
some assay work in connection with certain or


84
A SILENT WITNESS
rather uncertain-mineral concessions. But of
course that was no affair of Highfield's. His business
was to get the rent, and having got it, his interest
in Mr. Gill lapsed. But you see the bearing of these
facts. Gill's connection with these works does, as
Jervis says, look a little queer, especially after what
has happened. But, seeing that he made his arrange-
ments four months ago, at a time when Jardine had
no thought of coming into this neighborhood, it is
clear that those arrangements could have no con-
nection with this particular attempt. Gill obviously
did not take those works with the intention of
murdering Jardine. He took them for some other
purpose; quite possibly the purpose that he stated.
And we must not assume that Gill was the perpetrator
of this outrage at all. Could you identify the man
who let you in?”
“No," I replied. “Certainly not.
Certainly not. I hardly saw
him at all. The place was pitch dark, and whenever
he struck a match he was either behind me or in
front with his back to me. The only thing I could
make out about him was that he had some sort of
coarse wash-leather gloves on.'
“Ha!” exclaimed Thorndyke. “Then we were
right, Jervis.”
I looked in surprise from one to the other of my
friends, and was on the point of asking Thorndyke
what he meant when he continued:
"That closes another track. If you couldn't
identify the man, a description of Gill, if we could
obtain it, would not help us. We must begin at
some other point.
“It seems to me,” said Jervis, “that we haven't
much to go upon at all.”
“We haven't much," agreed Thorndyke, “but still
we have something. We find that the motive of this


A COUNCIL OF WAR
85
attempt was apparently not robbery, nor the diver-
sion of inheritable property, nor personal enmity.
It must have been premeditated, but yet it could not
have been planned more than a week in advance,
for Jardine has only been in this neighborhood for
that time, and his coming was unexpected.
The
appearances very strongly suggest that the motive,
whatever it was, has been generated recently and
probably locally. So we had better make a start
from that presumption.
“Is it possible," Jervis suggested, “that this man
Gill may be some sort of anarchist crank? Or a sort
of thug? It is actually conceivable that he may have
taken these premises for the express purpose of
having a secure place where he could perpetrate
murders and conceal the bodies."
"It is quite conceivable,” said Thorndyke, “and
when we go and look over the works—which I
pro-
pose we do presently—we may as well bear the
possibility in mind. But it is merely a speculative
suggestion. To return to your affairs, Jardine.
Has your stay here been quite uneventful?”
“Perfectly," I replied.
"No unusual or obscure cases? No injuries?”
“No, nothing out of the common,” I replied.
"No deaths?"
But the man died before I took over.”
“Nothing unusual about that? Everything quite
regular?”
"Oh, perfectly," I answered; and then with a
sudden qualm, as I recalled Batson's uncertainty
as to the actual cause of death, I added, “At least,
I hope so."
“You hope so?” queried Thorndyke.
“Yes. Because it's too late to go into the question
now. The man was cremated."
- One.


A COUNCIL OF WAR
87
"And this is what all the elaborate precautions
amount to in practice. A case which might have
been one of the crudest and baldest poisoning gets
passed with hardly a pretence of scrutiny. And so
it will always be. Routine precautions against the
unsuspected are no precautions at all. That is the
danger of cremation. It restores to the poisoner
the security that he enjoyed in the old days when
there were no such sciences as toxicology and organic
chemistry, when it was impossible for him to be
tripped up by an exhumation and an analysis.
"You don't think it likely that this was a case of
poisoning, do you?” I asked.
“I know nothing about the case," he replied,
excepting that there was gross neglect in issuing
the certificates. What do you think about it your-
self? Looking back at the case, is there anything
besides the uncertainty that strikes you as unsatis-
factory?”
I hesitated, and again the figure of Mrs. Samway
rose before me with that strange, baleful look in her
eyes. Finally I described the incident to my
colleagues.
“Mrs. Samway!" exclaimed Jervis. “Is that the
handsome Lucrezia Borgia lady with the mongoose
eyes who called here this morning? By Jove!
Jardine, you are giving me the creeps.
"I understand," said Thorndyke, “that you were
making as if to feel the dead man's pulse?”
“Yes.”
“There is no doubt, I suppose, that he really was
dead?”
“None whatever. He was as cold as a fish, and
besides, there was quite distinct rigor mortis.”
“That seems conclusive enough,” said Thorndyke,
but he continued to gaze at his open note-book with
a profoundly speculative and thoughtful expression.


88
A SILENT WITNESS
"It certainly looks,” said Jervis, "as if Jardine had
either seen something or had been about to see
something that he was not wanted to see; and the
question is what that something could have been.”
“Yes,” I agreed, gloomily; "that is what I have
just been asking myself
. There might have been a
wound or injury of some kind, or there might have
been the marks of a hypodermic needle on the wrist.
I wish I knew what she meant by looking at me in
that way.
So we
“Well,” said Jervis, “we shall never know now.
The grave gives up its secrets now and again, but
the crematorium furnace never. Whether he died
naturally or was murdered, Mr. Maddock is now a
little heap of ashes with no message for anyone this
side of the Day of Judgment.
Thorndyke looked up. “That seems to be so,"
said he; "and really, we have no substantial reasons
for thinking that there was anything wrong.
come back to your own affairs, Jardine, and the
question is, What would you prefer to do?”
“In what respect?" I asked.
"In regard to this attempt on your life. You have
told us that you have not an enemy in the world.
But it appears as if you had; and a very dangerous
one, too. Now would you like to put the case into
the hands of the police, or would you rather that we
kept our own counsel and looked into it ourselves?"
“I should like you to decide that,” said I.
“The reason that I ask," said Thorndyke, "is
this: the machinery of the police is adjusted to
professional crime—burglary, coining, forgery, and
so forth and their methods are mostly based on
'information received.' The professional 'crook'
is generally well known to the police, and, when
wanted for any particular job,' can be found without


A COUNCIL OF WAR
89
much difficulty and the information necessary for
his conviction obtained from the usual sources.
But in cases of obscure, non-professional crime the
police are at a disadvantage. The criminal is un-
known to them; there are no confederates from whom
to get information; consequently they have no
starting-point for their inquiries. They can't
create clues; and they, very naturally, will not
devote time, labor and money to cases in which they
have nothing to go on.
"Now this affair of yours does not look like a
professional crime. No motive is evident and you
can give no information that would help the police.
I doubt if they would do much more than give you
some rather disagreeable publicity, and they might
even suspect you of some kind of imposture.'
“Gad!" I exclaimed. “That's just what they
would do. It's what they did last time, and this
affair would write me down in their eyes a confirmed
mystery-monger.
"Last time?” queried Thorndyke. “What last
time is that? Have there been any other attempts?”
“Not on me," I replied. “But I had an adventure
one night about six or seven weeks ago that has
made the Hampstead police look on me, I think,
with some suspicion;" and here I gave my two
friends a description of my encounter with the dead
(or insensible) cleric in Millfield Lane, and my
discoveries on the following morning.”
“But my dear Jardine!" Thorndyke exclaimed
when I had finished, "what an extraordinary man
you are! It seems as if you could hardly show your
nose out of doors without becoming involved in some
dark and dreadful mystery.
“Well,” said I, “I hope I have now exhausted my
gifts in that respect. I am not thirsting for more


90
A SILENT WITNESS
experiences. But what do you think about that
Hampstead affair? Do you think I could possibly
have been mistaken? Could the man have been
merely insensible, after all, as the police suggested?”
Thorndyke shook his head. “I don't think,” he
replied, “that it is possible to take that view. You
see, the man had disappeared. Now he could not
have got away unassisted; in fact, he could not have
walked at all. One would have to assume that some
persons appeared directly after you left and carried
him away; and that they appeared and retired so
quickly as not to be overtaken by you on your
return a few minutes later with the police. That
is assuming too much. And then there are the traces
which you discovered on the following day, which
seem to suggest strongly that a body had been
carried away to Ken Wood. It is a thousand pities
that you encountered that keeper. If you could
have followed the tracks while they were fresh you
might have been able to ascertain whither it had
been carried. But now, to return to your latest
experience, what shall we do? Shall we communi-
cate with the police, or shall we make a few investi-
gations on our own account?”
“As far as I am concerned," I replied eagerly, “a
private investigation would be greatly preferable.
But wouldn't it take up rather a lot of your time?”.
“Now, Jardine, you needn't apologize,” said
Jervis. "Unless I am much mistaken, my respected
senior has 'Struck soundings,' as the nautical phrase
has it. He has a theory of your case, and he would
like to see it through. Isn't that so, Thorndyke?”
“Well,” Thorndyke admitted, "I will confess that
the case piques my curiosity somewhat.
It is an
unusual affair and suggests some curious hypotheses
which might be worth testing. So, if you agree,


A COUNCIL OF WAR
91
3
Jardine, that we make at least a few preliminary
investigations, I suggest that, as soon as Batson
returns, we three go over to the what the newspapers
would call “the scene of the tragedy’and reconstitute
the affair on the spot.”
‘And what about Batson?' I asked. “Shall we
tell him anything?”
“I think we must,” said Thorndyke, “if only to
put him on his guard; for your unknown enemy may
be his enemy, too."
At this moment the street door banged loudly, a
quick step danced along the hall, and Batson himself
burst into the room.
“Good Lord!” he exclaimed, halting abruptly at
the door and gazing in dismay at our little council.
“What's the matter? Anything happened?”
Thorndyke laughed as he shook the hand of his
quondam pupil.
“Come, come, Batson,” said he, “don't make me
out such a bird of ill-omen."
“I was afraid something awkward might have
occurred. Police job or inquest or something of that
"You weren't so very far wrong," said Thorndyke.
"When you are at liberty I'll tell you about it."
"I'm at liberty now," said Batson, dropping into a
chair and glaring at Thorndyke through his spec-
tacles. “No scandal, I hope.”
Thorndyke reassured him on this point and gave
him a brief account of my adventure and our pro-
posed visit to the works; to which he listened with
occasional ejaculations of astonishment and relief.
“By gum!” he exclaimed, “what a mercy you got
there in time. If you hadn't there'd have been an
inquest and a devil of a fuss. I should never have
heard the last of it. Ruined the practice and worried
sort."


92
A SILENT WITNESS
me into a lunatic asylum. Oh, and about those
works. I wouldn't go there if I were you."
“Why not?” Thorndyke asked.
“Well, you may have to answer some awkward
questions, and we don't want this affair to get about,
you know. No use raising a dust. Rumpus of any
kind plays the deuce with a medical practice.”
Thorndyke smiled at my principal's frank egoism.
“Jervis and I went over last night,” said he, “and
had a hasty look round and we found the place quite
deserted. Probably it is so still.”
“Then you won't be able to get in. How jer get
in last night?”
“I happened to have a piece of stiff wire in my
pocket,” Thorndyke replied impassively.
“Ha!” said Batson. Wire, eh? Picklock in fact.
I wouldn't, if I were you. Devil of a bobbery if
anyone sees you.
Hallo! There goes the bell.
Patient. Let him wait. 'Tisn't six yet, is it?”
“Two minutes past,” replied Thorndyke, rising
and looking at his watch. "Perhaps we had better
be starting as it's now dark, and the business at the
works, if there is any, is probably over for the day.”
“Hang the works!” exclaimed Batson. “I
wouldn't go nosing about there. What's the good?
Jardine's all right and the chappie isn't likely to be
on view. You'll only raise a stink for nothing and
bring in a crowd of beastly reporters humming about
the place. There's that damn bell again. Well,
if you won't stay, perhaps you'll look me up some
other time. Always d’lighted to see you.
Jervis
too. You're not going, Jardine? I've got to settle
up with you and hear your report.”
“I'll look in later,” said I; "when you've finished
the evening's work.”
“Right you are,” said Batson, opening the door


A COUNCIL OF WAR
93
and adroitly edging us out. “Sorry you can't stay.
Good night! Good night!"
He shepherded us persuasively and compellingly
down the hall, with a skill born of long practice with
garrulous patients, and, having exchanged us on
the doorstep for a stout woman with two children,
returned into the house with his prey and was lost
to sight.


CHAPTER VII
AN UNSEEN ENEMY
F
ROM my late principal's house we walked
away quickly down the lamplit street, all, I
think, dimly amused at the circumstances of
our departure.
"Is Batson always like that?” Thorndyke asked.
“ Always," I replied. “Hurry and bustle are his
normal states."
“Dear, dear,” commented Thorndyke, "what a
terrible amount of time he must waste. Of course,
one can understand now how that cremation muddle
came about.
Your incurable hustler is always
thinking of the things he has got to do next instead
of the thing that he is doing at the moment. By
the way, Jardine, I am taking it for granted that
you would like to inspect these premises. It is not
essential. Jervis and I had a preliminary look
round last night, and I daresay we picked up most
of the facts that are likely to be of importance if we
should be going farther into the matter.”
"I think it would be as well for me to take a look
at the place and show you exactly where and how
the affair happened.”
"I think so too,” said Thorndyke. “It was all
pretty evident, but you might be able to show us
something that we had overlooked. Here we are.
I wonder if Mr. Gill is on the premisessupposing
him still to frequent them."
He looked up and down the street, and, taking a
key from his pocket, inserted it into the lock.
(94)


AN UNSEEN ENEMY
95
Why, how on earth did you get the key?” I
asked.
Thorndyke looked at me slyly.
“We keep a tame mechanic," said he, as he
turned the key and opened the wicket.
“Yes, but how did he get the pattern of the
lock?" I asked.
Thorndyke laughed softly.. "It is only a simple
trade lock. The fact is, Jardine, that in our branch
of practice we have occasionally to take some rather
irregular proceedings. For instance, I usually carry
a small set of picklocks—fortunately for you. That
is how I got in last night. Then I never go abroad
without a little box of moulding wax; a most inval-
uable material, Jardine, for collecting certain kinds
of evidence. Well, with a slip of wood and a bit of
wax I was able to furnish my man with the neces-
sary data for filing up a blank key. One doesn't
want to be seen using a picklock. Now, can you
show us the way?”
He flashed a pocket electric lamp on the ground,
and we advanced over the rough cobbles until we
reached a door at the side.
“This is where I went in," said I.
into a sort of corridor, and at the end is a door
opening on some steps that lead down to the passage
Thorndyke tried the handle of the door and
pushed, but it was evidently locked or bolted.
“I left this door unlocked last night,” said he;
so it is clear that someone has been here since. I
hardly expected that. I thought our friend would
have cleared off for good. But it is possible that
Gill had nothing to do with the attempt. The
premises may have been used by someone who
happened to know that they were unoccupied. It
“It opens
below.'


96
A SILENT WITNESS
would have been quite easy for such a person to
gain admittance; as you see.”
While speaking, he had produced from his pocket
a little bunch of skeleton keys, with one of which he
now quietly unlocked the door.
“These builders' locks,” said he, "are merely
symbolic of security. You are not expected to
unfasten them without authority, but you can if
you like and happen to have a bit of stiff wire.”
We entered the corridor, and as we proceeded,
looked into the rooms that opened out of it. One of
them was meagerly furnished as an office, but the
thick layer of dust on the desk and stools showed
clearly that it had been long disused; the other
rooms were empty and desolate, and showed no
trace of use or occupation.
“The worthy Gill,” said Jervis, "seems to have
been able, like Diogenes, to get on with a very
modest outfit."
“Yes,” agreed Thorndyke, “it is a little difficult
to guess what his occupation is. The place looks
as if it had never been used at all. Shall I go first?”
He halted for a moment, passing the light of his
lamp over the massive door at the head of the steps,
and then began to descend. It was certainly a
horrible and repulsive place, especially to my eyes,
with the recollection of my late experience fresh in
my mind. The rough brick walls, covered with the
crumbling remains of old whitewash, the black
masses of cobwebs that drooped like funereal stalac-
tites from the ceiling, the fungi that sprouted in
corners, and the snail-tracks that glistened in the
lamplight on the stone floor, all contributed to a
vault-like sepulchral effect that was most unpleas-
antly suggestive of what might have been and very
nearly had been.


AN UNSEEN ENEMY
97
My late prison was easily distinguished by the
two holes in the door. We looked in; but that
cellar was completely empty save for a few chips of
wood and a pinch or two of sawdust; memorials of
my sojourn in the lethal chamber at which I could
hardly look without a shudder. Then we passed on
to the next cellar—the one adjoining my prison-
and this was an object of no little curiosity to me.
Here, while I was securely bolted into my cell, that
unknown villain had, deliberately and in cold blood,
made all the arrangements for my murder; arrange-
ments which he little suspected that I should sur-
vive to look upon.
Thorndyke, too, was interested. He stood at the
open door, looking in as if considering the positions
of various objects. As in fact he was.
“Someone has been here since last night, Jervis,”
said he.
“Yes," agreed Jervis. “That gas bottle has been
taken down from the opening. You see, Jardine,"
he continued, "he had stood that big packing case
up on end and laid the gas bottle along the top,
with its nozzle just opposite the hole. Two other
bottles were standing upright with their nozzles
upwards."
"I understand," said Thorndyke, “that you heard
three bottles only turned on?”
“Yes," I answered; "there was the one opposite
the hole and two others."
“I ask,” Thorndyke said, “because there are, as
you see, seven other_bottles lying by the wall.
Those are all empty. We tried them when we came
here last night."
“I know nothing about those others," said I.
“The three bottles that I have mentioned I heard
distinctly, and after he had turned on the third,
7


98
A SILENT WITNESS
the man went out of the cellar and closed up the
door."
“Then,” said Thorndyke, “the other seven were
presumably used for some other-and let us hope,
more legitimate-purpose. I wonder why our friend
has been at the trouble of moving the cylinders.".
"Perhaps,” suggested Jervis, he thought that
the arrangement might be a little too illuminating
for the police, if they should happen to pay a visit
to the place. He may not be aware that the
apparatus had already been inspected in situ by us.
Or, again, the cylinders may have been moved by
someone else. We are assuming that he is a lawful
occupant of the premises; but he may be a mere
secret intruder like ourselves, who has discovered
that the place is more or less unoccupied and has
made use of the premises and plant for his own
benevolent purposes.
“Yes,” agreed Thorndyke," that is perfectly true.
But we can put the matter to the test, at least
negatively. If the cylinders have been moved by
an innocent stranger they will bear the prints of
hands."
“But why shouldn't the man himself leave the
prints of his hands on the cylinders?” I asked.
"Because, my dear Jardine, he is too knowing a
bird. Jervis and I went carefully over the cylinders
last night in the hope of getting a few finger-prints
to submit to Scotland Yard; but not a vestige could
we find.
Our friend had seen to that. We assumed
that he had operated in gloves and your description
of him confirmed our assumption. Which, in its
way, is an interesting fact, for a man who is knowing
enough to take these precautions has probably had
some previous experience of crime, or, at least, has
some acquaintance with the ways of criminals.


AN UNSEEN ENEMY
99
The suggestion, in fact, is that, although this is not
an ordinary professional crime, the perpetrator may
be a professional criminal. And the further sug-
gestion is, of course, that of very deliberate pre-
meditation."
While he had been speaking he had produced
from his pocket a small, flattened bottle fitted with
a metal cap and filled with a yellowish powder.
Removing the cap and uncovering a perforated inner
cap, like that of an iodoform dredger, he proceeded
to shake a cloud of the light powder over the three
upper cylinders, jarring them with his foot to make
the powder spread. Then he blew sharply on them,
one after the other, when the powder disappeared
from their surfaces, leaving visible one or two shape-
less whitened smears but never a trace of a finger-
print or even the shape of a hand.
Thorndyke rose and slipped the bottle back in his
pocket.
“Apparently,” said he, "the cylinders were moved
by our unknown friend, with the same careful pre-
cautions as on the first occasion. A wary gentle-
man, this, Jervis.
He'll give us a run for our
money, at any rate.'
“Yes,” agreed Jervis; "he doesn't mean to give
himself away.
He preserves his incognito most
punctiliously. I'll say that for him."
“And meanwhile," said Thorndyke, “we had
better proceed with our measures for drawing him
out of this modest retirement. I want you, Jardine,
to look round this cellar and tell us if any of the
things that you see in it reminds you of anything
that has happened to you, or suggests any thought
or reflection.'
I looked round, I am afraid rather vacantly. A
more unsuggestive collection of objects I have never
looked upon.


100
A SILENT WITNESS
“There are the gas cylinders,” I said, feebly;
“but I have told you about them.
I don't see
anything else excepting a few oddments of rubbish.”
“Then take a good look at the rubbish,” said he.
"Remember that it may be necessary at some
future time for you to recall exactly what this
cellar was like and what it contained. You may
even have to make a sworn statement. So cast
your eye round and tell us what you see.'
I did so, wondering inwardly what the deuce I
was expected to see and what might be the impor-
tance of my seeing it.
“I see,” said I, “a mouldy-looking cellar about
fifteen feet by twelve, with very bad brick walls, a
plaster ceiling in an advanced stage of decay, and a
concrete floor. In the left hand wall is a hole about
six inches square opening into the adjoining cellar.
The contents are ten gas cylinders, all apparently
empty, a key or spanner which seems to have been
used to turn the cocks, a large packing-case, which,
to judge by its shape, seems to have contained gas
cylinders
“The word 'large,'” interrupted Thorndyke, "is
not a particularly exact one."
“Well, then, a packing case about seven feet long
by two and a half feet wide and deep.”
“That's better," said Thorndyke. 'Always give
your dimensions in quantitative terms if possible.
Go on.”
“There are a couple of waterproof sheets,” said I.
“I don't see quite what they can have been used
for.”
“Never mind their use," said Thorndyke. “Note
the fact that they are here."
"I have,” said I; "and that seems to complete
the list with the exception of the straw in which I


AN UNSEEN ENEMY
101
suppose the gas cylinders were packed. There is a
large quantity of that, but not more than would
seem necessary for the purpose. And that seems to
complete the inventory, and I may say that none of
these things conveys any suggestion whatever to my
mind.”
“Probably not,” said Thorndyke, "and it is quite
possible that none of these things has any particular
significance at all. But as they are the only facts
offered us, we must make the best of them. There
is one other cellar that we have not yet looked into,
I think.”
We came out, and, walking along the passage,
came to another door which stood slightly ajar.
Thorndyke opened it, and, throwing in the light of
his lamp, revealed a considerable stack of long iron
gas bottles and one or two packing-cases similar to
the one I had already seen.
“I presume, " said he, “that these are full
cylinders; the store from which our friend got his
supply, but we may as well make sure."
He ran back into the adjoining cellar, and re-
turned with the spanner, with which he proceeded
to turn the cock of one of the topmost cylinders;
upon which a loud hiss and a thin, snowy cloud
showed that his surmise was correct.
He had just closed the cock and stepped out into
the passage to take back the spanner, when I saw
him stop suddenly as if listening.
And then he
sniffed once or twice.
“What is it?" asked Jervis; but Thorndyke, with-
out replying, ran quickly along the passage and up
the steps, and I heard him trying the door at the
top.
“Bring up one of the empty cylinders,” he said
quietly. "They have bolted us in and apparently
set fire to the place.


102
A SILENT WITNESS
We did not require much urging to act quickly.
Picking up one of the long, ponderous iron cylinders,
we ran with it along the passage towards the light
of Thorndyke's lamp. As we ascended the steps
I became plainly aware of the smell of burning wood
and of a crackling sound, faintly audible through
the massive door.
“There is only one bolt," said Thorndyke; “I
noticed it as we came in. I will throw my light on
the part of the door where it is fixed, and you two
must batter on that spot with the cylinder."
The door was, as I have said, a massive one, but
it would have been a massive door indeed that
could have withstood the blows of that ponderous
iron cylinder, wielded by two strong men whose
lives depended on their efforts. At the very first
crash of the battering-ram a tiny chink opened,
and at each thundering blow the building shook.
Furiously we pounded at the thick, plank-built door,
and slowly the chink widened as the screws of the
bolt tore out of the woodwork. And as the chink
opened, a thin reek of pungent smoke filtered in,
and the cold light of Thorndyke's lantern became
contrasted with a red glare from without. And
then suddenly the door, under the heavy battering,
burst from its fastenings and swung open.
A
blinding, choking cloud of smoke and sparks rolled
in upon us, through which we could see in the
corridor outside a pile of straw and crates and
broken packing cases, blazing and crackling furi-
ously. It looked as if we were cut off beyond all
hope.
Jervis and I had dropped the now useless cylinder
and were gazing in horror at the blazing mass that
filled the corridor and cut off our only means of
escape, when we were recalled by the voice of


AN UNSEEN ENEMY
103
Thorndyke, speaking in his usual quiet and precise
manner.
“We must get the full cylinders up as quickly as
possible,” said he; and, running down the steps, he
made straight for the end cellar, whither we fol-
lowed him. Picking up one of the cylinders, we
carried it quickly to the top of the steps.
“Lay it down," said Thorndyke," "and fetch
another.'
Jervis and I ran back to the cellar, and taking up
another cylinder, brought it along the passage. As
we were ascending the steps, there suddenly arose a
loud, penetrating hiss, and as we reached the top,
we saw Thorndyke disengaging the spanner from
the cock of the cylinder out of which a jet of liquid
was issuing, mingled with a dense, snowy cloud.
An instantaneous glance, as we laid down the
fresh cylinder, reassured me very considerably. The
icy, volatile liquid and the falling cloud of intensely
cold carbonic acid snow had produced an imme-
diate effect; as was evident in a blackened, smoul-
dering patch in the midst of the blazing mass.
With
reviving hope I followed Jervis once more down the
steps and along the passage to the end cellar, from
which we brought forth a third cylinder.
By this time the passage was so filled with smoke
that it was difficult either to see or to breathe, and
the bright light that had at first poured in through
the open doorway had already dulled down so far
that Thorndyke's figure, framed in the opening,
loomed dim and shadowy amidst the smoke and
against the dusky red background. We found him,
when we reached the top of the steps, holding the
great gas bottle and directing the stream of snow
and liquid on to those parts of the wood and straw
from which flames still issued.


104
A SILENT WITNESS
“It will be all right,” he said in his calm, unemo-
tional way; "the fire had not really got an effective
start. The straw made a great show, but that is
nearly all burnt now, and all this carbonic acid gas
will soon smother the burning wood. But we must
be careful that it doesn't smother us too. The
steps will be the safest place for the present.'
He opened the cock of the new cylinder and,
having placed it so that it played on the most
refractory part of the burning mass, backed to the
steps where Jervis and I stood looking through the
doorway. The fire was, as he had said, rapidly
dying down. The volumes of gas produced by the
evaporation of the liquid and the melting snow, cut
off the supply of air so that, in place of the flames
that had at first looked so alarming, only a dense
reek of smoke arose.
14,"Now," said Thorndyke, after we had waited on
the steps a couple of minutes more, “I think we
might make a sortie and put an end to it.
can get the smouldering stuff off that wooden floor
down on to the stone, the danger will be over."
He led the way cautiously into the corridor, and,
once more bringing his electric lamp into requisition,
began to kick the smouldering cases and crates and
the blackened masses of straw down the steps on to
the stone floor of the passage, whither we followed
them and scattered them with our feet until they
were completely safe from any chance of re-ignition.
“There,” said Jervis, giving a final kick at a small
heap of smoking straw, "I should think that ought
to do. There's no fear of that stuff lighting up
again. And, if I may venture to make the remark,
the sooner we are off these premises the happier
I shall be. Our friend's methods of entertaining his
visitors are a trifle too strenuous for my taste. He
might try dynamite next.”
If we


AN UNSEEN ENEMY
105
“Yes," I agreed; “or he might take pot shots at
us with a revolver from some dark corner.”
"It is much more likely," said Thorndyke," that
he has cleared off in anticipation of the alarm of fire.
Still, it is undeniable that we shall be safer outside.
Shall I go first and show you a light?”
He piloted us along the corridor and up the
cobbled yard,
putting away his lamp as he unlocked
the wicket. There was no sign of anyone about the
premises, nor, when we had passed out of the gate,
was there anyone in sight in the street. I looked
about, expecting to see some sign of the fire; but
there was no smoke visible, and only a slight smell
of burning wood. The smoke must have drifted
out at the back.
"Well," Thorndyke remarked, "it has been quite
an exciting little episode. And a highly satisfactory
finish, as things turned out; though it might easily
have been very much the reverse. But for the
fortunate chance of those gas-bottles being avail-
able, I don't think we should be alive at this
moment."
“No," agreed Jervis. “We should be in much
the same condition by this time as Batson's late
patient, Mr. Maddock, or at least, well on our way
to that disembodied state. However, all's well that
ends well. Are you coming our way, Jardine?”
“I will walk a little way with you,” said I.
“Then I must go back to Batson to settle up and
fetch my traps.
I walked with them to Oxford Street, and we
discussed our late adventure as we went.
'It was a pretty strong hint to clear out, wasn't
it?” Jervis remarked.
“Yes," replied Thorndyke; "it didn't leave us
much option. But the affair can't be left at this.


106
A SILENT WITNESS
I shall have a watch set on those premises, and I
shall make some more particular inquiries about Mr.
Gill. By the way, Jardine, I haven't your address.
I'd better have it in case I want to communicate
with you; and you'd better have my card in case
anything turns up which you think I ought to
know."
We accordingly exchanged cards, and, as we had
now reached the corner of Oxford Street, I wished
my friends adieu and thoughtfully retraced my
steps to Jacob Street.


CHAPTER VIII
“IT'S AN ILL WIND-
LO
ONDON is a wonderful place. From the
urban grayness of Jacob Street to the
borders of Hampstead Heath was, even in
those days of the slow horse tram, but a
matter of minutes—a good many minutes, perhaps,
but still, considerably under an hour. Yet, in that
brief and leisurely journey one exchanged the grim
sordidness of a most unlovely street for the solitude
and sweet rusticity of open and charming country.
A day or two after my second adventure in the
mineral water works I was leaning on the parapet
of the viaduct—the handsome, red brick viaduct
with which some builder, unknown to me, had
spanned the pond beyond the Upper Heath,
apparently with purely decorative motive and in a
spirit of sheer philanthropy. For no road seemed
to lead anywhere in particular over it, and there
was no reason why any wayfarer should wish to
cross the pond rather than walk round it; indeed,
in those days it was covered by a turfy expanse
seldom trodden by any feet but those of the sheep
that grazed in the meadows bordering the pond. I
leaned on the parapet, smoking my pipe with deep
contentment and looking down into the placid
· water. Flags and rushes grew at its borders, water-
lilies spread their flat leaves on its surface, and a
small party of urchins angled from the margin with
the keen joy of the juvenile sportsman who suspects
that his proceedings are unlawful.
(107)


108
A SILENT WITNESS
I had lounged on the parapet for several minutes,
when I became aware of a man approaching along
the indistinct track that crossed the viaduct, and as
he drew near, I recognized him as the keeper whom I
had met in Ken Wood on the morning after my dis-
covery of the body in Millfield Lane. I would have
let him pass with a smile of recognition, but he had
no intention of passing. Touching his hat politely,
he halted, and, having wished me good-morning,
remarked:
“You didn't tell me, sir, what it was you were
looking for that morning when I met you in the
wood.'
“No," I replied, “but apparently, someone else
has."
“Well, sir, you see,” he said, “the sergeant came
up the next day with a plain-clothes man to have
a look round, and, as the sergeant is an old ac-
quaintance of mine, he gave me the tip as to what
they were after.
am sorry, sir, you didn't tell
me what you were looking for.'
“Why?" I asked.
"Well,” he replied, "we might have found some-
thing if we had looked while the tracks were fresh.
Unfortunately, there was a gale in the night that
fetched down a lot of leaves, and blew up those
that had already fallen, so that any foot-marks
would have got hidden before the sergeant came.
“What did the police officers seem to think about
it?" I asked.
“Why, to speak the truth," the keeper replied,
"they seemed to think it was all bogey.
“Do you mean to say," I asked, “that they
thought I had invented the whole story?"
“Oh, no, sir," he replied, “not that.
They
believed you had seen a man lying in the lane,


“IT'S AN ILL WIND-
109
but they didn't believe that he was a dead man,
and they thought your imagination had misled you
about the tracks."
“Then, I suppose they didn't find anything?”
said I.
“No, they didn't, and I haven't been able to find
anything myself, though I've had a good look
round.” And then, after a brief pause: "I wonder,”
he said, "if you would care to come up to the Wood
and have a look at the place yourself.”
I considered for a moment. I had nothing to
do, for I was taking a day off, and the man's pro-
posal sounded rather attractive. Finally, I accepted
his offer, and we turned back together towards the
Wood.
Hampstead—the Hampstead of those days—was
singularly rustic and remote. But, within the
wood, it was incredible that the town of London
actually lay within the sound of a church bell or
the flight of a bullet. Along the shady paths, car-
peted with moss and silvery lichen, overshadowed
by the boughs of noble beeches; or in leafy hollows,
with the humus of centuries under our feet and the
whispering silence of the woodland all around, we
might have been treading the glades of some
primeval forest. Nor was the effect of this strange
remoteness less when, presently, emerging from the
thicker portion of the wood, we came upon a moss-
grown, half-ruinous boat-house on the sedgy mar-
gin of a lake, in which was drawn up a rustic-looking
and evidently little-used punt.
“It's wonderful quiet about here, sir," the keeper
remarked, as a water-hen stole out from behind a
clump of high rushes and scrambled over the leaves
of the water-lilies.
"And presumably," I remarked, "it's quieter still
at night.”


110
A SILENT WITNESS
“You're right, sir,” the keeper replied. “If that
man had got as far as this, he'd have had mighty
little trouble in putting the body where no one was
ever likely to look for it.'
“I suppose,” said I, “that you had a good look
at the edges of the lake?”
“Yes," he answered. “I went right round it,
and so did the police, for that matter, and we had
a good look at the punt, too. But, all the same,
it wouldn't surprise me if, one fine day, that body
came floating up among the lilies; always supposing,
that is,” he added, "that there really was a body.
“How far is it," I asked, "from the lake to the
place where you met me that morning?"
“It's only a matter of two or three minutes," he
answered; "we may as well walk that way and
you can see for yourself.” Accordingly we set
forth together, and coming presently upon one of
the moss-grown paths, followed it past a large
summer-house until we came in sight of the beech
beyond which I had encountered him while I was
searching for the tracks. As we went, he plied me
with questions as to what I had seen on the night
in the lane, and I made no scruple of telling him
all that I had told the police, seeing that they, on
their side, had made no secret of the matter.
Of course, it was idle, after this long period—for
it was now more than seven weeks since I had
seen the body—to attempt anything in the nature
of a search. It certainly did look as if the man
who had stolen into the wood that night had been
bound for the solitary lake. The punt, I had
noticed, was only secured with a rope, so that the
murderer—for such I assumed he must have been
could easily have carried his dreadful burden out
into the middle, and there sunk it with weights,


“IT'S AN ILL WIND"
111
and so hidden it for ever. It was a quick, simple
and easy method of hiding the traces of his crime,
and if the police had not thought it worth while
to search the water with drags, there was no reason
why the buried secret should not remain buried
for all time.
After we had walked for some time about the
pleasant, shady wood, less shady now that the
yellowing leaves were beginning to fall with the
passing of autumn, the keeper conducted me to
the exit by which I had left on the previous occasion.
As I was passing out of the wicket, my eye fell
once more on the cottage which I had then noticed,
and recalling the remark that my fair acquaintance
had let fall concerning the artist to whom the dere-
lict knife was supposed to belong, I said, “You
mentioned, I think, that that house was let to an
artist."
“It was,” he replied, “but it's empty now; the
artist has gone away.
“It must be a pleasant little house to live in,"
I said, “at any rate, in summer.
“Yes," he replied, “a country house within an
hour's walk of the Bank of England. Would you
like to have a look at it, sir? I've got the keys.'
Now I certainly had no intention of offering my-
self as a tenant, but yet, to an idle man, there is
a certain attractiveness in an empty house of an
eligible kind, a certain interest in roaming through
the rooms and letting one's fancy furnish them
with one's own household gods. I accepted the
man's invitation, and opening the wide gate that
admitted to the garden from a by-road, we walked
up to the door of the house.
“It's quite a nice little place," the keeper re-
marked. “There isn't much garden, you see, but


112
A SILENT WITNESS
then you've got the Heath all around; and there's
a small stable and coach-house if you should be
wanting to go into town."
“Did the last tenant keep any kind of carriage?”
I asked.
"I don't think so," said the keeper, “but I fancy
he used to hire a little cart sometimes when he had
things to bring in from town; but I don't know
very much about him or his habits."
We walked through the empty rooms together,
looking out of the windows and commenting on
the pleasant prospects that all of them commanded
and talking about the man who had last lived in
the house.
“He was a queer sort of fellow," said the keeper.
“He and his wife seem to have lived here all alone
without any servant, and they seem often to have
left the house to itself for a day or two at a time.
But he could paint. I have stopped and had a
look when he has been at work, and it was wonder-
ful to see how he knocked off those pictures. He
didn't seem to use brushes, but he had a lot of
knives, like little trowels, and he used to shovel
the paint on with them, and he always wore gloves
when he was painting. Didn't like to get the
paint on his hands, I suppose.”
“It sounds as if it would be very awkward,”
I said.
“Just what I should have thought," the keeper
agreed. “But he didn't seem to find it so. This
seems to be the place that he worked in."
Apparently the keeper was right.
The room
which we had now entered was evidently the late
studio, and did not appear to have been cleaned up
since the tenant left. The floor was littered with
scraps of paper on which a palette-knife had been


“IT'S AN ILL WIND-
113
I
cleaned, with empty paint-tubes and one or two
broken and worn-out brushes, and in a packing-case,
which seemed to have served as a receptacle for
rubbish, were one or two canvases that had been
torn from their stretchers and thrown away.
picked them out and glanced at them with some
interest, remembering what my fair friend had
said. For the most part, they were mere experi-
ments or failures, deliberately defaced with strokes
or daubs of paint, but one of them was a quite
spirited and attractive sketch, rough and unfinished,
but skilfully executed and undefaced. I stretched
out the crumpled canvas and looked at it with
considerable interest. It represented Millfield Lane,
and showed the large elms and the posts and the
high fence under which I had sheltered in the rain.
In fact, it appeared to have been taken from the
exact spot on which the body had been lying, and
from which I had made my own drawing; not
that there was anything in the latter coincidence,
for it was the only sketchable spot in the lane.
“It's really quite a nice sketch," I said; "it
seems a pity to leave it here among the rubbish."
“It does, sir," the keeper agreed. “If you like
it, you had better roll it up and put it in your
pocket. You won't be robbing anyone.
As it seemed that I was but rescuing it from a
rubbish heap, I ventured to follow the keeper's
advice, and rolling the canvas up, carefully stowed
it in my pocket. And shortly after, as I had now
seen all that there was to see, which was mighty
little, we left the house, and at the gate the keeper
took leave of me with a touch of his hat.
I made my way slowly back towards my lodgings
by way of the Spaniard's Road and Hampstead
Lane, turning over in my mind as I went, the
8


114
A SILENT WITNESS
speculations suggested by my visit to the wood.
Of the existence of the lake I had not been pre-
viously aware. Now that I had seen it, I felt
very little doubt that it was known to the myste-
rious murderer for such I felt convinced he was-
who must have been lurking in the lane that night
when I was sheltering under the lee of the fence.
The route that he had then taken appeared to be
the direct route to the lake. That he was carry-
ing the body, I had no doubt whatever; and, see
ing that he had carried it so far, it appeared probable
that he had some definite hiding-place in view. And
what hiding-place could be so suitable as this remote
piece of still water? No digging, no troublesome
and dangerous preparation would be necessary.
There was the punt in readiness to bear him to
the deep water in the middle; a silent, easily-
handled conveyance. A few stones, or some heavy
object from the boat-house, would be all that was
needful; and in a moment he would be rid forever
of the dreadful witness of his crime.
Thus reflecting—not without dissatisfaction at
the passive part that I had played in this sinister
affair-I passed through the turnstile, or “kissing-
gate,” at the entrance to Millfield Lane. Almost
certainly, the murderer or the victim, or both, had
passed through that very gate on the night of the
tragedy. The thought came to me with added
solemnity with the recollection of the silent wood
and the dark, still water fresh in my mind, and
caused me unconsciously to tread more softly and
walk more sedately than usual.
The lane was little frequented at any time, and
now, at midday, was almost as deserted as at mid-
night. Very remote it seemed, too, and very quiet,
with a silence that recalled the hush of the wood.


“IT'S AN ILL WIND"
115
And yet the silence was not quite unbroken. From
somewhere ahead, from one of the many windings
of the tortuous lane, came the sound of hurried
footsteps.
I stopped to listen.
There were two
persons, one treading lightly, the other more heavily,
apparently a man and a woman. And both were
running-running fast.
There was nothing remarkable in this, perhaps;
but yet the sound smote on my ear with a certain
note of alarm that made me quicken my pace and
listen yet more intently. And suddenly there came
another sound; a muffled, whimpering cry like
that of a frightened woman. Instantly I gave an
answering shout and sprang forward at a swift run.
I had turned one of the numerous corners and
was racing down a straight stretch of the lane
when a woman darted round the corner ahead, and
ran towards me, holding out her hands. I recog-
nized her at a glance, though now she was disheveled,
pale, wild-eyed, breathless and nearly frantic with
terror; and rage against her assailant spurred me
on to greater speed. But when I would have passed
her to give chase to the wretch, she clutched my
arm frantically with both hands and detained me.
“Let me go and catch the scoundrel!" I exclaimed;
but she only clung the tighter.
“No," she panted, “don't leave me! I am terri-
fied! Don't go away!"
I ground my teeth. Even as we stood, I could
hear the ruffian's footsteps receding as rapidly as
they had advanced. In a few moments he would
be beyond pursuit.
"Do let me go and stop that villain!" I implored.
“You're quite safe now, and you can follow me and
keep me in sight."
But she shook her head passionately, and, still


116
A SILENT WITNESS
clutching my sleeve with one hand, pressed the
other to her heart.
“No, no, no!" she gasped, with a catch in her
voice that was almost a sob, “I can't be alone!
I am frightened. Oh! Please don't go away from
me!”
What could I do? The poor girl was evidently
beside herself with terror, and exhausted by her
frantic flight. It would have been cruel to leave
her in that state. But all the same, it was infuriat-
ing. I had no idea what the man had done to terrify
her in this way. But that was of no consequence.
The natural impulse of a healthy young man when
he learns that a woman has been ill-used is to ham-
mer the offender effectively in the first place, and
then to inquire into the affair. That was what
I wanted to do; but it was not to be.
"Well," I said, by way of compromise, “let us
walk back together. Perhaps we may be able to
find out which way the man went."
To this she agreed. I drew her arm through
mine—for she was still trembling and looked faint
and weak—and we began to retrace our steps to-
wards Highgate. Of course the man was nowhere
to be seen, and by the time that we had turned the
sharp corner where I had found the body of the
priest, the man was not only out of sight, but his
footsteps were no longer audible.
Still we went on for some distance in the hopes
of meeting someone who could tell us which way
the miscreant had gone. But we met nobody.
Only, some distance past the posts, we came in
sight of a sketching box and a camp-stool, lying
by the side of the path.
Surely those are your things?” I said.
» she answered. “I had forgotten all
"Yes,'


“IT'S AN ILL WIND-
117
about them. I dropped them when I began to
run.
I picked up the box and the stool, and debated
with myself whether it was worth while to go on
any farther. From where we stood, nothing was
to be seen, for the lane was still enclosed on both
sides by a seven-foot fence of oak boards. But
the chance of overtaking the fugitive was not to
be considered. By this time he was probably out
of the lane on the Heath or in the surrounding
meadows; and meanwhile my companion, though
calmer and less breathless, looked very pale and
shaken.
"I don't know that it's any use,” I said, “to
tire you by going any farther. The man is evi-
dently gone.
She seemed relieved at my decision, and it then
occurred to me to suggest that she should sit down
awhile on the bank under the high fence to recover
herself, and to this, too, she assented gladly.
“If it wouldn't distress you," I said, “would
you mind telling me what had happened?"
She pondered for a few seconds and then answered:
“It doesn't sound much in the telling and I expect
you will think me very silly to be so much upset."
“I'm sure I shan't,” I said, with perfect con-
fidence in the correctness of my statement.
“Well,” she said, “what happened was this as
nearly as I can remember: I was coming up the
path from the ponds and I had to pass a man who
was leaning against the fence by the stile. As I
came near to him, he looked at me, at first in quite
an ordinary way, and then he suddenly began to
stare in a most singular and disturbing fashion, not
at me so much as at this little crucifix which I wear
hung from my neck. As I passed through the turn-


118
A SILENT WITNESS
stile, he spoke to me: "Would you mind letting me
look at that crucifix?' he asked. It was a most
astonishing piece of impertinence, and I was so
taken aback that I hardly had the presence of mind
to refuse. However, I did, and very decidedly, too.
Then he came up to me, and in a most threatening
and alarming manner, said, “You found that cruci-
fix. You picked it up somewhere near here. It's
mine, and I'll ask you to let me have it, if you
please.'
“Now this was perfectly untrue. The crucifix
was given to me by my father when I was quite
a little child, and I have worn it ever since I have
been grown up ever since he died, in fact, six years
ago. I told the man this, but he made no pretence
of believing me, and was evidently about to renew
his demand, when two laborers appeared, coming
down the lane. I thought this a good opportunity
to escape, and walked away quickly up the lane.
It was very silly of me; I ought to have gone the
"Of course you ought," I agreed; "you ought
to have got out into a public road at once.'
“Yes, I see that now," she said. “It was very
foolish of me. However, I walked on pretty quickly,
for there was something in the man's face that had
frightened me, and I was anxious to get home.
I looked back from time to time, and when I saw
no sign of the man, I began to recover myself; but
just as I had got to the most solitary part of the
lane, just about where we are now, shut in by these
high fences, I heard quick footsteps behind me.
I looked back and saw the man coming after me.
Then I suppose I got in a sudden panic, for I dropped
my sketching things and began to run.
soon as I began to run, the man broke into a run
other way.”
But as


"IT'S AN ILL WIND"
119
too. I raced for my life, and when I heard the man
gaining on me, I suppose I must have called out.
Then I heard your shout from the upper part of
the lane and ran on faster than ever to gain your
protection. That's all, and I suppose you think
that I have been making a great fuss about nothing.
“I don't think anything of the kind," I said,
"and neither would our absent friend if I could
get hold of him. By the way, what sort of person
was he?-a tramp?"
“Oh, no; quite a respectable looking person; in
fact, he would have passed for a gentleman."
'Can you give any sort of description of him?
not that verbal descriptions are of much use except
in the case of a hunchback or a Chinaman or some
other easily identifiable creature."
“No, they are not,” she agreed, “and I don't
think that I can tell you much about this man
excepting that he was clean-shaved, of medium
height, quite well dressed, and wore a round hat
and slate-colored suede gloves."
“I'm afraid we shan't get hold of him from that
description,” I said. “The only thing that you
can do is to avoid solitary places for the present
and not to come through this lane again alone.'
“Yes,” she said, “I suppose I must, but it's
very unfortunate. One cannot always take a com-
panion when one goes sketching, even if it were
desirable, which it is not."
As to the desirability, in the case of a good-
looking girl, of wandering about alone in solitary
places, I had my own opinions; and very definite
opinions they were. But I kept them to myself.
And so we sat silent for awhile. She was still pale
and agitated, and perhaps her recital of her mis-
adventure had not been wholly beneficial. At the


120
A SILENT WITNESS
moment that this idea occurred to me, a crackling
in my breast-pocket reminded me of the forgotten
canvas, and I bethought me that perhaps a change
of subject might divert her mind from her very
disagreeable experience. Accordingly, I drew the
canvas out of my pocket, and, unrolling it, asked
her what she thought of the sketch. In a moment
she became quite animated.
“Why,” she exclaimed, “this looks exactly like
the work of that artist who was working on the
Heath a little while ago.'
“It is his," I replied, considerably impressed and
rather astonished at her instantaneous recognition;
“but I didn't know you were so familiar with his
work.”
“I'm not very familiar with it," she replied;
“but, as I told you, I sometimes managed to steal
a glance or two when I passed him. You see, his
technique is so peculiar that it's easily recognized,
and it interested me very much. I should have
liked to stop and watch him and get a lesson.'
"It is rather peculiar work,” I said, looking at
the canvas with new interest. “Very solid and
yet very smooth."
“Yes.
It is typical knife-work, almost untouched
with the brush. That was what interested me.
The knife is a dangerous tool for a comparative
tyro like myself, but yet one would like to learn
how to use it. Did he give you this sketch?”
I smiled guiltily. “The truth is," I admitted,
"I stole it."
“How dreadful of you!” she said. “I suppose
that you could not be bribed to steal another?"
“I would steal it for nothing if you asked me,"
I answered, "and meanwhile, you had better take
possession of this one. It will be of more use to
you than to me."


“IT'S AN ILL WIND"
121
She shook her head: “No, I won't do that," she
said, "though it is most kind of you. You paint,
I think, don't you?”?
“I'm only the merest amateur," I replied. “I
annexed the sketch for the sake of the subject.
I have rather an affection for this lane."
"So had I," said she, "until today. Now, I
I
hate it; but, might I ask how you managed your
theft?"
I told her about the empty cottage and the
rejected canvases in the rubbish box.
“I'm afraid none of the others would be of any
use to you because he had drawn a brushful of
paint across each of them."
“Oh, that wouldn't matter," she said. "The
brush-strokes would be on dry paint and could
easily be scraped off. Besides, it is not the sub-
ject but the technique that interests me.
"Then I will get into the cottage somehow and
purloin the remaining canvases for you."
“Oh, but I mustn't give you all this trouble,'
she protested.
“It won't be any trouble,” I said. “I shall
quite enjoy a deliberate and determined robbery.
But where shall I send the spoil?”
She produced her card-case, and selecting a card,
handed it to me, with a smile. “It seems to me,'
she said, “that I am inciting you to robbery and
acting as a receiver of stolen goods; but I suppose
there's no harm in it, though I feel that I ought not
to give you all this trouble.'
I made the usual polite rejoinder as I took from
her the little magical slip of pasteboard that, in a
moment, transformed her from a stranger to an
acquaintance, and gave her a local habitation and a
name. Before bestowing it in my pocketbook, I


"IT'S AN ILL WIND—"
123
solitary places, we exchanged a cordial hand-shake
and parted, she to enter the pleasant, rustic-looking
house, and I to betake myself back to my lodgings,
lightening the way with much agreeable and self-
congratulatory reflection.


CHAPTER IX
THORNDYKE TAKES UP THE SCENT
A
T my lodgings, which I reached at an un-
conscionably late hour for lunch, I found
a little surprise awaiting me; a short note
from Dr. Thorndyke asking me if I should
be at liberty early on the following afternoon to
show him the spot on which I had found the
mysterious body. Of course, I answered by return,
begging him to come straight on from the hospital
to an early lunch, over which we could discuss the
facts of the case before setting out. Having dis-
patched my letter, I called at the offices of the
house agent who had the letting of the cottage on
the Heath, to see if he had duplicate keys. For-
tunately he had, and was willing to entrust them
to me on the understanding that they should be
returned some time during the next day. I did
not, however, go on to the cottage, for it occurred
to me that Thorndyke would probably wish to
visit the wood, and I could make my visit and
purloin the canvases then.
A telegram on the following morning informed
me that Thorndyke would be with me at twelve
o'clock, and punctually to the minute, he arrived.
"I hope you don't mind me swooping down on
you in this fashion,” he said, as the servant showed
him into the room.
I assured him, very truthfully, that I was delighted
to be honored by a visit from him, and he then pro
ceeded to explain.
(124)


THORNDYKE TAKES UP SCENT 125
“You may wonder, Jardine, why I am busying
myself about this case, which is really no business
of mine, or, at least, appears to be none; but the
fact is, that as a teacher and a practitioner of
Medical Jurisprudence, I find it advisable to look
into any unusual cases. Of course, there is always
a considerable probability that I may be consulted
concerning any out-of-the-way case; but apart
from that, I have the ordinary specialist's interest
in anything remarkable in my own specialty."
“I should think,” said I, “that it would be well
for me to give you all the facts before we start."
"Exactly, Jardine,” he replied, "that is what I
want. Tell me all you know about the affair and
then we shall be able to test our conclusions on the
spot.”
He produced a large scale ordnance map, and
folding it under my direction, so that it showed
only the region in which we were interested, he
stood it up on the table against the water bottle,
where we could both see it, and marked on it with
a pencil each spot as I described it.
It is not necessary for me to record our con-
versation.
I told him the whole story as I have already
told it to the reader, pointing out on the map the
exact locality where each event occurred.
“It's a most remarkable case, Jardine,” was his
thoughtful comment when I had finished, “most
remarkable; curiously puzzling and inconsistent too.
For you see that on the one hand, it looks like a
casual or accidental crime, and yet, on the other,
strongly suggests premeditation. No man, one
would think, could have planned to commit a mur-
der in what is, after all, a public thoroughfare;
and yet, the long distance which the body seems to


126
A SILENT WITNESS
have been carried, and the apparently selected
hiding-place, seem to suggest a previously con-
sidered plan.”
“You think that there is no doubt that the man
was really dead?” I asked.
“Had you any doubt at the time yourself?”
“None at all,” I replied, “it was only the dis-
appearance of the body, and perhaps the sergeant's
suggestion, that made me think it possible that
I might have been mistaken.”
Thorndyke shook his head. "No, Jardine,” said
he, “the man was dead. We are safe in assuming
that; and on that assumption our investigations
must be based. The next question is, how was
the body taken away? Did you measure the
fence?"
“No, but I should say it is about seven feet
high.'
"And what kind of fence is it?
Are there any
footholds?'
“I can show you exactly what the fence is like,”
I answered. “That sketch, which I have pinned
up on the wall, was apparently painted from the
exact spot on which the body lay. That fence on
the right-hand side is the one under which I shel-
tered and is exactly like the one over which the
body seems to have been lifted.”
Thorndyke rose and walked over to the sketch,
which I had fixed to the wall with drawing-pins.
“Not a bad sketch, this, Jardine,” he remarked;
"very smartly put in, apparently mostly with the
knife. Where did you get it?"
I had to confess that the canvas was unlawfully
come by, and told him how I had obtained it.
“You don't know the artist's name?" said Thorn-
dyke, looking closely at the sketch.
..


THORNDYKE TAKES UP SCENT
127
“No. In fact, I know nothing about him, except-
ing that he worked mostly with a small painting-
knife, and usually wore kid gloves.
“You don't mean that he worked in gloves?”
said Thorndyke.
“So I am told,” said I. "I never saw him.
“It's very odd," said Thorndyke. "I have
heard of men wearing a glove on the palette-hand
to keep off the midges and many men paint in
gloves in exceptionally cold weather. But this
sketch seems to have been painted in the summer.'
“I suppose,” said I, “the midges don't confine
their attentions to the palette-hand. And after
all, to a man who worked entirely with the knife,
a glove wouldn't be really in the way.
“No," Thorndyke agreed, "that is true." He
looked closely at the sketch, and even took out
his pocket lens to help his vision, which seemed
almost unnecessary. It appeared that he was as
much interested in the unknown artist's peculiar
technique as was my friend, Miss Sylvia Vyne.
“By the way,” said he, when he had resumed
his seat at the table, "you were telling me about
some kind of gold trinket that you had picked up
at the foot of the fence. Shall we have a look at it?"
I fetched the little gold object from the dispatch
box in which I had locked it up, and handed it to
him. He turned it over in his fingers, read the
letters that were engraved on it, and examined the
little piece of silk cord that was attached to one
ring.
“There is no doubt," said he, "as to the nature
of this object, nor of its connection with the dead
man. This is evidently a reliquary, and these initials
engraved upon it bear out exactly your description
of the body. S.V.D.P. evidently means St. Vincent



128
A SILENT WITNESS
de Paul, who, as you probably know, was a saint
who was distinguished for his works of charity.
You have mentioned that the dead man wore a
Roman collar, with a narrow, dark stripe up the
front. That means that he was the lay-brother
of some religious order, probably some philanthropic
order, to whom St. Vincent de Paul would be an
object of special devotion. The other letters,
A.M.D.G., are the initials of the words Ad Majorem
Dei Gloriam—the motto of the Society of Jesus.
But as St. Vincent de Paul was not a Jesuit saint,
the motto probably refers to the owner of the
reliquary, who may have been a Jesuit or a friend
of the Society. It was apparently attached-per-
haps to the neck-by this silk cord, which seems
to have been frayed nearly through, and probably
broke when the body was drawn over the top of
the fence."
“I suppose I ought to have shown it to the
police,” I said.
“I suppose you ought,” he replied, “but, as you
haven't, I think we had better say nothing about
it now.”
He handed it back to me, and I dropped it into
my pocket, intending to return it presently to the
dispatch box. A few minutes later we sallied forth
on our journey of exploration.
It is not necessary to describe this journey in
detail
, since I have already taken the reader over
the ground more than once. We went, of course,
to the place where I had found the body and
walked right through to Hampstead Lane. Then
we returned, and reconstituted the circumstances
of that eventful night, after which, I conducted
Thorndyke to the place where I assumed that the
body had been lifted over the fence.


THORNDYKE TAKES UP SCENT
129
“I suppose," I said, “we must go round and pick
up the track from the other side."
He looked up and down the lane and smiled.
“Would your quondam professor lose your respect
forever, Jardine, if you saw him climb over a fence
in a frock coat and a topper?''
"No," I answered, "but it might look a little
quaint if anyone else saw you."
“I think we will risk that,” he said. “There is
no one about, and I should rather like to try a
little experiment. Would you mind if I hoisted
you over the fence?
You are something of an
out-size, but then, so am I, too, which balances
the conditions."
Of course I had no objection; and, when we had
looked up and down the lane and listened to make
sure that we had no observers, Thorndyke picked
me up with an ease that rather surprised me, and
hoisted me above the level of the fence.
“Is it all clear on the other side?” he asked.
'Yes,” I answered, “there's no one in sight.”
“Then I want you to be quite passive,” he said,
and with this, he hoisted me up further until I
hung with my own weight across the top of the
fence. Leaving me hanging thus, he sprang up
lightly, and, having got astride at the top, dropped
down on the other side, when he once more took
hold of me and drew me over.
“It wasn't so very difficult," he said. "Of
course, it would have been more so to a shorter
man, but, on the other hand, it is extremely unlikely
that the body was anything like your size and
weight.
We now followed the track up to the wood, which
we entered by an opening in the fence, through
which I assumed that the murderer had probably


130
A SILENT WITNESS
passed. I conducted Thorndyke by the nearest
route to the boat-house, and when he had thor-
oughly examined the place and made notes of the
points that appeared to interest him, I showed him
the way out by the turnstile.
It was here when we came in sight of the cottage
that I bethought me of my promise to Miss Vyne,
and somewhat sheepishly explained the matter to
Thorndyke.
“It won't take me a minute to go in and sneak
the things,” I said apologetically, and was propos-
ing that he should walk on slowly, when he inter-
rupted me.
"I'll come in with you," said he. “There may
be something else to filch. Besides, I am rather
partial to empty houses. There is something quite
interesting, I think, in looking over the traces of
recent occupation and speculating on the personality
and habits of the late occupiers. Don't you find
it so?”
I said “Yes” truthfully enough, for it was a
feeling of this kind that had first led me to look
over the cottage. But my interest was nothing
to Thorndyke's; for no sooner had I let him in
at the front door than he began to browse about
through the empty rooms and passages, for all the
world like a cat that has just been taken to a new
house.
"This was evidently the studio," he remarked,
as we entered the room from which I had taken
the canvas. “He doesn't seem to have had much
of an outfit, as he appears to have worked on his
sketching-easel; you can see the indentations made
by the toe-points, and there are no marks of the
castors of a studio easel. You notice, too, that he
sat on a camp-stool to work."


THORNDYKE TAKES UP SCENT
131
It did not appear to me to matter very much
what he had sat on, but I kept this opinion to my-
self and watched Thorndyke curiously as he picked
up the empty paint tubes and scrutinized them one
after the other. His inquisitiveness filled me with
amused astonishment. He turned out the rubbish
box completely, and having looked over every inch
of the discarded canvases, he began systematically
to examine, one by one, the pieces of paper on
which the late resident had wiped his palette-knife.
Having rolled up and pocketed the waste can-
vases, I expressed myself as ready to depart.
“If you're not in a hurry," said Thorndyke, “I
should like to look over the rest of the premises.'
He spoke as though we were inspecting some
museum or exhibition, and, indeed, his interest and
attention, as he wandered from room to room,
were greater than that of the majority of visitors
to a public gallery. He even insisted on visiting
the little stable and coach-house, and when he had
explored them both, ascended the rickety steps to
the loft over the latter.
“I suppose," said I, “this was the lumber room
or store. Judging by the quantity of straw, it
would seem as if some cases had been unpacked
here."
“Probably," agreed Thorndyke. “In fact, you
can see where the cases have been dragged along,
and also, by that smooth indented line, where some
heavy metallic object has been slid along the floor.
Perhaps if we look over the straw, we may be able
to judge what those cases contained."
It didn't seem to me to matter a brass farthing
what they contained, but again I made no remark;
and together we moved the great mass of straw,
almost handful by handful, from one end of the


132
A SILENT WITNESS
loft to the other, while Thorndyke not only examined
the straw but even closely scrutinized the floor on
which it lay.
As far as I could see, all this minute and appar-
ently purposeless searching was entirely without
result, until we were in the act of removing the last
armful of straw from the corner; and even then the
object that came to light did not appear a very
remarkable one under the circumstances, though
Thorndyke seemed to find what appeared to me
a most unreasonable interest in it. The object
was a pair of canvas-pliers which Thorndyke picked
up almost eagerly and examined with profound
attention.
“What do you make of that, Jardine?” he asked,
at length, handing the implement to me.
“It's a pair of canvas-pliers,” I replied.
“Obviously,” he rejoined; "but what do you
suppose they have been used for?"
I opined that they had been used for straining
canvases, that being their manifest function.
“But,” objected Thorndyke, “he would hardly
have strained his canvases up here. Besides, you
will notice that they have, in fact, been used for
something else. You observe that the handles are
slightly bent, as if something had been held with
great force, and if you look at the jaws, you will
see that that something was a metallic object about
three-quarters of an inch wide with sharp corners.
Now, what do you make of that?"
I looked at the pliers, inwardly reflecting that
I didn't care twopence what the object was, and
finally said that I would give it up.
"The problem does not interest you keenly,"
Thorndyke remarked with a smile; "and yet it
ought to, you know. However, we may consider


THORNDYKE TAKES UP SCENT
133
the matter on some future occasion. Meanwhile,
I shall follow your pernicious example and purloin
the pliers."
His interest in this complete stranger appeared
to me very singular, and it seemed for the moment
to have displaced that in the mysterious case which
was the object of his visit to me.
“A strange, vagabond sort of man that artist
must have been," he remarked, as we walked home
across the Heath; “but I suppose one picks up
vagabond habits in traveling about the world.”
“Do you gather that he had traveled much,
then?" I asked.
“He appears to have visited New York, Brussels
and Florence, which is a selection suggesting other
travels."
I was wondering vaguely how Thorndyke had
arrived at these facts, and was indeed about to
ask him, when he suddenly changed the subject by
saying:
“I suppose, Jardine, you don't wander about this
place alone at night?”
“I do sometimes,” I replied.
“Then I shouldn't,” he said. "You must re-
member that a very determined attempt has been
made on your life, and it would be unreasonable to
suppose that it was made without some purpose.
But that purpose is still unaccomplished. You
don't know who your enemy is, and, consequently,
can take no precautions against him excepting by
keeping away from solitary places.
It is an un-
comfortable thought, but at present you have to
remember that any chance stranger may be an
intending murderer. So be on your guard."
I promised to bear his warning in mind, though
I must confess his language seemed to me rather


134
A SILENT WITNESS
exaggerated; and so we walked on, chatting about
various matters until we arrived at my lodgings.
Thorndyke was easily persuaded to come in and
have tea with me, and while we were waiting for
its arrival, he renewed his examination of the sketch
upon the wall.
“Aren't you going to have this strained on a
stretcher?” he asked.
I replied “yes,” and that I intended to take it
with me the next time I went into town.
“Let me take it for you," said Thorndyke. “I
should like to show it to Jervis to illustrate the
route that we have marked on the map. Then
I can have it left at any place that you like.'
I mentioned the name of an artist's color-man in
the Hampstead Road, and, unpinning the canvas.
rolled it up and handed it to him.
He took it from me and, rolling it up methodically
and carefully, bestowed it in his breast pocket.
Then he brought forth the map, and as we drank
our tea and talked over our investigations, he
checked our route on it and marked the position
of the cottage. Shortly after tea he took his leave,
and I then occupied an agreeable half hour in com-
posing a letter to Miss Vyne to accompany the loot
from the deserted house.


CHAPTER X
THE UNHEEDED WARNING
T
HORNDYKE'S warning, so emphatically
expressed, ought to have been alike un-
necessary and effective. As a matter of
fact, it was neither. I suppose that to a
young man not naturally timorous, the idea of
à constantly lurking danger amidst the prosaic
conditions of modern civilization is one that is not
readily accepted.At any rate, the fact is that
I continued to walk abroad by day and by night
with as much unconcern as if nothing unusual had
ever befallen me. It was not that the recollection
of those horrible hours in the poisoned cellar had
in any way faded.
That incident I could never
forget. But I think that in the back of my mind
there still lingered the idea of a homicidal lunatic,
though that idea had been so scornfully rejected
by Thorndyke.
But before I describe the amazing experience by
which I once more came within a hair's breadth of
sudden and violent death, I must refer to another
incident; not because it seemed to be connected
with that alarming occurrence, but because it came
first in the order of time, and had its own signifi-
cance later.
It was a couple of days after Thorndyke's visit
that I walked down the Hampstead Road with
the intention of fetching the sketch from the artist's
color-man's. The shop was within a few hundred
yards of Jacob Street, and as I crossed the end of
(135)


136
A SILENT WITNESS
that street, I was just considering whether I ought
to look in on Batson, when a lady bowed to me
and made as if she would stop. It was Mrs. Sam-
way. Of course, I stopped and shook hands, and
while I was making the usual polite inquiries, I
felt myself once more impressed with the unusual-
ness of the woman. Even in her dress she was unlike
other women, though not in the least eccentric or
bizarre. At present she was clothed from head to
foot in black; but a scarlet bird's wing in the
coquettish little velvet toque and a scarlet bow at
her throat gave an effect of color that, unusual as
it was, harmonized completely and naturally with
her jet-black hair and her strange, un-English
beauty.
“So you haven't started for Paris yet," I remarked.
'No," she replied; "my husband has gone and
may, perhaps, come back. : At any rate, I am staying
in England at present.
“Then I may possibly have the pleasure of seeing
you again," I said, and she graciously replied that
she hoped it might be so, as we shook hands and
parted.
A few minutes later, in the artist's color-man's
shop, I had another chance meeting and a more
agreeable one. The proprietor had just produced
the sketch, now greatly improved in appearance
by being strained on a stretcher, when the glass door
opened and a young lady entered the shop. Imagine
my surprise when that young lady turned out to be
none other than Miss Vyne.
“Well," I exclaimed, as we mutually recognized
each other, “what an extraordinary coincidence!”
“I don't see that it is very extraordinary,” she
replied. “Most of the Hampstead people come here
because it's the nearest place where you can get


THE UNHEEDED WARNING
137
to say
proper artist's materials. Is that the sketch you were
telling me about?”
“Yes,” I answered; “and it's the pick of the loot.
But it isn't too late to alter your mind. Say the
word and it's yours.
“Well,” she replied, with a smile, “I am not going
the word, but I want to thank you for rescuing
those other treasures for me."
She had, as a matter of fact, already thanked me in
a very pretty little note, but I was not averse to her
mentioning the subject again. We stepped back to
the door, and in the brighter light looked at the
sketch together.
“It's a pity," she remarked, “that he handled it
so carelessly before the paint was hard. Those
finger-marks wouldn't matter a bit on a brush-
painted surface; but on the smooth knife-surface,
they are rather a disfigurement."
She placed the sketch in my hand, and I backed
nearer to the glass door to get a better light. Hap-
pening to glance up, I noticed that a sudden and
very curious change had come over her; a look of
haughty displeasure and even anger, apparently
directed at somebody or something outside the shop.
For a few moments I took no notice; then, half-
unconsciously, I looked round just as some person
moved away from the door.
I looked once more
at Miss Vyne. She was quite unmistakably angry.
Her cheeks were flushed and there was a resentful
light in her eyes that gave her an expression quite
new to me.
I suppose she caught my inquiring glance, for she
exclaimed:
“Did you see that woman? I never heard of such
impertinence in my life.”
" What did she do?" I asked.


138
A SILENT WITNESS
“She came right up to the doorway and looked
over your shoulder; and then stared at me in the
most singular and insolent manner. I could have
slapped her face.”
“Not through the glass door," I suggested; on
which her anger subsided in a r pple of laughter as
quickly as it had arisen. “What was this objec-
tionable person like?” I asked. “Was she a char-
woman or a slavey?”
“Oh, not at all,” replied Miss Vyne. “Quite a
lady-like looking person, except for her manners.
Rather tastefully dressed, too; a black and vermilion
scheme of color."
The reply startled me a little. “Had she a scarlet
bird's wing in her hat?" I asked.
“Yes, and a scarlet bow at her throat. I hope you
are not going to say that you know her.”
It was a rather delicate situation. I could not
actually disavow the acquaintance, but I did not
feel inclined to have a black and scarlet fly intro-
duced into the sweet-smelling ointment of my inter-
course with the fair Sylvia; so I explained with
great care the exact scope of the acquaintance;
on which, Miss Vyne remarked that “she supposed
that doctors could not be held responsible for the
people they knew;" and proceeded to make her
purchases.
I did not take the sketch away with me after all,
for it occurred to me that I might as well leave it
to be framed; but instead, I carried forth with me
the parcel containing Miss Vyne's purchases. I
had not far to carry it, for she was returning at once
to Hampstead. I was tempted to return, too, for
the sake of enjoying a chat with her, but discreetly
withstood the temptation, and, having escorted her
to a tram, I turned my face south and walked away


THE UNHEEDED WARNING
139
at a leisurely pace into the jaws of an all-unsuspected
danger.
It was some hours, however, before anything
remarkable happened.
My immediate objective was Lincoln's Inn Fields,
where, at the College of Surgeons, a lecture on Epider-
mic Appendages was to be delivered by the Hun-
terian Professor; and there in the college theater
I spent a delightful hour while the genial professor
took his hearers with him on a personally conducted
tour among structures that ranged from the plumage
of the sun-bird to the dermal plates of the crocodile,
from the silken locks of beauty to the quills of the
porcupine or the mail of the armadillo.
When I came out the dusk was just closing in.
It was a slightly foggy evening. The last glow of the
sunset in the western sky lighted up the haze into
a rosy background, against which the shadowy
buildings were relieved in shapes of cloudy gray.
It was a lovely effect; an effect such as London alone
can show, and fugitive as a breath on a mirror.
As I sauntered westward up the Strand I presently
bethought me that, before the light should have
faded completely, I would see how the effect looked
by the riverside. Walking quickly down Bucking-
ham Street, I came out on to the Embankment and
looked into the west. But the light was nearly gone,
the shadows of evening were closing in fast, and the
fog, creeping up the river, ushered in the night.
I leaned on the parapet and watched the last
glimmer die away; watched the darkness deepen on
the river and the faint lights on the barges moored
on the southern shore at first twinkle pallidly and
then fade out as the fog thickened. I lit my pipe
and looked down at the dark water swirling past
and gradually fell into a train of half-dreamy
meditation.


140
A SILENT WITNESS
Now for the first time since the occurrence my
thoughts turned to Mrs. Samway. Why had she
stared at Miss Vyne in that singular manner-
if indeed it were really Mrs. Samway, and if she
really had stared in the manner alleged? It was an
odd affair; but, after all, it did not very much
matter. And with this, my thoughts rambled off
in a new direction.
It was to the cottage on the Heath that they
wandered this time, and the picture of Thorndyke's
cat-like prowlings and pryings arose before me.
That was very queer, too. Was it possible that this
learned and astute man habitually went about
eagerly probing into the personal habits and trivial
actions of chance strangers? The apparently puerile
inquisitiveness that he had displayed seemed totally
out of character with all that I knew about the man;
but then it often happens that the private life of
public men develops personal traits that are sur-
prising and disappointing to those who have known
them only in connection with their public activities.
I had become so completely immersed in my
thoughts as to be almost oblivious of what was bap-
pening around.
Indeed, there was mighty little
happening. The gathering darkness and the thin
fog limited my view to a few square yards. Now
and again a muffled hoot from the lower river spoke
of life and movement on the water, and at long
intervals an occasional wayfarer would pass along
the pavement behind me.
My reflections had reached the point recorded
above, when a person emerged from the obscurity
near to the parapet and approached as if to pass
close behind me. I only caught the dusky shape
indistinctly with the tail of my eye; so indistinctly
that I could not say certainly whether it was that of


THE UNHEEDED WARNING
141
a man or a woman, for I was still gazing down at the
dark water. He or she approached quietly, swerving
towards me across the wide pavement, and was in
the act of passing quite close to me when the thing
happened. Of a sudden, I felt my knees clasped in
a powerful grip, and at the same moment. I was
lifted off my feet and thrust forward over the parapet.
Instinctively, I clutched at the stonework, but its
flat surface offered nothing for my fingers to grasp.
Then my assailant let go, and the next instant I
plunged head-first into the icy water.
It was fortunate for me that the tide was nearly
full, else must I almost certainly have broken my
neck. As it was, my head struck on the firm mud
at the bottom with such force that for some moments
I was half stunned. Nevertheless, I must have
struck out automatically, for when I began to recover
my wits, my head was above water and I was swim-
ming as actively as my clinging garments would let
But, apparently, in those moments of dazed
semi-consciousness, I must have struck out towards
the middle of the river, for now I was encompassed
by a murky void in which nothing was visible save
one or two reddish, luminous patches—presumably
the lamps on the Embankment.
Towards one of these I turned and struck out
vigorously. The water was desperately cold, and
hampered as I was with my clothing, I felt that I
should not be able to keep myself afloat very long,
strong swimmer as I was. The dim red nebulæ of the
unseen lamps moved past slowly, showing me that I
was drifting down on the ebb tide.
Before me, I
knew, was the long, inhospitable wall of the Embank-
ment. True, there were some steps, if I was not
mistaken, by Cleopatra's Needle, but the question
was whether I had not drifted past them already. I
me.



142
A SILENT WITNESS
had given one or two lusty shouts as soon as I had
cleared my chest of the mouthful of water that I
got in my first plunge, and I was now letting off
another yell, when out of the darkness behind me
came a prolonged hoot.
I looked round quickly in the direction whence
the sound had come, and then became aware of the
churning of a propeller. Almost at the same moment
a dim, ruddy smudge of light broke through the
darkness over the river, and began rapidly to brighten
until it took the form of the twin mast-head lights
of a tug with a vessel in tow.
For a moment I hesitated. My first impulse was
to avoid the danger of being run down; but suddenly
I altered my mind. For as the tug bore down on
me, with a roaring of water and a loud clank of
machinery, I saw that she was not absolutely end-on,
for her green starboard light, which had been for a
moment visible, suddenly disappeared. Of what
happened during the next few moments I have but
a confused recollection. A splashing and churning,
with the loud wash of water, the throb of the engines
and a glare of light which blazed before my eyes for
a moment, to vanish in an instant into pitchy dark-
ness; a huge, black object, felt rather than seen to
sweep past before me; and then my hand clutched
a wooden projection, and I felt myself dragged
violently through the water. The projection that
I had laid hold of was the lee-board of a sailing barge,
as I discovered when the rush of the water banged
me against it; and much ado I had to hold on, with
the water dragging at me and spouting up over my
head. But with what strength was left to me I
reached out with the other hand and clawed hold of
the dwarf bulwark over which the water was lapping;
and so, with a last violent effort, contrived to drag
myself up on the deck.


THE UNHEEDED WARNING
143
I essayed to stand up, and did, in fact, succeed,
but as my sensations suggested those of a leaden
statue with india-rubber legs, I sat down hastily
on the hatch cover to avoid going overboard. And
there I sat for a minute or two leaning against the
lowered mast with my teeth chattering, and seem-
ing to grow more and more chilled and exhausted
every moment.
Numb as my mind was by this time, my medical
instincts told me that this would not do. Somehow
I must get warmth and shelter, for I might as well
have been drowned at once as die of exposure and
cold. I looked round lethargically. There was no
sign of anyone on board. Another barge was
towing alongside, and the bows of two others were
dimly visible astern. On these rear-most barges
there must certainly have been someone steering.
But they were inaccessible to me, and I had not the
energy to shout; nor could anyone have got across
to me if I had.
Suddenly my eye fell on the little chimney that
rose by the cabin scuttle. A thin stream of smoke
issued from it and blew away astern. Perhaps, then,
the crew were below, or, if not, at least there was a
fire. I crawled aft, holding on with my hands, and
pushing back the scuttle, backed cautiously down
the ladder, closing the scuttle after me.
There seemed to be nobody below, and the cabin
was in darkness save for the glow of the fire that
burned in the little grate. The air was probably
warm, though to me it felt icy; but, at least, there
was no wind to play on my wet clothes.
I sat down on the locker as near to the fire as I
could, and rested my elbows on the little triangular
table. Chilled to the marrow and utterly exhausted,
I was sensible of a growing desire to sleep; a desire


144
A SILENT WITNESS
which I repressed, as I believed, with noble resolu-
tion. But apparently my efforts in this respect
were not so successful as I had supposed, for the next
incident opened with suspicious suddenness.
A vigorous shake, which dislodged one of my
elbows, introduced the episode.
I looked up, blinking sulkily, at a bright and most
objectionably dazzling light, which further inspection
showed to proceed from a hurricane lamp held by
a rather dirty hand.
“Here, wake up, mister,” said a hoarse voice;
“this here ain't the Hotel Cecil, you know.”
I sat up and stared vaguely at the speaker, or at
least, the holder of the lamp, but could not think
of anything appropriate to say. Then another voice
emerged from nowhere in particular.
“È's been overboard, that's what e's been.”
“Any fool can see that,” said the first man; “but
the question is, who is he and what's he a-doin' in
my cabin? Who are yer, mister?”
Now that would seem to be a perfectly simple and
straightforward question. But it is not so simple
as it seems. To a complete stranger, the bare
mention of a name is unilluminating. Further
explanations are needed. And at that moment I
did not feel equal to explanations. Besides, I was
not so very clear on the subject myself. Conse-
quently, I preserved a silence which, perhaps, was
wooden rather than golden.
“D'ye 'ear?” persisted the first man. “I'm
a-arskin' you a question.”
“What's the good of arskin' questions of a man
what's been a-rammin' 'is crumpet aginst the bottom
of the river?” protested the other man.
“What d'ye mean?” demanded the first mari-
ner.


THE UNHEEDED WARNING
145
“Can't you see,” retorted the other, "as 'e's took
the ground ’ard? Look at 'is 'ed.”
Here the first mariner-Lucifer, or lamp-bearer-
wiped his hand over the top of my head and then
examined the tip of his forefinger critically as
though it were the arming of a deep-sea lead.
“You're right, Abel,” said he. That's mud off
the bottom, that is. He must have took a regular
header. Sooicide, perhaps, and altered his mind.
Found it a bit damper'n what he expected. Put the
kittle on, Abe.”
From this moment the two mariners treated me
as if I had been a lay-figure. Silently they peeled
off my wet clothes and dried my skin with vigorous
friction as if it had been a wet deck. They not only
asked no further questions, but when I would have
spoken they urged me to economize my wind. They
inducted me into stiff and hairy garments of uncouth
aspect, and finally Abe set before me on the table
a large earthenware mug, the contents of which
steamed and diffused through the cabin a strong
odor of Dutch gin.
“You git outside that, mister," said the luminif-
erous mariner (who turned out subsequently to be
the skipper), “and then you'd best turn in."
The treatment was not strictly orthodox, but I
obeyed without demur. Most people would have
done the same under the circumstances. But the
process of “getting outside" it took time, for the
grog was boiling hot and had been brewed with a
flexible wrist. By the time that I had emptied the
mug I was not only revived, but (so far as my memory
serves) rather disposed to be garrulously explana-
tory and facetious. I even felt a slight inclination
to sing. But my friends would stand no nonsense.
As soon as the mug was fairly empty, they bundled
10


146
A SILENT WITNESS
me, neck and crop, into a sort of elongated cup-
board and proceeded to pile on me untold quantities
of textile fabrics, including a complete suit of oil-
skins. Then they commanded me to go to sleep,
which I believe I must have done almost instantly.


A
young, in whom the capacity for novel
CHAPTER XI
A CHAPTER OF ACCIDENTS
WAKENING in a strange place is always a
memorable experience; especially to the
sensations has not yet been exhausted by
repetition. When I emerged, somewhat gradually,
from the unconsciousness of sleep, my first impres-
sions concerned themselves with the unusual appear-
ance of the bedroom wall and its remarkable proxim-
ity to my nose. I further noticed that the bedstead
had become inexplicably tilted and that the house
appeared to be swaying; and as I mused on these
phenomena with the vagueness of the half-awake,
à loud voice, proceeding apparently from the floor
above, roared out the mystic words, “Lee O!”
whereupon there ensued a sound like the shak ng
of colossal table-cloths and the loud clanking of
chains, and my bedstead took a sharp tilt to the
opposite side. This roused me pretty completely,
and turning over in the bunk, I looked out into the
barge's cabin.
It was broad daylight and evidently not early, for
a square patch of sunlight crept to and fro on the
little table, whence presently it slipped down to the
floor and slithered about unsteadily, as if Phoebus
had overdone his morning dram and could not drive
his chariot straight. I watched it lazily for some
time and then, becoming conscious of a vacancy
within, crept out from under the mountain of bed-
clothes and made my way to the ladder.
(147)


148
A SILENT WITNESS
As I put my heaa through the companion hatch,
a man who stood at the wheel regarded me stolidly.
“So you've woke up, have yer?” said he.
“Thought you was going right round the clock.
Abel! he's woke up. Tell young Ted to stand by
with them heggs and that there 'addick.”
Here Abel looked round from behind the luff of
the mainsail, and having verified the statement,
conveyed the order to some invisible person in the
fore-peak. Then he came aft with an obvious air
of business. The time for explanations had arrived.
Accordingly I proceeded to "pitch them my yarn,'
as they expressed it; to which they listened with
polite attention and manifest disappointment,
clearly regarding the story as a fabrication from
beginning to end. And no wonder. The whole
affair was utterly incredible even to me; to them it
must have seemed sheer nonsense. Their own
verdict of “sooicide" during very temporary insanity
with sudden mental recovery under the influence of
cold water, was so much more rational. Not that
they obtruded their views. They listened patiently
and said nothing; and nothing that they could have
said could have been more expressive.
Meanwhile I looked about me with no little
surprise. Some miles away to the south lay a
stretch of low land, faint and gray, with a single
salient object, apparently a church with two spires.
In every other direction was the unbroken sea
horizon.
“You seem to have made a pretty good passage,”
I remarked.
“We've had sixteen hours to do it in,” replied the
skipper, "and spring tides and a nice bit of breeze.
If it 'ud only hold—which I'm afraid it won't-
we'd be in Folkestone Harbor this time tomorrow,


A CHAPTER OF ACCIDENTS
149
or even sooner.
Folkestone be much out of your
way?"
I smiled at the artlessness of the question. It
was undeniable that the route from Charing Cross
to Hampstead by way of Folkestone was slightly
indirect. But there was no need to insist on the
fact. My hospitable friends had acted for the
best and their prudence was justified by the result;
for here I was, not a whit the worse for my ducking
save that I badly wanted a bath.
“Folkestone will suit me quite well,” I replied,
“if there is enough money left in my pockets to
pay my fare home.”
“That's all right,” said the skipper. "I cleared
out your pockets myself. You'll find the things in
a mug in the starboard locker. Better overhaul 'em
when you go below and see if you've dropped any-
thing. Here comes young Ted with your grub.'
As he spoke the apprentice rose through the
forehatch like a stage apparition-if one can imagine
an apparition. burdened with a tin tea-pot, two
"heggs” and an “addick”—and came grinning
along the weather side-deck, to vanish through the
cabin hatchway. I followed gleefully, and almost
before young Ted had finished the somewhat informal
table arrangements, fell to on the food with voracious
joy.
"If you want any more eggs or anything," said
the apprentice, "all you've got to do is just to touch
the electric bell and the waiter 'll come and take
your orders;” and having delivered this delicate
shaft of irony he presented me with an excellent back
view of a pair of brown dreadnoughts as he retired
up the ladder.
As I consumed the rough but excellent breakfast
I reflected on the strange events that had placed me


150
A SILENT WITNESS
in my present odd situation. For the first time, I
began fairly to realize that I was in some way
involved in a nexus of circumstances that I did not
in the least understand. I had an enemy; a vin-
dictive enemy, too, in whose eyes mere human life
was a thing of no account. But who could he be?
I knew of no one on whom I had ever inflicted the
smallest injury. I bore no man any grudge and had
never to my knowledge had unfriendly dealings with
any human creature. Was this inveterate enemy
of mine anyone whom I knew? Or was he some
stranger whose path I had crossed without knowing
it, and whom I should not recognize even if I saw
him?
This last supposition was highly disquieting,
especially as it seemed rather probable; for if my
enemy was unknown to me, what precautions
could I take?
Then, again, there was the question! What was
the occasion of this extraordinary vendetta? What
had I done to this man that he should pursue me
with such deadly purpose? As to Jervis' suggestion
that I had seen something at the Samway's house
that I was not wanted to see, there was nothing in
it; for, as a matter of fact, I had seen nothing. There
was nothing to see. The man Maddock was certainly
dead. As to what he died of, that was Batson's
affair; but even in that there was no sign of anything
suspicious. The man himself had consulted Batson,
and had thought so badly of himself that he had made
his will in Batson's presence. The patient himself
was fully aware of his serious condition; it was only
Batson, with his eternal hurry and bustle and his
defective eyesight, who had missed observing it.
The only circumstance that supported Jervis' view
was that the acts of violence seemed to be connected
with the locality of Batson's house.


A CHAPTER OF ACCIDENTS
151
Of course there remained the mystery of the dead
priest or lay-brother. But with that these attempts
seemed to have no connection. Nor was there any
reason why the murderer should pursue me. I had
seen the body, it is true; but nobody believed me
and no proceedings were being taken. Nor could I
have identified the murderer if I had been confronted
with him. Clearly, he had nothing to fear from me.
From the causes of my present predicament I
passed to the immediate future. I should have to get
back from Folkestone, and I ought to send a telegram
to my landlady, Mrs. Blunt, who would probably
be in a deuce of a twitter about me. I raised the
lid of the locker, and reaching out the big earthen-
ware mug, emptied its contents on the table. All
my portable property seemed to be there, including
the little gold reliquary, which I had carelessly
carried in my pocket ever since I had shown it to
Thorndyke. My available funds were some four
or five pounds; amply sufficient to get me home and
to discharge my liability to the skipper as well.
I swept the things back into the mug, which I
returned to the locker, and having cut myself another
thick slice of bread, proceeded with the largest
breakfast I have ever eaten.
The skipper's forebodings were justified by the
course of events. When I came on deck the breeze
had died down to a mere faint breath, hardly
sufficient to keep the big red mainsail asleep-as the
pretty old nautical phrase has it. The skipper was
still at the wheel and Abel was anxiously taking
soundings with a hand-lead.
“You won't do it, Bill,” said the latter, coiling
up the lead-line with an air of finality, “this 'ere
breeze is a-petering right out."
The skipper said nothing, but stared gloomily at


152
A SILENT WITNESS
the land which was now right ahead and much nearer
than when I had last looked; and from the land his
eye traveled to a sand-bank from which rose a tall
post at the top of which was an inverted cone.
“Ought to a-gone about a bit sooner, Bill,” pur-
sued Abel; whereupon the skipper turned on him
fiercely.
“What's the good o'saying that now?” he de-
manded. “If you'd a-told me the wind was going
to drop, I'd a-gone about sooner. What water is
there?”
“Five fathom here,” replied Abel; “that means
one and a quarter on the Woolpack. You'd best
shove her nose round now, Bill.”
“Oh, all right!" retorted the skipper. "Lee O!
This is going to be an all-night job, this is," and with
this gloomy prediction, he spun the wheel round
viciously, and once more headed away from the
land.
Prophecy appeared to be the skipper's specialty
and, like most prophets, he tended to view the future
with an unfavorable eye. Gradually the breeze
died away into a dead calm, so that we had presently
to let go the anchor to avoid drifting on to a great
sand-bank which now lay between us and the land.
And here we remained not only for the rest of the
day and the succeeding night, as the skipper had
promised, but throughout the whole of the next
day and following night.
I have already remarked on the incalculable
chances by which the course of a man's life is deter-
mined. Looking back now, I see that the skipper's
little miscalculation and his failure to cross the
Woolpack Shoal into the inshore channel was an
antecedent determining the most momentous conse-
quences for me For had the barge been becalmed


A CHAPTER OF ACCIDENTS
153
in the inshore channel, I could, and should, have
landed in the boat and returned home forthwith;
and if I had, certain events would not have happened
and my life might have run a very different course.
As it was, miles of sea and the great bank known
as the Margate Sand lay between me and the shore;
whence I was committed to the wanderings and
dallyings of the barge as irrevocably as if we were
crossing the Pacific.
We lay, then, in the Queen's Channel, outside
Margate Sand, for two whole days and nights;
during which time the skipper and Abel slept much
and smoked more, and young Ted, having cleaned
and dried my clothes, inducted me into the art of
bottom-fishing. On the third day, a faint breath
of breeze enabled us to crawl round the North Fore-
land, and the skipper having elected to pass outside
the Goodwin, managed to get becalmed again
in the neighborhood of the East Goodwin Lightship.
A little breeze at night enabled us to move on a few
miles farther; and so we continued to crawl along at
intervals, mainly on the tide, until nine o'clock in
the morning of the fifth day, when we finally crawled
into Folkestone Harbor.
As soon as the barge was brought up to a buoy,
young Ted was detailed to put me ashore in the boat.
The skipper and Abel had insisted on treating me as
a guest, and I had perforce to accept the position.
But young Ted had no such pride; and when I ran
up the wooden steps by the old fish market I left
him on the stage below, staring with an incredulous
grin at a gold coin in his none-too-delicate palm.
I was not sorry to be landed in this unfashionable
quarter of the town, for in spite of young Ted's
efforts, my turn-out left much to be desired, especially
in the matter of shirt-cuffs and collar, and I was,


154
A SILENT WITNESS
moreover, hatless and somewhat imperfectly shaved.
Accordingly, I slunk inconspicuously past the market
and the groups of lounging fishermen, and when I saw
a well-dressed, lady-like woman preceding me into
the little narrow street known as the Stade, I slack-
ened my pace so as not to overtake her. She saun-
tered along with a leisurely air as if she were waiting
for something or somebody, and this and the fact
that she carried a light canvas portmanteau and a
rug, suggested to me that she was probably traveling
by the cross-channel boat which was due to start
presently.
Suddenly my attention was diverted from her by a
loud clattering and a series of shouts. A small crowd
of men and women ran excitedly past the end of the
little street. The clattering rapidly drew nearer;
and then a horse, with a light van, swept round the
corner, and passing under an archway, advanced
at a furious gallop. Evidently the horse had bolted,
and now, mad with terror, dashed forward with
trailing reins, zigzagging erratically and making
the van sway to and fro, so that it took up the whole
of the narrow street. The few wayfarers darted
into doorways and sheltered corners, and I was
about to secure my own safety in a similar manner,
when I noticed that the woman in front of me had
apparently become petrified with terror, for she
stood stock still, gazing helplessly at the approaching
horse. It was no time for ceremony. The infuriated
animal and the swaying van were thundering up the
street like an insane Juggernaut. With a hasty
apology, I seized the woman from behind, and half-
dragged, half-carried her to the opening of a little
yard beside a sail-loft. And even then I was hardly
quick enough, for as the van roared past, some
projecting object struck me between the shoulders


A CHAPTER OF ACCIDENTS
155
and sent me flying, face downwards, on to a pile of
tarred drift-net.
I had had the presence of mind to let go, as I was
struck, so that my fair protegée was not involved in
my downfall; but in a moment she was stooping
over me, and with many expressions of concern,
endeavoring to help me to rise. Beyond a thump in
the back, however, I was not hurt in the least, but
picked myself up, grinning, and turned to reassure
her. And then I really did get a shock; for as I
turned, the woman gave a shriek and fell back on the
steps of the sail-loft, gasping and staring at me with
an expression of the utmost astonishment and terror.
I supposed the accident had upset her nerves;
but to be sure, my own received, as I have said, a
pretty severe shock. For the woman was Mrs.
Samway.
We remained for a moment or two gazing at one
another in mute astonishment. Then I recollected
myself and advanced to shake hands; but to my
discomfiture, she shrank away from me and began
to sob and laugh in an unmistakably hysterical
fashion. I must confess that I was somewhat
surprised at these manifestations in so robust a
woman as Mrs. Samway. Unreasonably so, indeed,
for all womenkind are more or less prone to hysteria;
but whereas the normal woman tends to laugh and
cry, the weaker vessels develop inexplicable diseases,
with a tendency to social reform and emancipation.
I put on my best bedside manner, at once matter-
of-fact and persuasive. “You seem quite upset," I
said, “and all about nothing, for the poor beggar of a
horse must be half a mile away by now.'
“Yes,” she answered shakily, "it's ridiculous of
me, but it was so sudden and so—" here she laughed
noisily, and as the laugh ended in a portentous sniff
I hastened to continue the conversation.


156
A SILENT WITNESS
“Yes, it was a bit of a facer to see that beast com-
ing up the street as if it was Tattenham Corner.
Why on earth didn't you get out of the way?”
“I am sure I don't know," she answered. “I
seemed to be paralyzed and idiotic and—” here the
laughter began again.
"Well,” į interrupted cheerfully, "you didn't get
rolled on those tarred nets, so that's something to be
thankful for.”
This was a rather unlucky shot, for the semblance
of facetiousness started a most alarming train of
giggles, interrupted by rather loud sobs; but at
this point a new curative influence made itself
manifest. Two smack boys halted outside the
opening and surveyed her with frank interest and
pleased surprise. Simultaneously, an elderly mariner
appeared at the door of the sail-loft, grasping a black
bottle and a tea-cup, and rather shyly, descending
the steps, suggested that “perhaps a drop o' sperits
might do the lady good.”
Mrs. Samway bounced off the steps, her hitherto
pale cheeks aflame with anger. “I am making a
fool of myself,” she exclaimed. “Let us go away
from here."
She walked out into the street, and I, having
thanked the old gentleman for his most efficacious
remedy, followed. As soon as I caught her up, she
turned on me quickly and held out her hand.
“Good-bye, Dr. Jardine,” she said, "and thank
you so very much for risking your life for a—for a
wretched giggling woman."
“Oh, you're not going to send me packing like
this,” I protested, "when we've hardly said good
morning. Besides, you're not fit to be left. But you're
not to begin laughing again," I added, threateningly,
for an ominous twitching of her mouth seemed to


158
A SILENT WITNESS
I was
apology and hurried past. The incident emphasized
the necessity for some reform, and I mended my
pace towards the region of shops in a very ferment
of uncomfortable self-consciousness.
With the purchase of a new hat, a collar, a pair of
cuffs, a necktie, a pair of gloves and a stick, some
faint glimmer of self-respect revived in me.
even conscious of a temptation to linger in Folkstone
and spend a few hours by the sea; but a sense of duty,
aided by a large, muddy stain on my coat, finally
decided me to return to town at once. Accordingly,
having sent off a telegram to my landlady, and
ascertained that a train left for London in about
twenty minutes, I betook myself to the station.
There were comparatively few people traveling
by this particular train; in fact, when I had estab-
lished myself with the morning paper in the off-side
corner seat of a smoking compartment, I began, with
an Englishman's proverbial unsociability, to con-
gratulate myself on the prospect of having the
compartment to myself, when my hopes were dashed
by the entrance of an elderly clergyman; who not
only broke up my solitude, but aggravated the
offence by quite unnecessarily seating himself
opposite to me. I was almost tempted to move
to another corner, for my length of leg gives an added
value to space; but it seemed a rude thing to do;
and as the train moved off at this moment, I resigned
myself to the trifling discomfort.
My clerical friend was a somewhat uncommon-
looking man, with a countenance at once strong and
secretive; a rectangular, masterful face, with a bull-
like dew-lap and a small and very sharp Roman nose.
On further inspection, I decided that he was either
a High-Church parson or a Roman Catholic priest.
His proceedings seemed to favor the latter hypothesis,


A CHAPTER OF ACCIDENTS
159
for the train was barely out of the station before he
had whisked out of his pocket an ecclesiastical-
looking volume, which he opened at a marked place
and instantly began to read. I watched him with
inquisitive interest, for his manner of reading was
very singular.
There was something habitual,
almost mechanical, about it, suggesting an allotted
and familiar task and a lack of concentration that
suggested a corresponding lack of novelty in the
matter. As he read, his lips moved, and now and
again I caught a faint whisper, by which I gathered
that he was reading rapidly; but the most singular
phenomenon was that when his eyes strayed out of
the carriage window, as they did at frequent intervals,
his lips went on sputtering with unabated rapidity.
Quite suddenly he appeared to come to the end of a
sort of literary measured mile, for even as his lips
were still moving, he clapped in the book-mark, shut
the volume, and returned it to his pocket with a
curious air of business-like finality.
As his eyes were no longer occupied with the book,
my observations had to be suspended, and my
attention was now turned to my own affairs. Putting
my hand in my coat pocket for my pipe and pouch,
I became aware of a state of confusion in the said
pocket which I had already noticed when making
my purchases. The fact is that I had nearly come
away from the barge without my portable property.
It was only at the last moment that the skipper,
remembering the mug, had fetched it hurriedly
from the locker and shot its contents bodily into my
coat pocket. The present seemed a good oppor-
tunity for distributing the various articles among
their proper receptacles. Accordingly I turned out
the whole pocketful on the seat by my side, and a
remarkably miscellaneous collection they formed;


160
A SILENT WITNESS
comprising knives, pencils, match-box, keys, the
minor implements of my craft, and various other
objects, useful and useless, including the little gold
reliquary.
My neighbor opposite was, I think, quite interested
in my proceedings, though he kept up a dignified
pretence of being entirely unaware of my existence.
Only for a while, however. Suddenly he sat up,
very wide awake, and slewing his head round, stared
with undisguised intentness at my little collection.
I guessed at once what it was that had attracted
his attention. A cleric would not be thrilled by the
sight of a clinical thermometer or an ophthalmoscope.
It was the reliquary that had caught his eye. That
was an article in his own line of business.
With deliberate mischief, I left the little bauble
exposed to view as I very slowly and methodically
conveyed the other things one by one, each to its
established pocket. Last of all, I picked up the
reliquary and held it irresolutely as if debating
where I should stow it. And at this point His
Reverence intervened, unable any longer to contain
his curiosity.
“Zat is a very remargable liddle opchect, sir,"
he said in excellent Anglo-German. "Might one
bresume to ask vat it's use is?”
I handed the reliquary to him and he took it from
me with ill-disguised eagerness.
“I understand,” said I, “that it is a reliquary.
But you probably know more about such things than
I do. I haven't opened it, so I can't say what is
inside."
He nodded gravely. “Zo! I am glad to hear you
zay zat. Brobably zere is inside some holy relic vich
ought not to be touched egzepting by bious handts."
He turned the case over, and, putting on a pair of


162
A SILENT WITNESS
that it set me speculating on what he had intended to
say, for it was obvious that he had altered his mind
in the middle of the sentence and completed it with
the first words that came to hand. However, as I
could read no sense into it at all, I said that “perhaps
he was right,” which seemed an eminently safe
rejoinder to an unintelligible statement.
When he had finished his minute examination of
the reliquary, he handed it back to me with such
evident reluctance that, if it had been mine, I should
have been tempted to ask him to accept it. But it
was not mine. I was only a trustee. So I made no
remark, but watched him as he very deliberately
took off his spectacles and returned them to their
case, looking, meanwhile, at the floor with an air
of deep abstraction. He appeared to be thinking
hard, and I was quite curious as to what his next
remark would be. A considerable interval el psed
before he spoke again; but at last the remark came,
in the form of a question, and very disappointing it
was.
"You are not berhaps very much interested in
relics and reliquaries?”
As a matter of fact, I didn't care two straws for
either the one or the other; but there was no need
to put it as strongly as that.
“We are apt,” I replied, "to find a lack of interest
in subjects of which we are ignorant. (That was a
fine sentence. It might have come straight out of
Sandford and Merton.)
“Zat is vat I sink, too,” he rejoined. “Ve do not
know; ve do not care. But zere is a very egzellent
little book vich egsplains all ze gustoms and zere-
monies gonnected vid relics of ze saints. I should like
you to read zat book. Vill you bermit me to send you
a gobby vich I haf?"


A CHAPTER OF ACCIDENTS
163
Of course I said I should be delighted. It was an
outrageous falsehood, but what else could I say?
“Zen," said he, “I shall haf great pleasure in
zending it to you if you vill kindly tell me how I shall
address it.'
I presented him with my card, which he read very
attentively before bestowing it in his pocketbook.
“I see," he remarked, “zat you are a doctor of
medicine. It is a fine brofession, if one does not
too much vorget ze spiritual life in garing for zat of
ze body."
In this I acquiesced vaguely, and the conversation
drifted into detached commonplaces, finally petering
out as we approached Paddock Wood, where my rev-
erend acquaintance bought a newspaper and under-
went a total eclipse behind it.
As soon as the train started again I took up my own
paper, and the very first glance at it gave me a
shock of surprise that sent all other matters clean
out of my mind. It was an advertisement in the
column headed “Personal" that attracted my
attention, an advertisement that commenced with
the word "Missing," in large type, and went on to
offer Two Hundred Pounds Reward: thus:
MISSING. TWO HUNDRED POUNDS REWARD.
Whereas, on the 14th inst., Dr. Humphrey Jardine disappeared from
his home and his usual places of resort; the above reward will be
paid to any person who shall give information as to his whereabouts,
if alive, or the whereabouts of his body if he is dead. He was last
seen at 12.20 P. M. on the above date in the Hampstead Road, and
was then walking towards Euston Road. The missing man is about
twenty-six years of age; is somewhat over six feet in height; of
medium complexion; has brown hair, gray eyes, straight nose and a
rather thin face, which is clean-shaved. He was wearing a dark
tweed suit and soft felt hat.
Information should be given to Hector Brodribb, Esquire, 65,
New Square, Lincoln's Inn, by whom the above reward will be
paid.


164
A SILENT WITNESS
Here was a pretty state of affairs! It seemed that
while I was placidly taking events as they came,
smoking the skipper's tobacco and bottom-fishing
with young Ted, my escapade had been producing
somewhere a most almighty splash. I read the
advertisement again with a self-conscious grin, and
out of it there arose one or two rather curious
questions. In the first place, who the deuce was
Hector Brodribb? And what concern was I of his?
And how came he to know that I was walking down
Hampstead Road at 12.20 on the 14th inst.?
I felt very little doubt that it was actually Thorn-
dyke who was tweaking the strings of the Brod-
ribbian puppet. But even this left the mystery
unsolved. For how did Thorndyke know? This
was only the fifth day after my disappearance, and
it would seem that there had hardly been time for
exhaustive inquiries.
Then another highly interesting fact emerged.
The only person who had seen me walk away down
Hampstead Road was Sylvia Vyne; whence it fol-
lowed that Thorndyke, or the mysterious Brod-
ribb, had in some way got into touch with her.
And reflecting on this, the mechanism of the inquiry
came into view. The connecting link was, of
course, the sketch.
Thorndyke had, himself, left
the canvas with Mr. Robinson, the artist's color-
man, and he must have called to inquire if I had
collected it. Then he would have been told of my
meeting with Miss Vyne, and as she was a regular
customer, Mr. Robinson would have been able to
give him her address. It was all perfectly simple,
the only remarkable feature being the extraordinary
promptitude with which the inquiry had been car-
ried out. Which went to show how much more
clearly Thorndyke had realized the danger that
surrounded me than I had myself.


A CHAPTER OF ACCIDENTS
165
These various reflections gave me full occupation
during the remainder of the journey, extending
themselves into consideration of how I should act
in the immediate future. My first duty was
obviously to report myself to Thorndyke without
delay; after which, I persuaded myself, it would
be highly necessary for me personally to reassure
the fair and perhaps anxious Sylvia. As to how
this was to be managed I was not quite clear, and
in spite of the most profound cogitation, I had
reached no conclusion when the train rumbled into
Charing Cross Station.


CHAPTER XII
MISS VYNE
A
SI stepped out on to the platform with a
valedictory bow to my reverend fellow-
passenger, my irresolution came to an end
and my duty became clear. I must, in
common decency, report myself at once to Thorn-
dyke, seeing that he had been at so much trouble
on my account. His card, which he had given
me, I had unfortunately-or perhaps fortunately,
as it turned out—left on the mantelpiece at my
lodgings; but I remembered that the address was
King's Bench Walk and assumed that I should
have no difficulty in finding the house. Nor had
I, for, as I entered the Temple by the Tudor Street
gate-having overshot my mark on the Embank-
ment~I was almost immediately confronted by a
fine brick doorway surmounted by a handsome
pediment and bearing legibly painted on its jamb,
*First pair, Dr. Thorndyke.
I ascended the “first pair” of stairs, which brought
me to an open oak door, massive and iron-bound,
and a closed inner door, on the brass knocker of
which I executed a flourish that would have done
credit to a Belgravian footman; whereupon the
door opened and a small man of sedate and clerical
aspect regarded me with an air of mild inquiry.
“Is Dr. Thorndyke at home?" I asked.
"No, sir. He is at the hospital.”
“Dr. Jervis?”
“Is watching a case in the Probate Court. Per-
(166)


MISS VYNE
167
haps you would like to leave a message or write
a note. A message in writing would be preferable.
“I don't know that it's necessary," said I. “My
name is Jardine, and if you tell him that I called,
that will probably be enough.'
The little man gave me a quick, bird-like glance
of obviously heightened interest.
“If you are Dr. Humphrey Jardine," said he, “I
think a few explanatory words would be acceptable.
The Doctor has been extremely uneasy about you.
A short note and an appointment, either here or
at the hospital, would be desirable.”
With this he stepped back, holding the door
invitingly open, and I entered, wondering who the
deuce this prim little cathedral dean might be,
with his persuasive manners and his quaintly pre-
cise forms of speech. He placed a chair for me at
the table, and, having furnished me with writing
materials, stood a little way off, unobtrusively
examining me as I wrote. I had finished the short
letter, closed it up and addressed it, and was rising
to go, when, almost automatically, I took out my
watch and glanced at it. Of course it had stopped.
“Can you tell me the time?" I asked.
My acquaintance drew out his own watch and
replied deliberately, “Seventeen minutes and forty
seconds past one. He paused for a moment and
then added, “I hope, sir, you have not got any
water into your watch.'
"I'm afraid I have," I replied, rather taken aback
by the rapidity of his diagnosis. “But I'll just
wind it up to make sure.
“Oh, don't do that, sir!" he exclaimed. Allow
me to examine it before you disturb the movement."
He whipped out of his pocket a watchmaker's eye-
glass, which miraculously glued itself to his eye,


168
A SILENT WITNESS
and, having taken a brief glance at the opened
watch, produced a minute pocket screw-driver and
a sheet of paper; and, in the twinkling of an eye,
as it seemed to me, the paper was covered with the
dismembered structures which had in their totality
formed my timepiece.
"It's quite a small matter, sir," was his report,
as he rose from his inspection and pocketed his
eyeglass. "Just a speck or two of rust. If you
will take my watch for the present, I will have
your own in going order by the next time you call.”
It seemed an odd transaction; but the little
man's manner, though quiet, was so decisive that
I took his proffered watch, and, affixing it to my
chain, thanked him for his kindness and departed,
wondering if it was possible that this prim, clerical
little person could possibly be the "tame mechanic"
of whom Thorndyke had spoken.
Traveling in London was comparatively slow in
those days—which, perhaps, was none the worse
for a near and pleasant suburb like Hampstead;
it had turned half-past two when I let myself into
my lodgings with a rather rusty key and almost
literally fell into the arms of Mrs. Blunt. I feared
for a moment that she was going to kiss me. But
that was a false alarm. What she actually did was
to seize both my hands and burst into tears with
such violence as to cover me with confusion and
cause the servant maid to rise like a domestic and
highly inquisitive apparition from the kitchen stairs.
I pacified Mrs. Blunt as well as I could and shook
hands heartily with the maid, who thereupon retired,
much gratified, to the underworld, whence pres-
ently issued an odor suggestive of sacrificial rites,
not entirely unconnected with fried onions, and
accompanied by an agreeable bissing sound.


MISS VYNE
169
“But wherever have you been all this time?”
Mrs. Blunt asked, as she preceded me up the stairs,
wiping her eyes, “and why didn't you send us a
line just to say that you were all right?''
To this question I made a somewhat guarded
answer in so far as the cause of my immersion in
the river was concerned; otherwise I gave her a
fairly correct account of my adventures.
“Well, well," was her comment, “I suppose it
was all for the best, but I do think those sailors
might have put you on shore somewhere. Dear
me, what a time it has been. I couldn't sleep at
night for thinking of you, and what Susan and I
have eaten between us wouldn't have kept a sparrow
alive. And Dr. Thorndyke, too, I'm sure he was
very anxious and worried about you, though he is
such a quiet, self-contained man that you can't
tell what he is thinking of. And Lord! what a lot
of questions he do ask, to be sure!”
"By the way, how did he come to know that I
was missing?"
“Why I told him, of course. When you didn't
come home that night—which Susan and me sat
up for you until three in the morning-I thought
there must be something wrong, you being so
regular in your habits; so next day, the very first
thing, I took his card from your mantelpiece and
down I went to his office and told him what had
happened. He came up here that evening to see
if you had come home, and he's been here every
day since to inquire.'
'Has he, really?”
"Yes.
In a hansom cab. Every single day.
And so has the young lady.”
“The young lady!" I exclaimed. “What young
lady?”


170
A SILENT WITNESS
Mrs. Blunt regarded me with something as nearly
approaching a wink as can be imagined in associa-
tion with an elderly female of sedate aspect.
“Now,” she protested slyly, “as if you didn't
know! What young lady indeed! Why, Miss
Vyne, to be sure; and a very sweet young lady
she is, and talked to me just as simple and friendly
as if she'd been an ordinary young woman.”
“How do you know that she isn't an ordinary
young woman?” I asked.
Mrs. Blunt was shocked. “Do you suppose, Mr.
Jardine, sir,” she demanded severely, “that I who
have been a head parlor-maid in a county family
where my poor husband was coachman, don't know
a real gentlewoman when I meet one? You sur-
prise me, sir.”
I apologized hastily and suggested that, as so
many kind inquiries had been made, the least I
could do was to call and return thanks without
delay.
"Certainly, sir,” Mrs. Blunt agreed; "but not
until you have had your lunch. It's a small porter-
house steak,” she added alluringly, being evidently
suspicious of my intentions. The announcement,
seconded by an appetizing whiff from below, re-
minded me that I was prodigiously sharp set, hav-
ing tasted no food since I had come ashore at Folke-
stone, and put the grosser physiological needs of
the body, for the moment, in the ascendant. But
even as I was devouring the steak with voracious
gusto, my mind occupied itself with plans for a
strategic descent on the abode of the fair Sylvia
and with speculations on the reception I should
get; and the noise of water running into the bath
formed a pleasing accompaniment to the final
mouthfuls.


MISS VYNE
173
“Yes. And you have accordingly called.”
"Exactly," I agreed, grasping eagerly at the
slenderest straw of suggestion. “I have called to-
er-well, the fact is that my-er-very remarkable
absence seemed to call for some explanation, espe-
cially as certain inquiries-er—"
At this point I stopped suddenly with a horrible
doubt as to whether I was not saying more than was
discreet; and the misgiving was intensified by that
chilly, calm voice framing the question:
“Inquiries made personally?”
Now this was a facer. I seemed to have put my
foot in it at the first lead off. Supposing Sylvia had
said nothing about her little visits to Mrs. Blunt?
It would never do to give her away to this inquisi-
torial old waxwork. I endeavored to temporize.
“Well," I stammered, “not exactly made per-
sonally to me.
“By letter, perhaps?” the voice suggested in the
same even, impassive tone.
“Er-no. Not by letter.”
There was a short embarrassing pause, and then
the old lady, as if summing up the case, said frigidly:
"Not exactly personally and not by letter."
I was so utterly confounded by her judicial man-
ner, her immovable, expressionless face and the
hypnotic quality of those glittering eyes, that for
the moment I could think of nothing to say.
“Don't let me interrupt you,” said she after some
seconds of agonized silence on my part; whereupon
I pulled myself together and made a fresh start.
“I should, perhaps, have explained that I have
been unavoidably absent from home for some time,
and, as I was unable to communicate with my
friends, I have, I am afraid, caused them some
anxiety. It was this that seemed to make it neces-
sary for me to call and give an account of myself.”


174
A SILENT WITNESS
She pondered a while on this statement—if a
graven image can be said to ponder-and at length
inquired:
“You spoke of your friends. Are any of them
known to me?"
"Well," I replied, “I was referring more par-
ticularly to your daughter.”
She continued to regard me fixedly, and after a
brief interval, rejoined:
“You are referring to my daughter. But I do
not recall the existence of any such person. I think
you must be mistaken."
It seemed extremely probable, and I hastened to
amend the description.
“I beg your pardon. I should have said Miss
Vyne. But perhaps she is not a home.'
"You are evidently mistaken," was the paralyz-
ing reply. “I am Miss Vyne; and I need not
add that I am at home.'
“But," I demanded despairingly, “is there not
another Miss Vyne?”
“There is not,” she answered.
“But it is pos-
sible that you are referring to Miss Sylvia Vyne.
Is that so?”
I replied sulkily that it was; and being somewhat
nettled by this unnecessary and rather offensive
hair-splitting, offered no further remark. How the
conversation would have proceeded after this, I
cannot even surmise. But it did not proceed at
all, for the embarrassing silence was brought to an
end by a very agreeable interruption. The door
opened softly and for one moment Sylvia herself
stood framed in the portal; then, with a little cry,
she ran towards me with her hands held out impul-
sively and the prettiest smile of welcome.
"So it is really you!" she exclaimed. “That silly


MISS VYNE
175
little goose of a maid has only just told me you
were here. I am glad to see you.
When did you
graciously please to descend from the clouds?”'
“I arrived home this afternoon, and as soon as
I had changed and had lunch I came here to report
myself.”
“How nice of you,” said Sylvia. “I suppose you
guessed how anxious we should be?”
“I didn't presume to think that you would actually
be anxious about me,” I replied, with a furtive eye
on the waxwork, “though I knew that you had
been kind enough to express an interest in my fate."
“What a cold bloodedly polite way to put it!”
laughed Sylvia. "'Express an interest,' indeed!
We were most dreadfully worried about you.'
To a somewhat friendless man like myself this
sympathetic warmth was very delightful, and my
pleasure was not appreciably damped when a chill,
emotionless voice affirmed:
“The use of the first person singular would, I
think, be preferable.”
Sylvia turned on her aunt with mock ferocity.
"Well, really!" she exclaimed. “You are a
dreadful impostor, Mopsy, dear! Just listen to her,
Dr. Jardine. And if you had only seen what a
twitter she was in as the time went on and no news
came!”
me.
I gasped, and the hair seemed to stir on my scalp.
Mopsy! The name was obviously not applied to
But could it bewas it possible that such a
name could be associated with that terrific old lady?
It was inconceivable. It was positively profane?
It was almost as if one should presume to address
the Deity as “old chap.” I could hardly believe
my ears.
I glanced at her nervously and caught
her glittering eye; but the grotesque face was as


MISS VYNE
177
and even though her little sparkling eyes were fixed
on me immovably, I told my story to the end with-
out flinching.
Sylvia listened to my narration with a rapt atten-
tion that greatly flattered my vanity and made me
feel like a very Othello, and when I had finished, she
regarded me for awhile silently and with an air of
speculation.
“It's a queer affair,” she said, at length, "and
there is a smack of mystery and romance about
it that is rather refreshing in these commonplace
days. But I don't like it. Adventure is all very
well, but there seems to have been a deliberate
attempt to make away with you; unless you think
it may have been a piece of silly horse-play that
went farther than it was meant to.”
"That is quite possible," I replied untruthfully-
for I didn't think anything of the sort, and only
made this evasive answer to avoid raising other and
more delicate issues.
“I hope that is the explanation,” said Sylvia,
“though it sounds rather a lame one. You would
know if you had an enemy who might wish to get
rid of you. I suppose you don't know of any such
person?"
It was a rather awkward question. I didn't
want to tell an untruth, but, on the other hand, I
knew that Thorndyke would not wish to have my
affairs discussed while his investigations were in
progress; so I "hedged” once more, replying, quite
truthfully, that I was not acquainted with anyone
who bore me the slightest ill-will.
My adventures done with, the talk drifted into
other channels and presently came round to the
little crucifix that had been the occasion of Sylvia's
disagreeable experience in the lane. In spite of my
12


178
A SILENT WITNESS
confusion, I had noticed, on first entering the room,
that the old lady was wearing suspended from her
neck a small enameled crucifix, and had instantly
identified it and wondered not a little that she
should be thus disporting herself in borrowed orna-
ments; but when Sylvia had arrived, behold, the
original crucifix was hanging on its chain from her
neck. From time to time during my recital my
eyes had wandered from one to the other seeking
some difference or variation but finding none, and
at length my inquisitive glances caught the younger
lady's attention.
"I can see, Dr. Jardine,” said she, “that you are
eaten up with curiosity about the crucifix that my
aunt is wearing. Now confess. Aren't you?"
"I am," I admitted. "When I first came in I
naturally thought it was yours. Is it a copy?”
"Certainly not, said Miss Vyne, the elder.
“They are duplicates.
Sylvia laughed. “You'd better not talk about
copies,” said she. “My aunt has only acquired
her treasure lately, and she is as proud of it as a
peacock; aren't you, dear?”
“The sensations of a peacock," replied Miss Vyne,
“are unknown to me. I am very gratified at possess-
ing the ornament.”
"Gratified indeed!” said Sylvia. “I consider such
vanity most unsuitable to a person of your age.
But they are very charming, and there is quite a
little story attached to them. My father and a
cousin of his
“By marriage,” interposed Miss Vyne.
“You needn't insist on that,” said Sylvia, “as if
poor old Vitalis were a person to be ashamed of.
Well, my father and this cousin were at a Jesuit
school in Belgium-at Louvain, in fact-and among


MISS VYNE
179
the teachers in the school was an Italian Jesuit
named Giglioli. Now the respected Giggley-"
-oli,” interposed Miss Vyne in a severe voice.
oli," continued Sylvia, "had formerly been a
goldsmith; and the Father Superior, with that
keen eye to the main chance which you may have
noticed among professed religious, furnished him
with a little workshop and employed him in making
monstrances, thuribles and church plate in general.
It was he who made these two crucifixes; and, with
the Father Superior's consent, he gave one to my
father and the other to the cousin as parting gifts
on their leaving school. As the boys were inseparable
friends, the two crucifixes were made absolute
duplicates of one another, with the single exception
that each had the owner's name engraved on the
back. When my poor father died his crucifix
became mine, and a short time ago, his cousin-
who is now getting an old man-took a fancy that
he would like the two crucifixes to be together
once more and gave his to my aunt. So here they
are, after all these years, under one roof again."
As she finished speaking, she detached the cru-
cifix from her neck and, having given it to me to
examine, proceeded to remove its fellow from the
neck of the elder lady—who not only submitted
quite passively but seemed to be unaware of the
transaction and handed that to me also.
I laid them side by side in my palm and compared
them, but could not detect the slightest difference
between them. They were complete duplicates.
Each was a Latin cross with trefoiled extremities,
wrought from a single piece of gold and enriched
with champlevé enamel. The body of the cross
was filled with a ground of deep, translucent blue,
from which the figure stood out in rather low relief,


180
A SILENT WITNESS
and the space between each of the trefoils was
occupied by a single Greek letter-Iota and Chi
at top and bottom respectively and at the ends of
the horizontal arm Alpha and Omega. On turning
them over, I saw that the back of each bore an
engraved inscription carried across the horizontal
arm, that on Sylvia's reading: “A. M. ROBERTUS,
D.G.,” while that on the other read: “A. M. VITALIS,
D.G.”
“They are very charming little things," I said,
as I returned them to Sylvia; "and it was a pretty
idea of the old Jesuit to make them both alike for
the two friends. I suppose he didn't make any
more of them for his other pupils?”.
“What makes you ask that?” demanded Sylvia.
"I am thinking of that man in the lane. He must
have had some reason for claiming the crucifix as
his, one would think; and as these are quite unlike
any ordinary commercial jewelry, the suggestion
is that the worthy Giglioli was tempted to repeat
his successes.
What do you think?”
"I think,” said Miss Vyne, “that the suggestion
is inadmissible. Father Giglioli was an artist, and
an artist does not repeat himself."
“I am inclined to agree with my aunt," said
Sylvia. “An artist does not care to repeat a design,
excepting for a definite purpose, as in the case of
these duplicates; especially when the thing designed
is intended as a gift.
To this I gave
a somewhat qualified assent, though
I found the argument far from convincing; and,
as I had made a very long visitation, especially
for a first call, I now rose to depart.
“I hope I may be allowed to come and see you
again," I ventured to say as Miss Vyne raised a
sort of semaphore arm to my extended hand.


MISS VYNE
181
2
“I see no reason why you should not,” she replied
judicially. "You seem to be a well-disposed young
man, though indiscreet. Good afternoon."
I bowed deferentially and then, to my gratifica-
tion, was escorted as far as the garden gate by Sylvia;
who evidently wished to gather my impressions of
her relative, for, as she let me out, she asked with a
mischievous smile:
“What do you think of my aunt, Dr. Jardine?”
“She is rather a terrifying old lady," I replied.
Sylvia giggled delightedly. “She does look an
awful old griffin, doesn't she? But it's all nonsense,
you know. She is really a dear old thing, and as
soft as butter."
“Well," I said, "she conceals the fact most per-
fectly.”
"She does She is a most complete impostor.
I'll tell you a secret, Dr. Jardine,” Sylvia added in
a mysterious whisper, as we shook hands over the
gate. “She trades on her nose. I've told her so.
Her nose is her fortune, and she plays it for all it's
worth. Good-bye or rather, au revoir! for you've
promised to come and see us again.'
With a bright little nod she turned and ran up the
garden path, still chuckling softly at her joke; and
I wended homewards, very well pleased with the cir-
cumstances of my visit, despite the soul-shaking
incidents with which it had opened.


CHAPTER XIII
A MYSTERIOUS STRANGER
O
N the following morning I betook myself
to the hospital, intending to call later in
the day at Dr. Thorndyke's chambers;
but that visit turned out to be unnecessary,
for, as I ran my eye over the names on the attend-
ance board in the entrance hall, I saw that Thorn-
dyke was in the building, although it was not the
day on which he lectured. I found him, as I had
expected, in the museum and was greeted with a
hearty grip of the hand and a welcome, the warmth
of which gratified me exceedingly.
“Well, Jardine," he said, "you've given us all a
pretty fine shake-up. I have never been more
relieved in my life than I was when my man Polton
gave me your note. But you seem to have had
another fairly close shave. What a fellow you are,
to be sure! You seem to be as tenacious of life as
the proverbial cat."
“So that little archbishop is your man Polton, is
he?"
"Yes; and a most remarkable man, Jardine,
and simply invaluable to me, though he ought to be
in a very different position. But I think he is quite
happy with me especially now that he has got your
watch to experiment on. You will see that watch
again some day, when he has rated it to half a second.
And meanwhile let us go into the curator's room and
reconstitute your adventures."
The curator's room was empty at the moment;
(182)


A MYSTERIOUS STRANGER
183
empty, that is to say, so far as human denizens were
concerned. Otherwise it was decidedly full; the
usual wilderness of glass jars, sepulchral slate tanks,
bones in all stages of preparation and unfinished
specimens, being supplemented by that all-pervad-
ing, unforgetable odor peculiar to curator's rooms,
compounded of alcohol and mortality, and suggesting
a necropolis for deceased dipsomaniacs. Thorn-
dyke seated himself on a well-polished stool by
the work-bench, and, motioning me to another, bade
me speak on. Which I did in exhaustive detail,
giving him a minute history of my experiences
from the time of my parting from Sylvia to the pres-
ent moment, not omitting my encounter with Mrs.
Samway and the clerical gentleman in the train.
He listened to my narrative in his usual silent,
attentive fashion, making no comments and asking
no questions, until I had finished; when he cross-
examined me on one or two points of detail.
“With regard to Mrs. Samway,” he asked; “did
you gather that she was crossing by the Boulogne
boat?"
“I inferred that she was, but she said nothing on
the subject.”
He nodded and then asked, "Do I understand
that you never saw your assailant at all?"
“I never got the slightest glimpse of him; in
fact, I could not say whether the person who attacked
me was a man or a woman excepting that the
obvious strength and the method of attack suggest
a man.
To this he made no reply, but sat awhile absorbed
in thought. It was evident that he was deeply
interested in the affair, not only on my account
but by reason of the curious problems that it offered
for solution. Indeed, his next remark was to this
effect.


184
SILENT WITNESS
“It is a most singular case, Jardine,” he said.
“So much of it is perfectly clear, and yet so much
more is unfathomable mystery. But just now the
speculative interest is overshadowed by the personal.
I am rather doubtful as to what we ought to do. It
almost looks as if you ought not to be at large.'
“I hope, sir, you don't suggest shutting me up,
I exclaimed with a grin.
“That was in my mind,” he answered. “You
are evidently in considerable danger, and you are
not as cautious as you ought to be.”
“I shall be mighty cautious after this experience,"
I rejoined; "and you have yourself implied that I
have nine lives."
“Even so," he retorted, “you have played away a
third of them pretty rapidly. If you are not more
careful of the other six, I shall have to put you
somewhere out of harm's way. Do, for goodness
sake, Jardine, keep away from unpopulated places
and see that no stranger gets near enough to have you
at a disadvantage.'
I promised him to keep a constant watch for
suspicious strangers and to avoid all solitary neigh-
borhoods, and ill-lighted thoroughfares; and shortly
after this we separated to go our respective ways,
he back to the museum and I to the surgical wards.
For some time after this, the record of my daily
life furnishes nothing but a chronicle of small
beer. I had resumed pretty regular attendance at
the hospital, setting forth from my lodgings in the
morning and returning thither as the late afternoon
merged into evening; taking the necessary exercise
in the form of the long walk to and from the hospital,
and keeping close indoors at night. It began to
look as though my adventures were at an end and
life were settling down to the old familiar jog-trot.


A MYSTERIOUS STRANGER
185
And yet the beer was not quite so small as it
looked. Coming events cast their shadows before
them, but often enough those shadows wear a shape
ill-defined and vague, and so creep on unnoticed.
Thus it was in these days of apparent inaction,
though even then there were certain little happenings
at which I looked askance. Such an episode occurred
within a few days of my return, and gave me con-
siderable food for thought. I had climbed on to
the yellow 'bus in the Tottenham Court Road and
was seated on the top, smoking my pipe, when,
as we passed up the Hampstead Road, I noticed
a woman looking into the window of Mr. Robinson,
the artists' color-man. Something familiar or
distinctive in the pose of the figure made me glance
a second time; and then I think my eyes must have
grown more and more round with astonishment
as the 'bus gradually drew me out of range. For the
woman was undoubtedly Mrs. Samway.
It was really a most surprising affair. This
good lady seemed to be ubiquitous; to fly hither and
thither and drop from the clouds as if she were the
possessor of a magic carpet. Apparently she had
not gone to Boulogne, after all; or if she had, her
stay on the Continent must have been uncommonly
short. But if she had not crossed on the boat, what
was she doing in Folkestone? It was all very well
to say that she had as much right to be in Folkestone
as I had. That was true enough, but it was a lame
conclusion and no explanation at all.
It was my custom, as I have said, to walk from
my lodgings to the hospital, a distance of some five
miles; but this was practicable only in fine weather.
On wet days I took the tram from the “Duke of St.
Alban's” and beguiled the slow journey by reading
one of my text-books and observing the manners


A MYSTERIOUS STRANGER
187
sided variety is decidedly rare. It is usually asso-
ciated with some defect of vision or habitual strain
of the eye-muscles, as in miners' nystagmus; whence
my discovery naturally led to a further survey and
speculation as to the cause of the condition in the
present case.
The man was obviously not a miner. His hands
-with a cigarette stain, as I noticed on the left
middle finger—were much too delicate, and he had
not in any way the appearance of a laborer. Then
the spasm must be due to some defect of eyesight.
Yet he was not near-sighted, for, as we passed a
church at some distance, I saw him glance out
through the doorway at the clock and compare
it with his watch; and again, I noticed that he took
out his watch with his left hand. Then perhaps
he had a blind eye or unequal vision in the two
eyes; this seemed the most likely explanation; and
I had hardly proposed it to myself when the chance
was given to me to verify it. Confused by my
persistent examination of him, my unwilling patient
suddenly produced a newspaper from his pocket,
and, clapping a pair of pince-nez on his nose, began
to read. Those pince-nez gave me the required
information, for I could see that one glass was
strongly convex while the other was nearly plane.
The question of my friend's eyesight being dis-
posed of, I began to debate the significance of that
stain of the left middle finger. Was he left-handed?
It did not follow, though it seemed likely; and then
I found myself noting the manner in which he held
his paper, until, becoming suddenly conscious of the
absurdity of the whole affair, I impatiently picked
up my book and reverted to the diagnosis of renal
calculus. I was becoming, I reflected
disparagingly,
as inquisitive as Thorndyke himself; from whom Í


188
A SILENT WITNESS
seemed to have caught some infection that impelled
me thus to concern myself with the trifling pecu-
liarities of total strangers.
The trivial incident would probably have faded
from my recollection but for another, equally trivial,
which occurred a day or two later. I was returning
home by way of Tottenham Court Road and had
nearly reached the crossing at the north end when I
suddenly remembered that I had come to the last
of my note-books. The shop at which I obtained
them was in Gower Street, hard by, and as the
thought of the books occurred to me, I turned
abruptly and, running across the road, strode quickly
down a by-street that led to the shop.
As I came out into Gower Street I noticed a small
but rapidly augmenting crowd on the pavement,
and elbowing my way through, found at its center a
man lying on the ground, writhing in the convulsions
of an epileptic fit. I proceeded to ward off the
well-meant attentions of the usual excited by-
standers, who were pulling open his hands and trying
to sit him up, and had thrust the corner of a folded
newspaper between his teeth to prevent him from
biting his tongue, when a constable arrived on the
scene; upon which, as the officer bore on his sleeve
the badge of the St. John's Ambulance Society, I
gave him a few directions and began to back out of
the crowd.
At this moment I became aware of a pressure
behind me and a suspicious fumbling, strongly
suggestive of the presence of a pickpocket. Instantly
I turned to the right about and directed a searching
look at the people behind me, and especially at a
bearded, nondescript person who seemed also to be
backing out of the crowd. He gave me a single,
quick glance as I followed him through the press and


A MYSTERIOUS STRANGER
189
then averted his eyes; and as he did so, I noticed,
with something of a start, that his right eye came to
rest with a peculiar, rapid up-and-down shake. He
had, in fact, a right-sided nystagmus.
The coincidence naturally struck me with some
force. A nystagmus is not, as I have said, a very
common condition; one-sided nystagmus is actually
a rare one; and, of the one-sided instances, only
some fifty per cent will affect the right eye. The
coincidence was therefore quite a notable one; but
had it any particular bearing? I had a half-formed
inclination to follow the man; but he had not actually
picked my pocket or done any other overt act, and
one could hardly follow a person merely because he
happened to suffer from an uncommon nervous
affection.
The man was now walking up the street briskly,
but without manifest hurry, looking straight before
him and swinging his stick with something of a
flourish. I watched him speculatively, as I walked
in the same direction, and then suddenly realized
that he was carrying his stick in his left hand, and
carrying it, too, with the unmistakable ease born of
habit. Then he was left-handed! And here was
another coincidence; not a remarkable one in itself,
but, when added to the other, so singular and striking
that I insensibly quickened my pace.
As my acquaintance reached the corner of the
Euston Road, an omnibus stopped to put down a
passenger. It was about to move on when he raised
his stick, and, following it, stepped on the footboard
and mounted to the roof. I was undecided what to
do. Should I follow him? And if so, to what
purpose? He would certainly notice me if I did
and be on his guard, so that I should probably have
my trouble for nothing and possibly look like a fool


A MYSTERIOUS STRANGER
191
During all this time I had seen nothing of my new
friend Miss Sylvia. But I had by no means for-
gotten her.
Without wishing to exaggerate my
feelings, I may say that I had taken a strong liking
to that very engaging young lady. She was a pleas-
ant, easy-mannered girl, evidently good-tempered,
and very frank and simple; a girl-as Mr. Sparkler
would have said "with no bigod nonsense about
her." Her tastes ran along very similiar lines to
my own, and she was clever enough to be a quite
interesting companion. Then it was evident that
she liked me which was in itself an attraction, to
say nothing of the credit that it reflected on her
taste and, in a perfectly modest way, she had
made no secret of the fact. And finally, she was
exceptionally good-looking. Now people may say,
as they do, that beauty is only skin deep—which
is perfectly untrue, by the way; but even so, one
is more concerned with the skins of one's fellow
creatures than with their livers or vermiform
appendices. The contact of persons, as of things,
occurs at their respective surfaces.
From which it will be gathered that I was only
allowing a decent interval to elapse before repeating
my visit to “The Hawthorns;" indeed, I was begin-
ning to think that a sufficient interval had already
passed and to contemplate seriously my second call,
when my intentions were forestalled by Sylvia her-
self. Returning home one Friday evening, I found
on my mantelpiece a short letter from her, enclosing
a ticket for an exhibition painting and sculpture at
a gallery in Leicester Square, and mentioning-
incidentally—that she proposed to visit the show on
the following morning in order to see the works by a
good light; which seemed such an eminently rational
proceeding in these short winter days, that I deter-


192
A SILENT WITNESS
mined instantly to follow her example and get the
advantage of the morning light myself.
I acted on this decision with such thoroughness
that when I arrived at the gallery, I found the
attendant in the act of opening the doors, and for
nearly half an hour I was in sole possession of the
premises. Then, by twos and threes, other visitors
began to straggle in, and among them Sylvia, looking
very fresh and dainty and obviously pleased to see
me.
“I am glad you were able to come,” she said, as we
shook hands. “I thought you would, somehow.
It is so much nicer to have someone to talk over the
pictures with, isn't it?”
“Much more interesting,” I agreed. “I have
been taking a preliminary look round and have
already accumulated quite a lot of profound obser-
vations to discharge at you as occasion offers. Shall
we begin at number one?''
We began at number one and worked our way
methodically, picture by picture, round the room,
considering each work attentively with earnest dis-
cussion and a wealth of comment. As the morning
wore on, visitors arrived in increasing numbers until
the two large rooms began to be somewhat incon-
veniently crowded. We had made a complete
circuit of the pictures and were about to turn to
the sculpture, which occupied the central floor space,
when Sylvia touched me on the arm.
“Let us sit down for a minute," said she.
"I
want to speak to you.
I led her to one of the large settees that disputed
the floor-space with the busts and statuettes, and,
somewhat mystified by her serious tone and by the
rather agitated manner, which I now noticed for
the first time, seated myself by her side.


A MYSTERIOUS STRANGER
193
"What is it?" I asked.
She looked anxiously round the room, and, lean-
ing towards me, said in a low tone:
"Have you noticed a man who has been keeping
near us and listening to our conversation?”
“No, I haven't," I replied. "If I had I would
have given him a hint to keep farther off. But
there's nothing in it, you know. In picture galleries
it is very usual for people to hang about and try to
overhear criticisms. This man may be interested in
the exhibits."
“Yes, I know. But I don't think this person was
so much interested in the exhibits. He didn't look
at the pictures; he looked at us. I caught his eye
several times reflected in the picture-glasses, and
once or twice I saw him looking most attentively
at this crucifix of mine. That was what really dis-
turbed me. I wish, now, that I hadn't unbuttoned
my coat."
"So do I. You will have to leave that crucifix at
home if it attracts so much undesirable attention.
Which is the man? Is he in this room?"
“No, I don't see him now. I expect he has gone
into the next room.'
"Then let us go there, too; and if you will point
him out to me, I will pay him back in his own
coin."
We rose and made our way to the door of com-
munication, and, as we passed into the second room,
Sylvia grasped my arm nervously.
“There he is-don't let him see us looking at
him-he is sitting on the settee at the farther end
of the room."
It was impossible to make a mistake since the
settee held only a single person; a fairly well-
dressed, ordinary-looking man, rather swarthy and
18


194
A SILENT WITNESS
foreign in appearance, with a small waxed mous-
tache. He was sitting nearly opposite the entrance
door and seemed at the moment to be reading over
the catalogue, which he held open on his knee; but,
as he looked up almost at the moment when we
entered, I turned my back to him and continued
my inspection with the aid of the reflection in a
picture-glass.
“He is probably a journalist," I said. "You see
he is scribbling some notes on the blank leaves of
his catalogue; probably some of your profound
criticisms, which will appear, perhaps tomorrow
morning, clothed in super-technical jargon, in a
daily paper.'
Here I paused suddenly, for I had made a rather
curious observation. The reflection in a mirror is,
as everybody knows, reversed laterally; so that the
right hand of a person appears to be the left,
and vice versa. But in the present case, no rever-
sal seemed to have taken place. The figure in
the reflection was writing with his right hand.
Obviously, then, the real person was writing with
his left.
This put a rather different aspect on the affair.
Up to the present, I had been disposed to think
that Sylvia had been unduly disturbed; for there
are plenty of ill-bred bounders to be met in any
public place who will stare a good-looking girl out
of countenance. But now my suspicions were all
awake. It is true that left-handed men are as com-
mon as blackberries; but still-
“Can you tell me, Miss Vyne," I asked, as we
worked our way towards the other end of the room,
"if this man is at all like the one who frightened
you so in Millfield Lane?".
“No, he is not. I am sure of that. That man in
the lane was a good deal taller and thinner.”


A MYSTERIOUS STRANGER
195
"Well," said I, "whoever he is, I want to have a
good look at him, and the best plan will be to turn
our attention to the sculpture. Shall we go and
look at that rather remarkable pink bust? That
will give our friend a chance of another stare at
you, and if he doesn't take it, I will go and inspect
him where he sits."
The bust to which I had referred was executed in
a curious, rose-tinted marble, very crystalline and
translucent, a material that suited the soft, girlish
features of its subject admirably. It stood on an
isolated pedestal quite near the settee on which the
suspicious stranger was sitting, and I hoped that
our presence might lure him from his retreat. .
“I don't think,” I said, taking up a position with
my back to the settee, "that I have ever seen any
marble quite like this. Have you?”
“No,” replied Sylvia. : “It looks like coarse lump
sugar stained pink. And how very transparent it
is; too transparent for most subjects."
Here she gave a quick, nervous glance at me, and
I was aware of a shadow thrown by some person
standing behind me. Had our friend risen to the
bait already? I continued the conversation in good
audible tones.
“Very awkward these isolated pedestals would be
for slovenly artists who scamp the back of their
work."
With this remark I moved round the pedestal as
if to examine the back of the bust, and Sylvia
followed. The move brought us opposite the
person who had been standing behind me; and,
sure enough, it was the gentleman from the settee.
I continued to talk-rather blatantly, I fear-com-
menting on the careful treatment of the hair and
the backs of the ears; and meanwhile took an



Harleston 7aylo.
THE POINT OF FIXATION WAS Sylvia's CRUCIFIX





A MYSTERIOUS STRANGER
197
“My lord is pleased to meditate,” Sylvia re-
marked at length, breaking in upon my brown
study.
“I beg your pardon,” I exclaimed. “The fact is,
I was wondering what we had better do next. Do
you want to see anything else?”
“I should rather like to see the outside of the
building," she answered. “That man has made me
quite nervous.
"Then we will go at once, and we won't sign the
visitors' book.”
I led her to the door, and as we rapidly descended
the carpeted stairs, I considered once more what it
were best to do. Had I been alone I would have
kept our watcher in view and done a little shadow-
ing on my own account; but Sylvia's presence made
me uneasy. It was of the first importance that this
sinister stranger should not learn where she lived.
The only reasonable course seemed to be to give
him the slip if possible.
“What did you make of that man?” Sylvia asked
when we were outside in the square.
think he was watching us?”
“Yes, I do. And I may say that I have seen him
Don't you
before,
She turned a terrified face to me and asked, “You
don't think he is the wretch who pushed you into
the river?”
Now this was exactly what I did think, but it
was not worth while to say so. Accordingly I
temporized.
"It is impossible to say. I never saw that man,
you know.
But I have reason for thinking that
this fellow is keeping a watch on me, and it occurs
to me that if he appears still to be following us, I
had better put you into a hansom and keep my eye
on him until you are out of sight."


198
A SILENT WITNESS
“Oh, I'm not going to agree to that,” she replied
with great decision. “I don't suppose that my
presence is much protection to you, but still, you
are safer while we are together, and I'm not going
to leave you.”
This settled the matter. Of course she was quite
right. I was much safer while she was with me,
and if she refused to go off alone, we must make our
escape together.
I looked up the square as we
turned out of it towards the Charing Cross Road,
but could see no sign of our follower, and as we
walked on at a good pace, I hoped that we might
get clear away. But I was not going to take any
chances. Before turning homewards, I decided to
walk sharply some distance in an easterly direction
and then see if there was any sign of pursuit; for
my previous experiences of this good gentleman led
me to suspect that he was by no means without
skill and experience in the shadowing art.
We walked down to Charing Cross and turned
eastward along the north side of the Strand. I had
chosen this thoroughfare as offering a good cover to
a pursuer, who could easily keep out of sight among
the crowd of wayfarers who thronged the pavement;
for the first question to be settled was whether we
were or were not being shadowed.
“Where are we going now?” Sylvia asked.
"We are going up Bedford Street," I answered.
“There is a book shop on the right-hand side where
we can loiter unobtrusively and keep a lookout. If
we see nobody, we will try one of the courts off
Maiden Lane where we should be certain to catch
anyone who was following. But we will try the
bookstall first because, if our friend is in attendance,
I have a rather neat plan for getting rid of him.”
We accordingly made our way to the bookstall in


200
A SILENT WITNESS
We sprang
“Now,” said I, “let us make a bolt for it. This
way.”
We darted out through the china, furniture and
iron-mongery departments, across the whole width
of the building and out of the Agar Street entrance,
where we immediately crossed into King William
Street, turned down Adelaide Street, shot through
the alley by St. Martin's Church and came out
opposite the National Portrait Gallery just as a
yellow omnibus was about to start.
into the moving vehicle, and as it rumbled away
into the Charing Cross Road, we kept a sharp
watch on the end of King William Street. But
there was no sign of our pursuer. We had got rid
of him for the present, at any rate.
“Don't you think,” said Sylvia, “that he will
suspect that we went into the Stores?"
“I have no doubt he will, and that is where we
have him. He can't come away and leave the
building unsearched. Most probably he is, at this
very moment, racing madly up and down the stairs
and trying to watch the three entrances at the same
time.
Sylvia chuckled gleefully. “It has been quite
good fun,” she said, “but I am glad we have shaken
him off. I think I shall stay indoors for a day or
two and paint, and I hope you'll stay indoors, too.
And that reminds me that I am out of Heyl's white.
I must call in at Robinson's and get a pound tube.
Do you mind? It won't delay us more than a few
minutes."
Now I would much rather have gone straight on
to Hampstead, for our unknown attendant certainly
knew the whereabouts of my lodgings and might
follow us when he failed to find us in the stores.
Moreover, I had, of late, given the neighborhood of
is


A MYSTERIOUS STRANGER
201
the artist's color-man's shop a rather wide berth,
having seen Mrs. Samway from afar once or twice,
thereabouts, and having surmised that she tended to
haunt that particular part of the Hampstead Road.
But the fresh supply of flake white seemed to be a
necessity, so I made no objection, and we accord-
ingly alighted opposite the shop and entered.
Nevertheless, while Sylvia was making her purchase,
I stood near the glass door and kept a watchful eye
on the street. When a tram stopped a short dis-
tance away, I glanced quickly over its passengers,
as well as I could, though without observing anyone
who might have been our absent friend. But, just
as it was about to move on, I saw a woman run out
from the pavement and enter; and though I got but
an indifferent view of her, I felt an uncomfortable
suspicion that the woman was Mrs. Samway.
Looking back, I do not quite understand why I
had avoided this woman or why I now looked with
distaste on the fact that she was traveling in our
direction. She was a pleasant-spoken, intelligent
person, and I had no dislike of her, nor any cause
for dislike. Perhaps it was the recollection of the
offence that she had given Sylvia in this very shop,
but a short time since, that made me unwilling to
encounter her now in Sylvia's company.
rate, whatever the cause may have been, throughout
the otherwise pleasant journey, and in spite of an
animated and interesting conversation, the thought
of Mrs. Samway continually recurred, and this
notwithstanding that I kept a constant, unobtrusive
lookout for the mysterious spy who might even now
be hovering in our rear.
We alighted from the tram at the “Duke of St.
Alban's” and made our way to North End by way
of the Highgate Ponds. As we crossed the open
At any


202
A SILENT WITNESS
fields and the Heath, I turned at intervals to see if
there was any sign of our being followed; but no
suspicious-looking person appeared in sight, though
on two separate occasions I noticed a woman ahead
of us, and walking in much the same direction, turn
round and look our way. There was no reason, how-
ever, to suppose that she was looking at us, and, in
any case, she was too far ahead to be recognizable.
At last, somewhere in the neighborhood of the
Spaniard's Road, she finally disappeared, possibly
into the hollow beyond, and I saw no more of her.
At the gate of “The Hawthorns” I delivered up
the heavy tube of paint, and thus, as it were,
formally brought our little outing to an end; and
as we shook hands Sylvia treated me to a parting
exhortation.
“Now do take care of yourself and keep out of
harm's way," she urged. “You are so large, you
see,” she added with a smile, "and such a very con-
spicuous object that you ought to take special
precautions. And you must come and see us again
quite soon. I assure you my aunt is positively
pining for another conversation with you. Why
shouldn't you drop in tomorrow and have tea with
us?”
Now this very idea had already occurred to me,
so I hastened to close with the invitation; and then,
as she retired up the path with another "good-bye"
and a wave of the hand, I turned away and walked
back towards the Heath.
For some minutes I strode on, across furzy hol-
lows or over little hills, traversed by sunken, sandy
paths, occupying myself with thoughts of the
pleasant, friendly girl whom I had just left and
reflections on the strange events of the morning.
Presently I mounted a larger hill, on which was


A MYSTERIOUS STRANGER
203
perched a little old-fashioned house. Skirting the
wooden fence that enclosed it, I turned the corner
and saw before me, at a distance of some forty
yards, a rough, rustic seat. On that seat a woman
was sitting; and somehow, when I looked at her
and noted the graceful droop of the figure, it was
without any feeling of surprise-almost that of
realized expectation—that I recognized Mrs. Sam-
way.


CHAPTER XIV
A LONELY WOMAN
I
F I had had any intention of avoiding Mrs.
Samway, that intention must inevitably have
been frustrated, for her recognition was as
instantaneous as my own. Almost as I turned
the corner, she looked up and saw me; and a few
moments later, she rose and advanced in my direc-
tion, so that to an onlooker it would have appeared
as if we had met by appointment. There was
obviously nothing for it but to look as pleased as
I could manage at such short notice; which I did,
shaking her hand with hypocritical warmth.
“And I suppose, Dr. Jardine,” said she, “you are
thinking what a very odd coincidence it is that we
should happen to meet here?”
“Oh, I don't know that it is so very odd. I live
about here and I understood you to say that you
often come up to the Heath. At any rate, our last
meeting was a good deal more odd.”
“Yes, indeed. But the truth is that this is not a
coincidence at all. I may as well confess that I
came here deliberately with the intention of way-
laying you.”
This very frank statement took me aback con-
siderably; so much so that I could think of no
appropriate remark beyond mumbling something to
the effect that "it was very flattering of her.”
“Ijhave been trying,” she continued, “to get a
few words with you for some time past; but,
although I have lurked in your line of march in the
(204)


A LONELY WOMAN
205
most shameless manner, I have always managed to
miss you. I thought, from what you told me, that
you passed Robinson's shop on your way to the
hospital.”
"So I do," I replied mendaciously; for I could
hardly tell her that I had lately taken to shooting
up by-streets with the express purpose of avoiding
that particular stretch of pavement.
“It's rather curious that I never happened to
meet you there. However, I didn't, so today I
determined to take the bull by the horns and catch
you here."
This last statement, like the former ones, gave me
abundant matter for reflection. How the deuce had
she managed to “catch me here”? I supposed that
she had seen Sylvia and me in the Hampstead Road
and had guessed that we were coming on to this
neighborhood. That was a case of feminine intui-
tion; which, like the bone-setter's skill, is a wonder-
ful thing—when it comes off (and when it doesn't
one isn't expected to notice the fact). Then she
had gone on ahead-still guessing at our final
destination
and kept us in sight while keeping out
of view herself. It was not so very easy to under-
stand and not at all comfortable to think of, for
there was a disagreeable suggestion that she had
somehow ascertained Sylvia's place of abode before
hand. And yet-well, the whole affair was rather
mysterious.
“You don't ask why it was that I wanted to way-
lay you,” she said at length as I made no comment
on her last statement.
“There is an old saying," I replied, "that one
shouldn't look a gift-horse in the mouth."
“That is very diplomatic,” she retorted with a
laugh. “But I daresay your knowledge of women
makes the question unnecessary.'


206
A SILENT WITNESS
“My knowledge of women,” said I, "might be
put into a nutshell and still leave plenty of room for
the nut and a good fat maggot besides.'
“Then I must beware of you. The man who pro-
fesses to know nothing of women is the most deep
and dangerous class of person. But there is one
item of knowledge that you seem to have acquired.
You seem to know that women like to have pretty
things said to them."
"If you call that knowledge,” said I, "you must
apply the same name to the mere blind impulse
that leads a spider to spin a nice, symmetrical web.”
She laughed softly and looked up at me with an
expression of amused reflection. “I am thinking,
she said, “what a very fine symmetrical web you
would spin if you were a spider."
“Possibly," I replied. "But it looks as if the rôle
of bluebottle were the one that is being marked out
for me."
“Oh! "Not a bluebottle, Dr. Jardine. It doesn't
suit you at all. If you must make a comparison,
why not say a Goliath beetle, and have something
really dignified—and not so very inappropriate?”
"Well, then, a Goliath beetle, if you prefer it;
not that he would look very dignified, kicking his
heels in the elegant web of the superlatively elegant
feminine spider.'
“Oh, but that isn't pretty of you at all, Dr.
Jardine. In fact, it is quite horrid; and unfair,
too, because you are trying to get the information
without asking a direct question.
“What question am I supposed to ask?"
“You needn't ask any. I will take pity on your
masculine pride and tell you why I have been lying
in wait for you, although I daresay you have guessed.
The truth is I am simply devoured by curiosity."


A LONELY WOMAN
207
“Concerning what?"
“Now, how can you ask? Just think! One day I
meet you in the Hampstead Road, going about your
ordinary business, apparently a fixture, at least for
months. A few days later, a hundred miles from
London, I feel suddenly seized from behind; I turn
round and there are you with tragedy and adventure
written large all over you."
“I thought the tragedy was rather on your side;
and so did the ancient mariner with the black bottle
and the tea cup. But-
"I don't wish to discuss the views of that well-
meaning old brute. I want an explanation. I want
to know how you came to be in Folkestone and in
that extraordinary condition. I am sure something
strange must have happened to you."
"Why? Haven't I as much right to be in Folke-
stone as you have?”
“That is mere evasion. When I see a man who is
usually rather carefully and very neatly dressed,
walking in the streets of a seaport town without hat
or stick and with a collar that looks as if it had been
used to clean out a saucepan, and great stains on his
clothes, I am justified in inferring that something
unusual has happened to him."
“I didn't think you had noticed my negligé get
“At the time I did not. I was very upset and
agitated, I had just had a lot of worry and was
compelled to cross to France at a moment's notice;
and then there was that horrible horse, and the
sudden way that you seized me and then got knocked
down; and the
“The ancient mariner."
“Yes, the ancient mariner; and the knowledge
that I was behaving like an idiot and couldn't help
up."


208
A SILENT WITNESS
it—though you were so nice and kind to me. So
you see, I was hardly conscious of what was happen-
ing at the time. But afterwards, when I had
recovered my wits a little, I recalled the astonishing
figure that you made, and I have been wondering
ever since what had happened to you. I assure you,
Dr. Jardine, you looked as if you might have swum
to Folkestone."
“Did I? By Jove!" I exclaimed with a laugh.
"Well, appearances weren't so very deceptive.
The fact is that I had swum part of the way.'
She looked at me incredulously. “Whatever do
you mean?” she asked.
“I mean that you are now looking on a modern
and strictly up-to-date edition of Sinbad the Sailor."
“That isn't very explanatory. But I suppose it
isn't meant to be. It is just a preliminary stimulant
to whet my appetite for marvels; and a most
unnecessary one, I can assure you, for I am absolutely
agape with curiosity. Do go on. . Tell me exactly
what had happened to you.'
Now the truth is that I had already said rather
more than was strictly discreet and would gladly
have drawn in my horns. But I had evidently let
myself in for some sort of plausible explanation,
and a lack of that enviable faculty that enables its
possessor to tell a really convincing and workmanlike
lie, condemned me to a mere unimaginative adher-
ence to the bald facts, though I did make one slight
and amateurish effort at prevarication.
“You want a detailed log of Sinbad's voyages, do
you?” said I. "Then you shall have it. We will
begin at the beginning. The port of departure was
the embankment somewhere near Cleopatra's Needle.
I was leaning over the parapet, staring down at the
water like a fool, when some practical joker came


A LONELY WOMAN
209
along, and, apparently thinking it would be rather
funny to give me a fright, suddenly lifted me off my
feet. But my jocose friend hadn't allowed for the
top-heaviness of a person of my height, and, before
you could say “knife,' I had slipped from his hold
and taken a most stylish header into the water.
Fortunately for me, a barge happened at the moment
to be towing past, and, when I had managed to haul
myself on board, I fell into the arms of a marine
species of Good Samaritan, who, not having a
supply of the orthodox oil and wine, proceeded to fill
me up with hot gin and water, which is distinctly
preferable for internal application. Then the
Samaritan aforesaid clothed me in gorgeous marine
raiment and stowed me in a cupboard to sleep off
the oil and wine, which I did after some sixteen hours,
and then awoke to find our good ship on the broad
bosom of the ocean. And so not to weary you
with the incidents of the voyage I came to Folke-
stone, where I found a beautiful lady endeavoring,
very unsuccessfully, to hypnotize a runaway horse;
and so to the adventure of the tarred nets and the
ancient mariner with the black bottle."
Mrs. Samway smiled a little consciously as I
mentioned the last incidents, but the smile quickly
faded and left a deeply thoughtful expression on her
face.
"You take it all very calmly," said she, “but it
seems to me to have been a rather terrible experience.
You really had a very narrow escape from death.”
“Yes; quite near enough. I'm far from wanting
any more from the same tap."
And I don't quite see why you assume that it
was a mere clumsy joke that sent you into the river
by accident."
“Why, what else could it have been?”
14


210
A SILENT WITNESS
“It looks more like a deliberate attempt to drown
you. Perhaps you have some enemy who might
want to make away with you.
“I haven't. There isn't a soul in the world who
owes me the slightest grudge.
“That seems rather a bold thing to say, but I
suppose you know. Still, I should think you ought
to bear this strange affair in mind, and be a little
careful when you go out at night; to avoid the
riverside, for instance. Have you did you give
any information to the police about this accident,
as you call it?”
"Good Lord! No! What would have been the
use?”
“I thought you might have given them some
description of the man who pushed you over.”
“But I never saw him. I don't even know for
certain that it was a man. It might have been a
woman for all that I can tell.”
Mrs. Samway looked up at me with that strangely
penetrating expression that I had seen before in those
singular, pale eyes of hers.
"You don't mean that?” she said. "You don't
really think that it could have been a woman?”
“I don't think very much about it; but as I never
saw the person who did me the honor of hoisting me
overboard, I am clearly not in a position to depose
as to the sex of that person. But if it was a woman,
she must have been an uncommonly strong one.
Mrs. Samway continued to look at me question-
ingly.
"I thought you seemed to hint at a suspicion that
it actually was a woman. You would surely be
able to tell.”
“I suppose I should if there were time to think
about the matter; but, you see, before I was fairly


A LONELY WOMAN
211
aware that anyone had hold of me, I was sticking
my head into the mud at the bottom of the river,
which is a process that does not tend very much to
clarify one's thoughts.'
“No, I suppose not,” she agreed. “But it is a
most mysterious and dreadful affair. I can't think
how you can take it so calmly. You don't seem to be
in the least concerned by the fact that you have been
within a hair's breadth of being murdered. What do
your friends think about it?"
“Well, you see, Mrs. Samway,” I replied evasively,
one doesn't talk much about incidents of this kind.
It doesn't sound very credible, and one doesn't want
to gain a reputation as a sort of modern Munchausen.
I shouldn't have told you but that you were already
partly in the secret and that you cross-examined me
in such a determined fashion."
“But,” she exclaimed, "do you mean to tell me
that you have said nothing to anyone about this
extraordinary adventure of yours?”
“No, I don't say that. Of course, I had to give
some sort of explanation to my landlady, for instance,
but I didn't tell her all that I have told you; and I
would rather, if you don't mind, that you didn't
mention the affair to anyone. I should hate to be
suspected of romancing.'
You shan't be through anything that I may say,”
she replied, “though I should hardly think that
anyone who knew you would be likely to suspect you
of inventing imaginary adventures."
For some minutes after this we walked on without
speaking, and from time to time I stole a glance at
my companion. And once again I found myself im-
pressed by something distinctive and unusual in her
appearance. Her unquestionable beauty was not
like that of most pretty women, localized and


212
A SILENT WITNESS
unequal, having features of striking attractiveness
set in an indifferent or even defective matrix. It
was diffused and all-pervading, the product of sheer
physical excellence. With most women one feels
that the more attractive wares are judiciously
pushed to the front of the window while a discreet
reticence is maintained respecting the unpresentable
residue. Not so with Mrs. Samway. Her small,
shapely head, her symmetrical face, her fine, supple
figure and her easy movements, all spoke of a splendid
physique. She was not merely a pretty woman,
she was that infinitely rarer creature, a physically
perfect human being; comely with the comeliness
of faultless proportion, graceful with the grace of
symmetry and strength.
Suddenly she looked up at me with just a hint of
shyness and a little heightening of the color in her
cheek.
“Are you going to tell me again, Dr. Jardine, that
a cat may look at a king? Or was it that a king may
look at a cat?”
"Whichever you please," I replied. “We will put
them on a footing of equality, excepting that the
king might have the better claim if the cat happened
to be an exceptionally good-looking cat. But I
wasn't really staring at you this time; I was only
giving you a sort of friendly look over. You weren't
quite yourself, I think, when we met last."
“No, I certainly was not. So you are now making
an inspection. May I ask if I am to be informed of
the diagnosis, as I think you call it?”
Now, to tell the truth, I had thought her looking
rather haggard and worn and decidedly thinner; and
when her sprightliness subsided in the intervals of
our somewhat flippant talk, it had seemed to me
that her face took on an expression that was weary


A LONELY WOMAN
213
and even sad. But it would hardly do to say as
much.
“It is quite irregular," I replied. “The diagnosis
is for the doctor; the patient is only concerned with
the treatment. But I'll make an exception in your
case, especially as my report is quite unsensational.
I thought you looked as if you had been doing rather
too much and not greatly enjoying the occupation.
Am I right?”
"Yes. Quite right. I've had a lot of worry and
bother lately, and not enough rest and peace.
"I hope all that is at an end now?"
“I don't know that it is,” she replied, wearily,
“or, for that matter, that it will ever be. Fate or
destiny, or whatever we may call it, starts us upon
a certain road, and along that road we must needs
trudge, wherever it may lead.”
I was rather startled at the sudden despondency
of her tone. Apparently the road that Mrs. Samway
trod was not strewn with roses.
"Still," I said, “it is a long road that has no
turning.
“It is,” she agreed, bitterly, “but many have to
travel such a road, to find the turning at last barred
by the churchyard gate."
“Oh, come!” I protested, "we don't talk of church-
yards at your time of life. We think of the jolly
wayside inns and the buttercups and daisies and the
may-blossom in the hedgerows. Churchyard indeed!
We will leave that to the old folk and the village
donkey, if you please.”
She smiled rather wanly. Her gayety seemed to
have deserted her for good.
“The wayside inns and the wayside flowers," said
she, "are your portion—at least, I hope so. They
are not for me. And, after all, there are worse things


214
A SILENT WITNESS
to think of than a nice quiet churchyard, with the
village donkey browsing among the graves, as you
say.
"I quite agree with you. From the standpoint
of the disinterested spectator, not contemplating
freehold investments, nothing can be more delight-
fully rustic and peaceful. It is the personal applica-
tion that I object to.”
Again she smiled, but very pensively, and for a
while we walked on in silence. Presently she
resumed: “I used to think that the shortness of
life was quite a tragedy. That was when I was
young. But now-
“When you were young!" I interrupted. “Why,
what are you now? I can tell you, Mrs. Samway,
that there is many a girl of twenty who would be
only too delighted to exchange personalities with
you, and who would stand to make a mighty fine
bargain if she could do it. If you talk like this, I
shall have to refer you to the great Leonardo's
advice to painters.
“What is that?" she asked.
“He recommends the frequent use of a looking-
glass."
She gave me a quick glance and then blushed so
very deeply that I was quite alarmed lest I should
have given offence. But her next words reassured
me.
"It was nice of you to say that, and most kindly
meant. I won't say that I don't care very much
how I look, because that would be an ungracious
return for your compliment and it wouldn't be quite
true. There are times when one is quite glad to
feel one looks presentable: the present moment, for
instance.'
I acknowledged the compliment with a bow.


A LONELY WOMAN
215
“Thank you,” I said. “That was more than I
deserved. I only wish that your fortune was equal
to your looks, but I am afraid it isn't. I have an
uncomfortable feeling that you are not very happy.”
“I'm afraid I'm not,” she replied. “Life is rather
a lottery, you know, and the worst of it is that you
can only take a single ticket. So, when you find
that you've drawn the wrong number and you
realize that there is no second chance—well, it isn't
very inspiriting, is it?"
I had to admit that it was not; and after a short
pause she continued:
"Women are poor dependent creatures, Dr.
Jardine; dependent, I mean, for their happiness on
the people who surround them."
"But that is true of us all."
“Not quite. A man-like yourself, for instance
has his work and his ambitions that make him
independent of others. But, for a woman, whatever
pretences she may make as to larger interests in life,
a husband, a home and one or two nice children form
the real goal of her ambition."
“But you are not a lone spinster, Mrs. Samway,'
I reminded her.
“No, I am not. But I have no children, no proper
home, and not a real friend in the world-unless I
may think of you as one."
"I hope you always will,” I exclaimed impulsively;
for there was, to me, something very pathetic in the
evident loneliness of this woman. She must, I felt,
be friendless indeed if she must needs appeal for
friendship to a comparative stranger like myself.
"I am glad to hear you say that,” she replied,
"for I am making you bear a friend's burden. I hope
you will forgive me for pouring out my complaints
to you in this way.”


216
A SILENT WITNESS
"It isn't difficult," said I, "to bear other people's
troubles with fortitude. But if sympathy is any
good, believe me, Mrs. Samway, when I tell you that
I am really deeply grieved to think that you are
getting so much less out of life than you ought.
I only wish that I could do something more than
sympathize.”
“I believe you do,” she said. “I felt, at Folke-
stone, how kind you were as a good man is to a
woman in her moments of weakness. That is why,
I suppose, I was impelled to talk to you like this.
And that is why,” she added, after a little pause,
“I felt a pang of envy when I saw you pass with
your pretty companion.
I started somewhat at this. Where the deuce
could she have seen us near enough to tell whether
my companion was pretty or not? I turned the
matter over rapidly in my mind and meanwhile I
said:
“I don't quite see why you envied me, Mrs.
Samway.”
"I didn't say that I envied you," she replied, with a
faint smile and the suspicion of a blush.
“Or her either," I retorted. “We are only the
merest acquaintances.
My conscience smote me somewhat as I made this
outrageous statement, but Mrs. Samway took me up
instantly.
“Then you've only known her quite a short
time?"
The rapidity with which she had jumped to this
conclusion fairly took my breath away, and I had
answered her question before I was aware of it.
“But," I added, “I don't quite see how you
arrived at your conclusion."
“I thought,” she replied, "that you seemed to like
one another very well."


A LONELY WOMAN
217
“So we do, I think. But can't acquaintances
like one another?”
“Oh, certainly; but if they are a young man and a
maiden, they are not likely to remain mere acquaint-
ances very long. That was how I argued.”
"I see. Very acute of you. By the way, where
did you see us? I didn't see you.
“Of course you didn't. Yet you passed quite
close to me on the Spaniard's Road, immersed in
conversation, and little suspecting that the green
eyes of envy were fixed on you."
“Oh, now, Mrs. Samway, I can't have that.
They're not green, you know, although what their
exact color is I shouldn't like to say offhand.”
“What! Not after that careful inspection?”
“That didn't include the eyes. Perhaps you
wouldn't mind if I made another, just to satisfy my
curiosity and settle the question for good.”
“Oh, do, by all means, if it is such a weighty
question.
We both halted and I stared into the clear depths
of her singular, pale hazel eyes with an impertinent
affectation of profound scrutiny, while she looked up
smilingly into mine. Suddenly, to my utter confu-
sion, her eyes filled and she turned away her head.
“Oh! please forgive me!" she exclaimed.
your pardon-I do beg your pardon most earnestly
for being such a wretched bundle of emotions. You
would forgive me if you knew—what I can't tell
“I beg
you."
“There is no need, dear Mrs. Samway,” I said very
gently, laying my hand on her arm. "Are we not
friends? And may I not give you my warmest
sympathy without asking too curiously what brings
the tears to your eyes?''
I was, in truth, deeply moved, as a young man is


218
A SILENT WITNESS
apt to be by a pretty woman's tears. But more
than this, something whispered to me that my
playful impertinence had suddenly brought home to
her the void that was in her life; the lack of intimate
affection at which she had seemed to hint. And
instantly all that was masculine in me had risen up
with the immemorial instinct of the male in defence
of the female; for, whatever her faults may have
been, Mrs. Samway was feminine to the finger-tips.
She pressed my hand for a moment and impatiently
brushed the tears from her eyes.
“I do hope, Dr. Jardine,” she said, looking up at
me with a smile, “that your wife will be a good
woman. You'll be a dreadful victim if she isn't,
with your quick sympathy and your endless paties
with feminine silliness. And now I won't plague
you any more with my tantrums. I hope I am not
bringing you a great deal out of your way. You do
live in this direction, don't you?”
“Yes; and I have been assuming that my direction
was yours, too._Is that right? Are you going back
to Hampstead Road?”
“Not at once. I'm going to make a call at High-
gate first."
“Then you'll want to go up Highgate Rise or
Swain's Lane; and I will walk up with you if you'll
let me.'
"I think my nearest way will be up the little path
that leads out of Swain's Lane. You know it, I
expect?”
"Yes. It is locally known as Love Lane: it leads
to the crest of the hill."
"That is right. You shall see me to the top of it.
and then I'll take myself off and leave you in peace.
We had by this time crossed Parliament Hill
Fields and passed the end of the Highgate Ponds.


A LONELY WOMAN
219
A few paces more brought us out at the top of the
Grove and a few more to the entrance of the rather
steep and very narrow lane. For some time Mrs.
Samway walked by my side in silence, and, by the
reflective way in which she looked at the ground
before her, seemed to be wrapped in meditation,
which I did not disturb. As we entered the lane,
however, she looked up at me thoughtfully and
said:
“I wonder what you think of me, Dr. Jardine.”
It was a fine opening for a compliment, but, some-
how, compliments seemed out of place, after what
had passed between us. I accordingly evaded the
question with another.
“What do you suppose I think of you?”
“I don't know. I hardly know what I think of
myself. You would be quite justified in thinking
me rather forward, to waylay you in this deliberate
fashion."
“Well, I don't. Your curiosity about the Folke-
stone affair seems most natural and reasonable."
“I'm glad you don't think me forward,” she said;
"but, as to my curiosity, I am beginning to doubt
whether it was that alone that determined me of a
sudden to come here and talk to you. I half suspect
that I was feeling a little more solitary than usual,
and that some instinct told me that you would be
kind to me and say nice things and pet me just a
little as you have done."
I was deeply touched by her pathetic little con-
fession; so deeply that I could find nothing to say
in return.
“You don't think any the worse of me," she
continued, "for coming to you and begging a little
sympathy and friendship?"
As she spoke, she looked up very wistfully and ear-


220
A SILENT WITNESS
nestly in my face and rested her hand for a moment
on my arm.
I took it in mine and drew her arm
under my own as I replied:
“Of course I don't. Only I think it a wonder and
a shame that my poor friendship and sympathy
should be worth the consideration of a woman like
you."
She pressed my arm slightly, and after a little
interval said in a low voice with just the suspicion
of a tremor in it:
“You have been very kind to me, Dr. Jardine;
more kind than you know. I am very, very grateful
to you for taking what was really an intrusion so
nicely."
“It was not in the least an intrusion,” I pro-
tested; "and as to gratitude, a good many men
would be very delighted to earn it on the same
terms. You don't seem to set much value on your
own exceedingly agreeable society."
She smiled very prettily at this, and again we
walked on for a while up the slope without speaking.
Once she turned her head as if listening for some
sound from behind us, but our feet were making
so much noise on the loose gravel, and the sound
reverberated so much in the narrow space between
the wooden fences that I, at least, heard nothing.
Presently we turned a slight bend and came in sight
of the opening at the top of the hill, guarded by a
couple of posts. Within a few yards of the latter
she halted, and, withdrawing her hand from my arm,
turned round and faced me.
“We must say 'Good-bye' here," said she. “I
wonder if I shall ever see you again.'
For a moment I felt a strong impulse to propose
some future meeting at a definite date, but, for-
tunately, some glimmering of discretion-and per-
haps some thought of Sylvia-restrained me.


A LONELY WOMAN
221
soon.
"Why shouldn't you?" I asked.
“I don't know. But mine is rather a vagabond
existence, and I suppose you will be traveling about
I hope we shall meet again; but if we do
not, I shall always think of you as my friend, and
you will have a kind thought for. me sometimes,
won't you?”
“I shall indeed. I shall think of you very often
and hope that your life is brighter than it seems to
be now.
“Thank you,” she said earnestly; "and now
‘Good-bye!”
She held out her hand, and as I grasped it, she
looked in my face with the wistful, yearning expres-
sion that I had noticed before, and which so touched
me to the heart that, yielding to a sudden impulse,
I drew her to me and kissed her. Dim as was the
light of the fading winter's day, I could see that
she had, in an instant, turned scarlet. But she
was not angry; for, as she drew away from me,
shyly and almost reluctantly, she gave me one of
her prettiest smiles and whispered “Good-bye
again. Then she ran out between the posts, and,
turning once again-and still as red as a peony-
waved me a last farewell.
I stood in the narrow entrance looking out after
her with a strange mixture of emotions; pity, won-
der and admiration and a little doubt as to my
own part in the late transaction. For I had never
before kissed a married woman, and cooling judg-
ment did not altogether approve the new departure;
for if Mr. Samway was not all that he might be,
still he was Mr. Samway—and I wasn't. Never-
theless, I stood and watched my late companion
with very warm interest until she faded into the
dusk; and even then I continued to stand by the


222
A SILENT WITNESS
posts, gazing out into the waning twilight and
cogitating on our rather strange interview.
Suddenly my ear caught a sound from behind
me, down the lane; a sound which, while it set
my suspicion on the alert, brought a broad grin
to my face. It was what I suppose I must call a
stealthy footstep, but the stealthiness might have
stood for the very type and essence of futility, for,
as I have said, the ground sloped pretty steeply
and was covered with loose pebbles, whereby every
movement of the foot was rendered as audible as
a thunderclap. However, absurd as the situation
seemed-if the unseen person was really trying to
approach by stealth-it was necessary to be on
my guard. Moreover, if this should chance to be
the person with the nystagmus, the present seemed
to be an excellent opportunity for coming to some
sort of understanding with him.
Accordingly I wheeled about and began to walk
back down the lane. Instantly the steps--no
longer stealthy-began to retire. I quickened my
pace; the unknown and invisible eavesdropper
quickened his. Then I broke into a run, and so
did he, notwithstanding which, I think Í should
have had him but for an untoward accident. The
ground was not only sloping, but, under the loose
gravel, was as hard as stone. Consequently, the
foothold was none of the best, as I presently dis-
covered, for, as I raced down one of the steepest
slopes, the pebbles suddenly rolled away under my
foot and I lost my balance. But I did not fall
instantly. Half recovering, I flew forward, claw-
ing the air, stamping, staggering, kicking up the
gravel, and making the most infernal hubbub and
clatter, before I finally subsided into a sitting
posture on the pebbles. When I rose, the footsteps


A LONELY WOMAN
223
were no longer audible, though the lower end of
the lane was still some distance away.
I resumed my progress at a more sedate pace and
kept a sharp lookout for a possible ambush, though
the lane was too narrow, even in the darkness that
now pervaded it, to furnish much cover to an enemy.
Some distance down, I came to an opening in the
fence, where one or two boards had become loose,
and was half disposed to squeeze through and
explore. But I did not; for, on reflection, it oc-
curred to me that if the man was not there it would
be useless for me to go, while if he should be hiding
behind the fence it would be simply insane of me
to put my head through the hole.
When I emerged into the road at the bottom,
I looked about vaguely, but of course there was no
sign of the fugitive-nor, indeed, could I have
identified him if I had met him. I loitered about
undecidedly for a minute or two, and then, realizing
the futility of keeping a watch on the entrance of
the lane for a man whom I could not recognize,
and becoming conscious of a ravenous desire for
food, I made my way down the Grove in the direc-
tion of my lodgings.


EXIT DR. JARDINE
M
IV eagerness, had, after all, to be postponed
CHAPTER XV
Y second visit to “The Hawthorns," to
which I had looked forward with some
indefinitely. I say "had,” since, under
the circumstances, it appeared to be so unsafe that
I could not fairly take the risk that it involved.
I had made the engagement thoughtlessly, and, in
my preoccupation with Mrs. Samway, had not
realized the indiscretion to which I had committed
myself until I was brought back sharply to the
actual conditions by the incident in Love Lane
which I have mentioned. But after that I saw that
it would be the wildest folly to show myself in the
vicinity of Sylvia's house. Evidently the spy,
after we had given him the slip so neatly, had made
direct for my lodgings and lurked in the neighbor-
hood, and there it must have been that he had
picked me up again as I passed with Mrs. Samway.
Of course it was possible that the unseen person
in the lane was not really shadowing me at all;
but his stealthy approach, his hasty retreat and his
mysterious disappearance left me in very little
doubt on the subject.
I was not very nervous about this enigmatical
person on my own account. In spite of my alarm-
ing experiences, I found it difficult to take him as
seriously as I should have done, and still felt a
quite unjustifiable confidence in my capability of
taking care of myself. But on Sylvia's account I
(224)


EXIT DR. JARDINE
225
was exceedingly uneasy.
The interest that this
man had shown in the unlucky little ornament that
she wore associated itself in my mind most dis-
agreeably with her mysterious and terrifying adven-
ture in Millfield Lane, and made me feel that it
would be sheer insanity for me to go from my
house to hers and so possibly give this unknown
villain the clue to her whereabouts.
This conclusion, at which I had arrived over-
night, was confirmed on the following morning;
for, having taken a brisk walk out in the direction
of Harrow, and having kept a very sharp lookout,
I was distinctly conscious of the fact that there
always appeared to be a man in sight. I never
got near him and was not able to recognize him,
but at intervals throughout the morning he con-
tinually reappeared in the distance, even on the
comparatively solitary country roads and the hedge-
divided meadows.
It was excessively irritating. Yet what could I
do? Even if I could have identified him with the
man who had apparently shadowed me before, I
really had nothing against him. And cogitating
on the matter, with no little annoyance, I deter-
mined to take counsel with Thorndyke, and mean-
while to avoid the neighborhood of "The Haw-
thorns.'
After lunch I wrote a letter to Sylvia, briefly
explaining the state of affairs, and having given it
to our maid to deliver, I took the precaution to
go out and saunter towards Kentish Town with the
object of engaging the spy's attention and prevent-
ing him from following my messenger to North
End. The rest of the day I spent at home and
occupied my time in writing a long letter to Thorn-
dyke in which I gave a pretty detailed account of
15


EXIT DR. JARDINE
227
carrying a green canvas suitcase in which were
packed the necessaries for a brief stay away from
home, and bearing in my pocket the incriminating
letter.
I walked slowly as far as the Junction Road in
order to give any pursuer a fair opportunity to
take up the chase and to make the necessary obser-
vations on my tasteful turn-out. At the Junction
I waited for a tram and carefully abstained from
staring about in a manner which would have em-
barrassed any person who might wish unobserved
to share the conveyance with me; and from the
terminus at Euston Road I proceeded in leisurely
fashion on foot, still resisting the temptation to
look about and see if I had picked up a companion
by the way.
Salter's Club was domiciled in a typical West
End house situated in a quiet street of similar
houses, graced at one end by a cabstand. I timed
my arrival with such accuracy that a neighboring
church-clock struck one as I ascended the steps;
and on my entering the hall, I was met by an
elderly man in a quiet livery who seemed to expect
me, for, when I mentioned Thorndyke's name, he
asked, “Dr. Jardine, sir?" and, hardly waiting for
my reply, showed me to the cloak-room.
“Dr. Thorndyke," said he, "will be with you
in a few minutes. When you have washed, I will
show you to the dining-room where he wished you
to wait for him."
I was just a little surprised at even this short
delay, for Thorndyke was the soul of punctuality.
However, I had not to wait long. I had been sit-
ting less than three minutes at a small table laid
for two in the deep bay window, scanning the street
through the wire-gauze blinds, when he arrived.


EXIT DR. JARDINE
229
The lunch was on a scale that my youthful appe-
tite approved strongly, though the number of
courses and irrelevant, time-consuming kickshaws
struck me as rather unusual. · And I never saw a
man eat so slowly and delay a meal so much as
Thorndyke did on that occasion. I believe that it
took him fully twenty minutes to consume a fried
sole; and even then he created a further delay by
drawing my attention to the skeleton on his plate
as an illustration of inherited deformity adjusted to
special environmental conditions. But all the time,
whether eating or talking, I noticed that his eye
continually traveled up and down the stretch of
street that was visible through the wire blinds.
“You haven't told me why you sent for me,
sir,” I said, after waiting patiently for him to open
the subject.
“I dare say you have guessed,” he replied; "but
we may as well thrash the matter out now. You
realize that you are running an enormous and un-
necessary risk by going abroad with this man at
your heels?"
"Well, I don't suppose he is following me about
from sheer affection."
"No. I thought it possible that he might be
a plain-clothes policeman, but I have ascertained
that he is not. Who he is we don't know, but we
have the strongest reasons for suspecting his in-
tentions. There have been three very determined
attempts on your life. They were all made with
such remarkable caution and foresight that, though
they failed, practically no traces have been left.
Those attempts imply a strong motive, though
to us an unknown one; and that motive, presum-
ably, still exists. Your enemy may well be getting
desperate and may be prepared to take greater


230
A SILENT WITNESS
risks to get rid of you; and if he is, the chances
are that he will succeed sooner or later. Murder
isn't very difficult to a cool-headed man who means
business.”
“Then what do you propose, sir?”.
“I propose that you disappear from your ordinary
surroundings and come and stay, for a time, at my
chambers in the Temple.”
This was no more than I had expected, but my
jaw dropped considerably, notwithstanding.
“It's awfully good of you, sir,” I stammered-
and so, to be sure, it was “but don't you think
it would be simpler to turn the tables on this
Johnnie and shadow him!”
“An excellent idea, Jardine, and one, I may
say, that I am acting on at this moment. But
there isn't so much in it as you seem to think.
Supposing we identify this man and even run him
to earth? What then? We have nothing against
him. We know of no crime that has been com-
mitted. We may suspect that the man whom
you saw at Hampstead had been murdered. But
we can't prove it. We can't produce the body or
even prove that the man was dead.
And we
couldn't connect this person with the affair because
nobody was known to be connected with it. I
should like to know who this man is, but I don't
want to put him on his guard; and above all, I
can't agree to your going about as a sort of live-
bait to enable us to locate him. By the way, that
man on the opposite side of the street is the one
whom I selected as being probably your attendant.
Apparently I was right, as this is the third time he
has passed. Do you recognize him?”
I looked attentively at the uncharacteristic figure
on the farther side of the street, but could find
nothing familiar in his appearance.


EXIT DR. JARDINE
233
your pocket-never mind about your razorand
let me try on your hat, in case we have to pad the
lining. Then, when you have seen your friend
start off in pursuit and are sure the coast is clear,
you will make straight for my chambers and wait
there for me."
“And supposing the chappie doesn't start off in
pursuit? Supposing he twigs the imposture?”
“Then the plain-clothes man will go out and
threaten to arrest him for loitering with intent to
commit a felony. That would soon move him on
out of the neighborhood, and the officer might
accompany him some distance and try to get his
address. Meanwhile, you would be off to King's
Bench Walk."
“But wouldn't it be simpler to run the Johnnie
in, in any case. Then we should know all about
him."
“No, it wouldn't do. The police wouldn't actually
make an arrest without an information; and, if
they did proceed, they would want me to appear.
That wouldn't suit me at all. Until we obtain
some fresh evidence, I don't want this man to get
any suspicion that the case is being investigated.
And now I think the time has come for a move:
Let us go to the cloak-room and see if your hat
fits me sufficiently well."
It was not a good fit, being just a shade small;
but, as it was a soft felt, this was not a vital defect.
The overcoat fitted well enough, though a trifle
long in the sleeves, and, when Thorndyke was fully
arrayed in this borrowed plumage, his back view,
so far as I could judge, was indistinguishable from
my own.
"If you will take out your toothbrush and hand
me your suitcase," said he, “I will send for a han-


234
A SILENT WITNESS
som, and then we will watch the progress of events
from the dining-room window."
I handed him the green canvas case and we
returned to the dining-room; and there, when he
had ordered the cab, we took up a position at the
window, screened from observation by the wire
blinds.
“Our friend,” said Thorndyke, "was walking
towards the right hand end of the street when we
saw him last. As the cabstand is at the left hand
end, we may hope to look upon his face once again.'
As he spoke, the air was rent by the shriek of
the cab whistle, and the leading hansom began
immediately to bear down on the club. It had
hardly come to rest at our door when a figure
appeared from the opposite direction, advancing at
a brisk walk on our side of the road. I recognized
him instantly as the man to whom Thorndyke had
directed my attention, and watched him closely, as
he approached, to see if I could identify him with
the man who had shadowed Sylvia and me at the
picture gallery; but, though he passed within a
few yards of the window, and I felt no doubt that
he was the same man, I could trace no definite
resemblance. It is true that while actually passing
the club he averted his face somewhat; but I had
a good view of him within an easy distance, and the
face that I then saw was certainly not the face of
the man at the gallery. The skilfulness of the make-
up-assuming it to be really a disguise—was in-
credible, and I remarked on it to Thorndyke.
“Yes," he agreed, "a really artistic make-up is
apt to surprise the uninitiated. And that reminds
me that Polton has instructions to make a few
trifling alterations in your own appearance.
I stared at him aghast.
"You don't mean to


EXIT DR. JARDINE
235
say,” I exclaimed, “that you contemplate making
me up?''
“We won't discuss the question now," he replied
a little evasively. “You talk it over with Polton.
It is time for me to go now, as our quarry has con-
siderately acted up to our expectations. He little
knows what confusion of our plans he would have
occasioned by simply staying at the other end of
the street."
The spy had, in fact, now halted opposite the cab-
stand and was apparently making some notes in a
pocketbook, facing, meanwhile, in our direction.
With a few parting instructions to me, Thorndyke
picked up the suitcase and hurried out, and I saw
him dart down the steps with his face turned
somewhat to the right-and stand for a few seconds
at the edge of the pavement with his back to the
cabstand, but in full view, looking at his watch as
if considering some appointment. Suddenly he
sprang into the cab and, pushing up the trap, gave
the driver his instructions and handed up the fare.
At the same moment I saw the unknown shadower
hail a hansom, and, scrambling to the footboard,
give some brief directions to the driver. Then
Thorndyke's cabman touched his horse with the
whip, and away he went at a smart trot; but hardly
had the cab turned the first corner when the second
hansom rattled past the club in hot pursuit.
I was about to turn away from the window when
a tall, well-dressed man ran down the steps and
immediately signaled to the cabstand with his stick.
Thinking it probable that this was the plain-clothes
policeman, I stopped to watch; and when I had
seen him enter the cab and drive off in the same
direction as the other two, I decided that the show
was over and that it was time for me to take my


EXIT DR. JARDINE
237
Polton rubbed his hands, and his face became
more crinkly than ever. “The Doctor instructed
me,' he replied, looking at me hungrily and
obviously making a mental inventory of my fea-
tures, "to effect certain slight alterations in your
outward personality.”
"Oh, did he?" said I. “And what does he mean
by that? Does he mean that you are to make me
up as an old woman or a nigger minstrel?”
“Not at all, sir,” replied Polton. “Neither of
those characters would be at all suitable. They
would occasion remark, which it is our object to
avoid; and as to a negro minstrel, his presence in
chambers would undoubtedly be objected to by the
benchers."
"But,” I expostulated, "why any disguise at all,
if I am to be boxed up in these chambers? The
chappie isn't likely to come and look through the
keyhole.
“He wouldn't see anything if he did,” said Polton.
"I fitted these locks. But, you see, sir, many
strangers come to these chambers; and then, too,
you might like to take a little exercise about the Inn
or the gardens. That would probably be quite safe
if you were unrecognizable, but otherwise, I should
think, inadmissible. And really, sir,” he continued
persuasively, “if you do a thing at all you may as
well do it thoroughly. The Doctor wishes you to
disappear; then disappear completely. Don't do it
by halves.”
I could not but admit to myself that this was
reasonable advice. Nevertheless, I grumbled a little
sulkily: “It seems to me that Dr. Thorndyke is
making a lot of unnecessary fuss. It is absurd for
an able-bodied man to be sneaking into a hiding-
place and disguising himself like a runaway thief."


238
A A SILENT WITNESS
“I can offer no opinion on that, sir,” said Polton;
"but you're wrong about the Doctor.
He is a
cautious man, but he is not nervous or fussy. You
would be wise to act as he thinks best, I am sure.”
"Very well,” I said; “I won't be obstinate.
When do you want to begin on me?"
“I should like,” replied Polton, brightening up
wonderfully at my sudden submission, “to have you
ready for inspection by the time that the Doctor
returns. If agreeable to you, sir, I would proceed
immediately."
"Then in that case," said I, "we had better
adjourn to the green-room forthwith.”
“If you please, sir,” replied Polton; and with this,
having opened the door and cautiously inspected
the landing, he conducted me up the stairs to the
floor above, the rooms of which appeared to be fitted
as workshops and laboratories. In one of the
former, which appeared to be Polton's own special
den, I saw my watch hanging from a nail, with a
rating table pinned above it, and proceeded to claim
it.
“I suppose, sir," said Polton, reluctantly taking it
from its nail and surrendering it to me, “as you are
going to reside on the premises and I can keep it
under observation, you may as well wear it. The
present rate is plus one point three seconds daily.
And now I will trouble you to sit down on this stool
and take off your collar."
I did as he bade me, and, meanwhile, he turned
up his cuffs and stood a little way off, surveying me
as a sculptor might survey a bust on which he was
at work. Then he fetched a large cardboard box,
the contents of which I could not see, and fell to
work.
His first proceeding was to oil my hair thor-


240
A SILENT WITNESS
The process was just completed and he had stepped
back once more to admire his work when an electric
bell rang softly in the adjoining room.
“There's the Doctor,” he remarked. “I'm glad
we are ready for him. Shall we go down and sub-
mit our work for his inspection?”
I assented readily, having some hopes that Thorn-
dyke would veto the beard, and we descended
together to the sitting-room, where we found that
Jervis and his principal had arrived together. As
to the former, he greeted my entrance by staggering
back several paces with an expression of terror, and
then seated himself on the edge of the table and
laughed with an air of enjoyment that was almost
offensive; particularly to Polton, who stood by my
side, rubbing his hands and smiling with devilish
satisfaction.
“I assume,” Thorndyke said, gravely, “that this
is our friend Jardine."
"It isn't,” said Jervis. “It's the shopwalker from
Wallis'. I recognized him instantly."
“Look here,” I said, with some heat, “it's all
very well for you to make me up like Charley's
Aunt and then jeer at me, but what's the use of it?
The fifth of November's past.
“My dear Jardine," Thorndyke said, soothingly,
"you are confusing your sensations with your
appearance. I daresay that make-up is rather
uncomfortable, but it is completely successful, and
I must congratulate Polton; for the highest aim of
a disguise is the utterly commonplace, and I assure
you that you are now a most ordinary-looking
person. Fetch the looking-glass from the office,
Polton, and let him see for himself.”
I gazed into the mirror which Polton held up to
me with profound surprise. There was nothing in


EXIT DR. JARDINE
241
the least grotesque or unusual in the face that
looked out at me, only it was the face of an utter
stranger; and, as Thorndyke had said, a perfectly
commonplace stranger, at whom no one would look
twice in the street. Grudgingly, I acknowledged
the fact, but still objected to the beard.
“Do you think it is really necessary, sir, in addi-
tion to the other disfigurements?"
“Yes, I do," replied Thorndyke. “It is only a
temporary expedient, because, in a fortnight, your
own beard will have grown enough to serve with a
little artificial re-enforcement. And," he continued,
as Polton retired with a gratified smile, “I am
anxious that your disappearance shall be complete.
It is not only a question of your safety—although
that is very urgent, and I feel myself responsible for
you, as we are not appealing to the police. There
are other issues. Assuming, as we do assume, that
some crime has been committed, the lapse of time
must inevitably cause some of the consequences of
that crime to develop. If the man whose body you
saw at Hampstead was really murdered, he must
presently be missed and inquired for.
Then we
shall learn who he was and perhaps we may gather
what was the motive of the crime. Then, your
secret enemy will be left unemployed and may
produce some fresh evidence for he can't wait
indefinitely for your reappearance. And, finally,
certain inquiries which I am making may set us on
the right track. And
And if they do, you must remem-
ber, Jardine, that you are probably the sole witness
to certain important items of evidence; so you must
be preserved in safety as a matter of public policy,
apart from your own prejudices in favor of remain-
ing alive.”
"I didn't know that you were actually working at
16


242
A SILENT WITNESS
the case," I said. “Have you been following up
that man Gill of the mineral water works."
“I followed him up to the vanishing point. Не
has gone and left no trace; and I have been unable
to get any description of him.”
“Then," said I, "if it is allowable to ask the
question, in what direction have you been making
inquiries?”
"I have been interesting myself," Thorndyke
replied, "in the other case; that of your patient,
Mr. Maddock, as the attacks on you seemed to
be associated with his neighborhood rather than
with that of Hampstead. I have examined his will
at Somerset House and am collecting information
about the persons who benefited by its provisions.
Especially, I am making some inquiries about a
legatee who lives in New York, and concerning
whom I am rather curious. I can't go into further
details just now, but you will see that I am keeping
the case in hand, and you must remember that at
any moment fresh information may reach me from
other sources. My practice is a very peculiar one,
and there are few really obscure cases that are not,
sooner or later, brought to me for an opinion.
“And, meanwhile, I am to eat the bread of idle-
ness here and wait on events."
“You won't be entirely idle,” Thorndyke replied.
“We shall find you some work to do, and you will
extend your knowledge of medico-legal practice.
You write shorthand fairly well, don't you?''
“Yes; and I can draw a little, if that is of any
use.
"Both accomplishments are of use, and, even if
they are not, we should have to exercise them for
the sake of appearances. It will certainly become
known that you are here, so we had better make no
92


EXIT DR. JARDINE
243
secret of it, but find you such occupation as will
account for your presence. And, as you will have
to meet strangers now and again, we must find you
a name. What do you think of William Morgan
Howard'?"
“It will do as well as any other," I replied.
“Very well, then William Morgan Howard let it
be. And, in case you might forget your alias, as
the crooks are constantly doing, we will drop the
name of Jardine and call you Howard even when we
are alone.
It will save us all from an untimely
slip."
To this arrangement also I agreed with a sour
smile, and so, with some physical discomfort in the
ghborhood of the lower jaw, and a certain relish
of the novelty and absurdity of my position, I
placed myself, under the name of Howard, on the
roster of Thorndyke's establishment.


CHAPTER XVI
ENTER FATHER HUMPERDINCK
O
N the day following my-and Thorndyke's-
masterly retreat from Salter's Club, the
plain-clothes officer called to make his
report; and even before he spoke I judged
from his rather sheepish expression that he had
failed. And so it turned out. He had waited in
the porter's lodge, he told us, until midnight, keep-
ing a watch on the watcher, who, for his part,
lurked in the street, always keeping in sight of the
hospital, and whiling away the time by gazing into
the shop windows. The spy had evidently failed
to recognize Thorndyke, for when the latter left the
hospital in company with one of the physicians, he
had given only a passing glance at the open carriage
in which the two men sat.
After the shops had shut, the persevering shad-
ower had occupied himself with a sort of dismal
sentry-go up and down the street, disappearing into
the darkness and reappearing at regular intervals.
Once or twice the plain-clothes man went out and
followed his quarry in his perambulations, but not
considering it prudent to expose himself too much
to view, he remained mostly in the Lodge. It was
after one of these sallies that the mischance
occurred. Returning to the Lodge, he saw the spy
pass the gates and disappear up the dark street;
he looked, after the usual interval, for him to
reappear. But the interval passed and there was
no reappearance.
Then the officer hurried out in
(244)


ENTER FATHER HUMPERDINCK 245
search of his quarry, but found only an empty
street. Even the apparently inexhaustible patience
of the spy had given out at last. And so the quest
had ended.
I cannot say that Thorndyke impressed me as
being deeply disappointed; in fact, I thought that
he seemed, if anything, rather relieved at his
emissary's failure. This was Jervis' opinion also,
and he had no false delicacy about expressing it.
"Well,” Thorndyke replied, “as the fellow thrust
himself right under my nose, I could hardly do less
than make some sort of an attempt to find out who
he is. But I don't particularly want to know.
My investigations are proceeding from quite another
direction; and you see, Jervis, how awkward it
might have been to have this person on our hands.
We could only charge him with loitering with
felonious intent, and we couldn't prove the intent
after all; for we can't produce any evidence con-
necting this man with the three attempted murders.
He may not be the same man at all.
And I cer-
tainly don't want to go into the witness-box just
now, and still less do I want my new clerk, Mr.
Howard, put into that position. I don't want to
take any action until I have the case quite complete
and am in a position to make a decisive move.
“The truth is,” said Jervis, addressing me con-
fidentially in a stage whisper, "Thorndyke hates the
idea of spoiling a really juicy problem by merely
arresting the criminal and pumping his friends. He
looks on such a proceeding much as a Master of
Fox-hounds would look on the act of poisoning a
fox."
Thorndyke smiled indulgently at his junior.
“There is such a thing," said he, “as failing to
poison a fox and only making him too unwell to


246
A SILENT WITNESS
leave his residence. A premature prosecution is apt
to fail; and then the prisoner has seen all the cards
of his adversaries. At present I am playing against
an unseen adversary, but I am hoping that I, in my
turn, am unseen by him, and I am pretty certain
that he has no idea what cards I hold.”
“Gad!” exclaimed Jervis, “then he is in much the
same position as I am.” And with this the subject
dropped.
The first week of my residence in Thorndyke's
chambers was quite uneventful, and was mainly
occupied in settling down to the new conditions.
My letters were sent on by Mrs. Blunt to the
hospital, whence they were brought by my principal
-as I may now call my quondam teacher-with
the exception of Sylvia's, which we had agreed were
to be sent to the chambers enclosed in an envelope
addressed to Thorndyke.
At first, I had feared that the confinement would
be unendurable; but the reality proved to be much
less wearisome than I had anticipated. A horizontal
bar rigged up by Polton in the laboratory, gave me
the means of abundant exercise of one kind; and in
the early mornings, before the gates of the Inn were
opened, I made it my daily practice to trot round
the precincts for an hour at a time, taking the
circuit from our chambers through Crown Office
Road to Fountain Court and back by way of Pump
Court and the Cloisters, to the great benefit of my
health and the mild surprise of the porters and
laundresses.
Nor was I without occupation in the daytime.
Besides an exhaustively detailed account of all the
remarkable experiences that had befallen me of
late, which I wrote out at Thorndyke's request, I
had a good deal of clerical work of one kind and


ENTER FATHER HUMPERDINCK 247
another, and was frequently employed, when clients
called, in exhibiting my skill as a stenographer;
taking down oral statements or making copies of
depositions or other documents which were read
over to me by Thorndyke or Jervis.
It was the exercise of these latter activities that
introduced me to a certain Mr. Marchmont, and
through him to some new and rather startling
experiences. Mr. Marchmont was a solicitor, and,
as I gathered, an old client of Thorndyke's; for,
when he called one evening, about ten days after
my arrival, with a bagful of documents, he made
sundry references to former cases, by which I under-
stood that he and Thorndyke had been pretty
frequently associated in their professional affairs.
“I have got a lot of papers here,” he said, open-
ing the bag, “of which I suppose I ought to have
had copies made; but there hasn't been time and I
am afraid there won't be, as I have to return them
tomorrow. But perhaps if you run your eye over
them, you will see what it is necessary to remember
and make a few notes."
“I think,” said Thorndyke, “that my friend, Mr.
Howard, will be able to help us by taking down the
essentials in shorthand. Let me introduce you.
Mr. Howard is very kindly assisting me for a time
by relieving me of some of the extra clerical work."
Mr. Marchmont bowed, and as we shook hands,
looked at me, as I thought, rather curiously; then
he extracted the papers from his bag, and spreading
them out on the table, briefly explained their
nature.
“There is no need,” said he, "to have copies or
them all, but I thought you had better see them.
Perhaps you will glance through them and see which
you think ought to be copied for reference."


248
A SILENT WITNESS
Thorndyke ran his eye over the documents, and
having made one or two brief notes of the contents
of some, which he then laid aside, collected the
remainder and began to read them out to me, while
I took down the matter verbatim, interpolating
Marchmont's comments and explanations on a
separate sheet of paper. The reading and the dis-
cussion occupied a considerable time, and before the
business was concluded, the Treasury clock had
struck half-past nine.
“It's getting late," said Marchmont, folding the
papers and putting them back in the bag. “I must
be going or you'll wish me at Halifax, if you aren't
doing so already.” He snapped the fastening of the
bag, and grasping the handle was about to lift it
from the table, when he appeared to recollect some
thing, for he let go the handle and once more faced
my principal
"By the way, Thorndyke,” said he, “there is a
matter on which I have wanted to consult you for
some time past, but couldn't get my client to agree.
It is a curious affair; quite in your line, I think; a
case of disappearance-not in the legal sense, as
creating a presumption of death, but disappearance
from ordinary places of resort with a very singular
change of habits, so far as I can learn. Possibly a
case of commencing insanity. I have been wanting
to lay the facts before you, but my client, who is a
Jesuit and as suspicious as the devil, insisted on
trying to ferret out the evidence for himself and
wouldn't hear of a consultation with you. Of
course he has failed completely, and now, I think,
he is more amenable.
“Are you in possession of the facts yourself?”
asked Thorndyke.
“No, I'm hanged if I am,” replied Marchmont.


ENTER FATHER HUMPERDINCK 249
"The case is concerned with a certain Mr. Rein-
hardt, who was a client of my late partner, poor
Wyndhurst. I never had anything to do with him;
and it unfortunately happens that our old clerk,
Bell—you remember Bell—who had charge of Mr.
Reinhardt's business, left us soon after poor Wynd-
hurst's death, so there is nobody in the office who has
any personal knowledge of the parties.”
“ỹou say it is a case of disappearance?” said
Thorndyke.
“Not exactly disappearance, but-well, it is a
most singular case. I can make nothing of it, and
neither can my worthy and reverend client, so,
as I say, he is now growing more amenable, and Í
think I shall be able to persuade him to come round
with me and take your opinion on such facts as we
have. Shall you be at home tomorrow evening?”
Yes, I can make an appointment for tomorrow,
after dinner, if you prefer that time.'
“We won't call it an appointment,” said March-
mont. “If I can overcome his obstinacy, I will
bring him round and take the chance of your being
in. But I think he'll come, as he is on his beam ends;
and if he does, I fancy you will find the little problem
exactly to your liking."
With this Mr. Marchmont took his departure,
leaving Thorndyke and me to discuss the various
legal aspects of disappearance and the changes of
habit and temperament that usher in an attack of
mental alienation. I could see that the solicitor's
guarded references to an obscure and intricate case
had aroused Thorndyke's curiosity to 'no small
extent, for, though he said little on the subject, it
evidently remained in his mind, as I judged by the
care with which he planned the disposal of his time
of the following day and the little preparations


250
A SILENT WITNESS
that he made for the reception of his visitors. Nor
was Thorndyke the only expectant member of our
little establishment. Jervis also, having caught the
scent of an interesting case, made it his business to
keep the evening free; and so it happened that when
eight o'clock struck on the Temple bell, it found us
gathered round the fire, chatting on indifferent sub-
jects, but all three listening for the expected tread
on the stairs.
"It is to be hoped,” said Jervis, "that our reverend
friend won't jib at the last moment. I always
expect something good from Marchmont. He
doesn't get flummoxed by anything simple or com-
monplace. I think we have had most of our really
thrilling cases through him. And seeing that Jardine
has laid in two whole quarto note-blocks and put
those delightful extra touches to his already allur-
ing get-up
"There is no such person here as Jardine,” Thorn-
dyke interrupted.
“I beg his pardon. Mr. Howard, I should have
said. But listen! There are two persons coming
up the stairs. You had better take your place at
the table, Ja—Howard, and look beastly business-
like, or the reverend gentleman will want you
chucked out, and then you'll lose the entertainment."
I hurried across to the table and had just seated
myself and taken up a pen when the brass knocker
on our inner door rattled out its announcement.
Thorndyke strode across and threw the door open,
and as Mr. Marchmont entered with his client Í
looked at the latter inquisitively. But only for a
single instant. Then I looked down and tried to
efface myself utterly; for Mr. Marchmont's client
was none other than the cleric with whom I had
traveled from Folkestone to London.


ENTER FATHER HUMPERDINCK 251
The solicitor ushered in his client with an air of
but half-concealed triumph and proceeded with
exaggerated geniality to do the honors of introduc-
tion.
“Let me make you known to one another, gentle-
men,” said he. “This is the Very Reverend Father
Humperdinck. These gentlemen are Dr. Thorn-
dyke, Dr. Jervis and Mr. Howard, who will act, on
this occasion, as the recording angel to take down in
writing the particulars of your very remarkable
story.
Father Humperdinck bowed stiffly.
He was
evidently a little disconcerted at finding so large
an assembly, and glanced at me, in particular, with
undisguised disfavor, while I, my oiled hair, deformed
eyebrows and false beard notwithstanding, perspired
with anxiety lest he should recognize me. But
however unfavorably the reverend father may have
viewed our little conclave, Mr. Marchmont, who had
been watching him anxiously, gave him no chance
of raising objections, but proceeded to open the
matter forthwith.
“I have not brought any digest or précis of the
case," said he, “because I know you prefer to hear
the facts from the actual parties. But I had better
give you a brief outline of the matter of our inquiry.
The case is concerned with a Mr. Vitalis Reinhardt,
who has been closely associated with Father Humper-
dinck for very many years past, and who has now,
without notice or explanation, disappeared from his
ordinary places of resort, ceased from communica-
tion with his friends, and adopted a mode of life
quite alien from and inconsistent with his previous
habits. Those are the main facts, stated in general
terms."
“And the inquiry to which you referred?” said
Thorndyke.


252
A SILENT WITNESS
“Concerns itself with three questions,” replied
Marchmont, and he proceeded to check them off
on his fingers. “First, is Vitalis Reinhardt alive
or dead? Second, if he is alive, where is he? Third,
having regard to the singular change in his habits,
is his conduct such as might render it possible to
place him under restraint or to prove him unfit to
control his own affairs?”
“To certify him as insane, if I may put it bluntly,"
said Thorndyke. “That question could be decided
only on a full knowledge of the nature of the changes
in this person's habits, with which, no doubt, you
are prepared to furnish us. But what instantly
strikes me in your epitome of the proposed inquiry
is this: you raise the question whether Mr. Reinhardt
is alive or dead, and then you refer to certain changes
in his habits; but, since a man must be alive to have
any habits at all, the two questions seem to be
mutually irreconcilable in relation to the same group
of facts.'
Father Humperdinck nodded approvingly.
“Zat is chust our great diffigulty," said he.
“Zome zings make me suspect zat my friend Rein-
hardt is dead; zome ozzer zings make me feel certain
zat he is alife. I do not know vich to zink. I am
gombletely buzzled.”
"Perhaps," said Thorndyke, "the best plan
would be for Father Humperdinck to give us a
detailed account of his relations with Mr. Reinhardt
and of the latter gentleman's habits as they are
known to him; after which we could discuss any
questions that suggest themselves and clear up any
points that seem to be obscure. What do you say,
Marchmont?"
"It will be a long story,” Marchmont replied,
doubtfully.


ENTER FATHER HUMPERDINCK 253
“So much the better," rejoined Thorndyke.
“It will give us the more matter for consideration.
I would suggest that Father Humperdinck tells us
the story in his own way and that Mr. Howard takes
down the statement. Then we shall have the prin-
cipal data and can pursue any issue that seems to
invite further investigation."
To this proposal Marchmont agreed, a little reluc-
tantly, fortifying himself for the ordeal by lighting
a cigar; and Father Humperdinck, having cast a
somewhat disparaging glance at me, began his
account of his missing friend, which I took down
verbatim, and which I now reproduce shorn of the
speaker's picturesque but rather tiresome peculiar-
ities of pronunciation.
“My acquaintance with Vitalis Reinhardt began
more than forty years ago, when we were both
school-boys in the Jesuits' house at Louvain. But
I did not see much of him then, as I was preparing
for the novitiate while he was on the secular side.
In spite of his German name, Vitalis was looked upon
as an English boy, for his father had married a rich
English lady and was settled in England; and Vitalis,
being the only child, had very great expectations.
When he left school I lost sight of him for some
years, and it was only after the war had broken
out between Germany and France that we met again.
I had then just been ordained and was attached as
chaplain to a Bavarian regiment; he had come out
from England as a volunteer to attend the sick and
wounded; and so we met, soon after the battle
of Saarbrück, in the wards of a temporary hospital.
But our career in the field was not a long one. Less
than a month after Saarbrück, our little force met a
French division and had to retreat, leaving a number
of men and guns and all the wounded in the hands


254
A SILENT WITNESS
of the enemy. Both of us were among the prisoners,
and Vitalis was one of the wounded, for, just as the
retreat began, a French bullet struck him in the
right hip. We were both taken to Paris with the
rest of the prisoners, and there, in the hospital for
wounded prisoners, I was allowed to visit him.
“His wound was a severe one.
The bullet had
entered deeply and lodged behind the bone of the
hip, so that the repeated efforts of the surgeons to
extract it not only failed, but caused great pain
and made the wound worse. From day to day poor
Vitalis grew thinner and more yellow, and we could
see plainly that if no change occurred, the end must
come quite soon. So the doctors said and so Vitalis
himself felt.
“Then it came to me that, if the skill of man
failed us, we should ask for help from above. It
happened that I possessed a relic of the blessed
Saint Vincent de Paul, which was contained in a
small gold reliquary, and which I had been per-
mitted
by the Father General to keep. I proposed
to Vitalis that we should apply the relic and make a
special appeal to the saint for help, and also that
he should promise to dedicate some part of his great
possessions to the service of God.
“He agreed readily, for he had always been a
deeply pious man. Accordingly he made the promise
as I had suggested, we offered up special prayers
to the saint, and, with the permission of the sur-
geons, I attached the reliquary to the dressings of
the wound, praying that it should avail to draw out
the bullet."
“And did it?" asked Marchmont in a tone which
evidently did not escape the observant Jesuit, for
that nimble-witted gentleman turned sharply on the
lawyer and replied with severe emphasis:


256
A SILENT WITNESS
“Why not Saint Vincent Paul?” asked March-
mont.
“Because there was already a society named after
that saint, and because Saint Joseph was a man of
eminent charity. But I shall not weary you with a
history of our society. It was founded and blessed
by His Holiness the Pope; it prospered, and it still
prospers to the glory of God and to the benefit and
relief of the sick, the poor, and the suffering. At
first Vitalis paid all the costs, and he has been a
generous benefactor ever since.'
“This is all extremely interesting,” said March-
mont, “but-you will excuse my asking-has it any
bearing on your friend's disappearance?”
“Yes, sir, it has,” replied Father Humperdinck,
as you shall berceive ven I my narradive gondinue.'
Mr. Marchmont bowed, and Father Humper-
dinck, quite undisturbed by the interruption, "gon-
dinued his narradive."
“Our first house was established in Belgium, near
Brussels, and Vitalis came to live with us in com-
munity. He did not regularly join the society or
take any vows, but he lived with us as one of our-
selves and wore the habit of a lay brother when in the
house and the dress of one when he went abroad.
This he has continued to do ever since. Though
bound by no vows, he has lived the life of a pro-
fessed religious by choice, occupying an ordinary
cell for sleeping and taking his meals at the refectory
table. But not always. From time to time he has
taken little holidays to travel about and mix with
the outer world. Sometimes he would come to
England to visit his relatives, and sometimes he
would spend a few weeks in one of the great cities
of the Continent, looking over the museums and
picture-galleries. He was greatly interested in art


ENTER FATHER HUMPERDINCK 257
and liked to frequent the society of painters and
sculptors, of whom he knew several; and one, in
particular-an English painter named Burton, whose
acquaintance he made quite recently-he seemed
very much attached to, for he stayed with him at
Bruges for more than a month.
“When he came back from Bruges, he told me
that he purposed going to England to see his rela-
tives and to make certain arrangements with his
lawyers for securing a part of his property to our
Society. I had often urged him to do this, but
hitherto he had retained complete control of his
property and only paid the expenses of the Society
as they occurred. He was most generous, but, of
course, this was a bad arrangement, because, in
the event of his death, we should have been left
without the support that he had promised. It
seemed that while he was at Bruges he had discussed
this matter with Mr. Burton, who was a Catholic,
and that the Englishman also had advised him to
make a permanent provision for the Society. It
seemed that he had decided to divide his property
between our community and a cousin of his who lives
in England, a project of which I strongly approved.
After staying with us for a month or two, he left
for England with the purpose of making this arrange-
ment. That was in the middle of last September,
and I have not seen him since."
“Did he complete the arrangements that he had
mentioned?” Thorndyke asked.
“No, he did not. He made certain arrangements
as to his property, but they were very different ones
from those he had proposed. But we shall come to
that presently. Let me finish my story.
"A few days after Vitalis left us, our oldest lay
brother was taken very seriously ill. I wrote to
17


258
A SILENT WITNESS
Vitalis, who was deeply attached to Brother Barthol-
omew, telling him of this, and, as I did not know
where he was staying, I sent the letter to his cousin's
house at Hampstead. He replied, on the eighteenth
of September, that he should return immediately.
He said that he was then booking his luggage and
paying his hotel bill; that he had to see his cousin
again, but that he would try to come by the night
train, or if he missed that, he would sleep at the
station hotel and start as early as possible on the
following day, the nineteenth. That was the last
I ever heard from him. He never came and has
never communicated with me since."
“You have made inquiries, of course?” said
Thorndyke.
“Yes. When he did not come, I wrote to his
lawyer, Mr. Wyndhurst, whom I knew slightly.
But Mr. Wyndhurst was dead and my letter was
answered by Mr. Marchmont. From him I learned
that Vitalis had called on him on the morning of the
nineteenth and made certain arrangements of which
he, perhaps, will tell you. Mr. Marchmont ascer-
tained that on the same day Vitalis' luggage was
taken from the cloak room in time to catch the
boat train. I have made inquiries and find that he
arrived at Calais, and I have succeeded in tracing
him to Paris, but there I have lost him. Where he
is now I am unable to discover.
“And now, before I finish my story, you had
better hear what Mr. Marchmont has to tell. He
has been very close with me, but you are a lawyer
and perhaps know better how to deal with lawyers.
Thorndyke glanced inquiringly at the solicitor,
who, in his turn, looked dubiously at the end of his
waning cigar.
“The fact is,” said he, “I am in a rather difficult


ENTER FATHER HUMPERDINCK 259
position. Mr. Reinhardt has employed me as his
solicitor, and I don't quite see my way to discussing
his private affairs without his authority.”
That is a perfectly correct attitude," said Thorn-
dyke, "and yet I am going to urge you to tell us
what passed at your interview with your client.
I can't go into particulars at present, but I will ask
you to take it from me that there are sound reasons
why you should; and I will undertake to hold
you immune from any blame for having done so.'
Marchmont looked sharply and with evidently
awakened interest at Thorndyke.
“I think I know what that means," he said, "and
I will take you at your word, having learned by
experience what your word is worth. But before
describing the interview, I had better let you know
how Reinhardt had previously disposed of his
property.
“About twelve years ago he got Wyndhurst to
draft a will for him by which a life interest in the
entire property was vested in his cousin, a Miss
Augusta Vyne, with reversion to her niece, Sylvia
Vyne, the only child of his cousin Robert. This
will was duly executed in our office.
“After that our firm had, until quite recently,
no special business to transact for Mr. Reinhardt
beyond the management of his investments. The
whole of his property—which was all personal-
was in our hands to invest, and our relations with
him were confined to the transfer of sums of money
to his bank when we received instructions from him
to effect such transfer. He never called at the office
and latterly there has been no one there who knew
him excepting Wyndhurst himself and the clerk
Bell.
“The next development occurred last September.


ENTER FATHER HUMPERDINCK 261
.
he merely intended to disassociate himself, person-
ally from it, and he suggested that any occasions
that might arise for pecuniary reasons should be
addressed to him under cover of M. Desiré.
“Finally, he desired me to transfer one thousand
pounds stock to his new agent seven days from the
date of our interview, and gave me an authority
in writing to that effect, in which he instructed me
to accept M. Desiré's receipt as a valid discharge.
“And you did so?” asked Thorndyke.
Certainly I did. And I hold M. Desiré's receipt
for the amount."
“Did you think it necessary to raise the question
of your client's identity, seeing that no one in the
office knew him personally?”
“No, I did not. The question did not arise.
There could not possibly be any doubt on the sub-
ject. He was an old client of the firm, and our
correspondence had been carried on under cover
of his cousin, Miss Vyne, who had known him all
his life. You remember that I wrote to him at
Miss Vyne's address, making the appointment for
the interview."
'And what happened next?”
“The next development was a letter from Father
Humperdinck asking if I could give him Mr. Rein-
hardt's address. Of course I could not, but I wrote
to M. Desiré asking him if he could give it to me.
Desiré replied that he did not, at the moment, know
where Mr. Reinhardt was, but would, if desired,
take charge of any communications and forward
them at the first opportunity. This statement may
or may not have been true, but I don't think we shall
get any more information out of Desiré. He is
Reinhardt's agent and will act on his instructions.
If Reinhardt has told him not to give anyone his


ENTER FATHER HUMPERDINCK 263
stances,' but I should rather say that I was guided
that way by the hand of Providence, for, in the
train
that brought me from Folkestone to London, I had
a most astonishing experience. In the carriage,
alone with me, there traveled a young man, a very
strange young man indeed. He was a very large
man-or, I should say, very high-and in appearance
rather fierce and wild. His clothes were good, but
they were disordered and stained with mud, as if
he had been drunk at night and had rolled in the
gutter. And this, I think, was the case, for soon
after we had started he began to turn out his pockets
on the seat of the carriage, as if to see whether he
had lost anything during his debauch. And then it
was that I saw a most astonishing thing. Among
the objects that this man took from his pockets and
laid on the seat, was the reliquary that I had given
so many years ago to Vitalis.
“I could not mistake it. Once it had been mine,
and I had been accustomed to see it almost daily
since. Moreover, the young man had the effrontery
to pass it to me that I might examine it, and I found
on it the very letters which I, myself, had caused to
be engraved on it. When I asked him where he had
obtained it, he told me that he had picked it up at
Hampstead, and he professed not to know what it
was. But his answers were very evasive and I did
not believe him.'
“Nevertheless," said Mr. Marchmont, "there was
nothing improbable in his statement. Mr. Reinhardt
had been at Hampstead and might have dropped it.”
“Possibly. But he would have taken measures
to recover it. He would not have left
He would not have left England until
he had found it. He was a rich man, and he would
have offered a large reward for this his most prized
possession."


264
A SILENT WITNESS
“You say," said Thorndyke, “that he habitually
carried this reliquary on his person. Can you tell
us how he carried or wore it?"
“That,” replied Father Humperdinck, “was what
I was coming to. The reliquary was a small gold
object with a ring at each end. It was meant, I
suppose, to be worn round the wrist, or perhaps
the neck, by means of a cord or chain attached to the
two rings, or to be inserted into a chaplet of devo-
tional beads. But this was not the way in which
Vitalis carried it. He possessed a small and very
beautiful crucifix which he set great store by, because
it was given to him by one of the fathers when
he left school, and which he used to wear suspended
from his neck by a green silk cord. Now, when I
gave him the reliquary, he caused a goldsmith to
link one of its rings to the ring of the crucifix and he
fastened the silk cord to the other ring, and so sus-
pended both the reliquary and the crucifix from his
neck."
“Did he wear them outside his clothing so that
they were visible?" Thorndyke asked.
"Yes, outside his waistcoat, so that they were not
only visible but very conspicuous when his coat was
unbuttoned. It was, of course, very unsuitable to
the dress of a lay brother, and I spoke to him about
it several times. But he was sometimes rather self-
willed, as you may judge by his refusal to settle an
endowment on the Society, and, naturally, as he was
not professed, I had no authority over him. But I
shall return presently to the reliquary. Now I
continue about this young man.
“When I had heard his explanation and decided
that he was telling me lies, I made a simple pretext
to discover his name and place of abode. With the
same effrontery, he gave me his card, which I have


ENTEP FATHER HUMPERDINCK 265
here, and which, you will see, is stained with mud,
owing, no doubt, to those wallowings in the mire of
which I have spoken."
He drew the card from his pocketbook and handed
it to Thorndyke, who read it gravely, and, pushing
it across the table to me, said, without moving a
muscle of his face:
“You had better copy it into your notes, Mr.
Howard, so that we may have the record complete.
I accordingly copied out my own name and address
with due solemnity and a growing enjoyment of the
situation, and then returned the card to Father
Humperdinck, who pocketed it carefully and re-
sumed:
"Having the name and address of this young man,
I telegraphed immediately to a private detective
bureau in Paris, asking to have sent to me, if possible,
a certain M. Foucault, who makes a speciality of
following and watching suspected persons. This
Foucault is a man of extraordinary talent. His
power of disguising himself is beyond belief and his
patience is inexhaustible. Fortunately he was
disengaged and came to me without delay, and, when
I had given him the name and address of this young
man, Jardine, and described him from my recollec-
tion of him, he set a watch on the house and found
that the man was really living there, as he had said,
and that he made a daily journey to the hospital of
St. Margaret's, where he seemed to have some
business, as he usually stayed there until evening.
"St. Margaret's!" exclaimed Marchmont. “Why
that is your hospital, Thorndyke. Do you happen
to know this man Jardine?"
“There is, or was, a student of that name, who
qualified some little time ago, and who is probably
the man Father Humperdinck is referring to. A tall



266
A SILENT WITNESS
“I saw
man; quite as tall, I should say, as my friend here,
Mr. Howard."
“I should say,” said Father Humperdinck, "that
the man, Jardine, is taller; decidedly taller. I
watched him as I walked behind him up the platform
at Charing Cross, and M. Foucault has shown him
to me since. But that matters not. Have you seen
the man, Jardine, lately, at the hospital?"
“Not very lately," Thorndyke replied.
him there nearly a fortnight ago, but that, I think,
was the last time."
“Ah!” exclaimed Humperdinck. "Exactly. But
I shall continue my story. For some time M.
Foucault kept a close watch on this man, but
discovered nothing fresh. He went to the hospital
daily, he came home and he stayed indoors the whole
evening. But at last there came a new discovery.
“One morning M. Foucault saw the man, Jardine,
come out of his house, dressed more carefully than
usual. From his house Foucault followed him to a
picture gallery in Leicester Square and went in after
him; and there he saw him meet a female, evidently
by a previous assignation. AND,” Father Humper-
dinck continued, slapping the table to emphasize the
climax of his story, "from-the-neck-of-that-
female — was - hanging – Vitalis - Reinhardt's—
CRUCIFIX!”
Having made this thrilling communication, our
reverend client leaned back to watch its effect on his
audience. I am afraid he must have been a little
disappointed, for Thorndyke was habitually impas-
sive in his exterior, and as for Jervis and me, we were
fully occupied in maintaining a decent and befitting
gravity. But Marchmont-the only person present
who was not already acquainted with the incident-
saved the situation by exclaiming:


ENTER FATHER HUMPERDINCK 267
“Very remarkable! Very remarkable indeed!”
"It is more than remarkable,” said Father Hum-
perdinck. “It is highly suspicious. You observe
that the reliquary and the crucifix had been linked
together. Now they are separated; and since both
the rings of the reliquary were unbroken, it follows
that the ring of the crucifix must have been cut
through and a new one made, by which to suspend
it."
“I don't see anything particularly suspicious in
that,” said Marchmont. "If Jardine found the two
articles fixed together, and-having failed to discover
the owner-wished to give the crucifix to his friend,
it is not unnatural that he should have separated
them.'
“I do not believe that he found them," Father
Humperdinck replied doggedly; "but I shall continue
my story and you will see. There is not much more
to tell.
“It seems that the man, Jardine, suspected
Foucault of watching him, for presently he left the
gallery in company with the female, and, after being
followed for some distance, he managed to escape.
As soon as Foucault found that he had lost him, he
went to Jardine's house and waited about the
neighborhood, and an hour or two later he had the
good fortune to see him coming from Hampstead
towards Highgate, in company with another female.
He followed them until they entered a narrow passage
or lane that leads up the hill, and when they had gone
up this some distance, he followed, but could not
get near enough to hear what they were saying.
And now he had a most strange and terrible
experience. For some time past he had felt a sus-
picion that some person-some accomplice of
Jardine's perhaps-was following and watching


ENTER FATHER HUMPERDINCK 269
“He had probably come out by a back exit and
gone home," said Marchmont.
“Not so," replied Humperdinck. “The next day
Foucault watched Jardine's house, but he did not
come there. Then he made inquiries; but Jardine
is not there, and the landlady does not know where
he is. Also the porter at the hospital knows nothing
and is not at all polite. The man Jardine has
disappeared as if he had never been."
“That really is rather queer,” said Marchmont.
“It is a pity that you did not give me all these
particulars at first. However, that can't be helped
now. Is this all that you have to tell us?”
"It is all; unless there is anything that you wish
to ask me.
“I think,” said Thorndyke, “that it would be well
for us to have a description of Mr. Reinhardt; and,
as we have to trace him, if possible, a photograph
would be exceedingly useful.”
“I have not a photograph with me,” said Father
Humperdinck, "but I will obtain one and send it to
you. Meanwhile I will tell you what my friend
Vitalis is like. He is sixty-two years of age, spare,
upright, rather tall—his height is a hundred and
seventy-three centimetres
"Roughly, five feet nine,” interposed Thorndyke.
“His hair is nearly white; he is, of course, clean
shaven; he has gray eyes, a straight nose, not very
prominent, and remarkably good teeth for his age,
which he shows somewhat when he talks. I think he
is a little vain about his teeth, and he well may be,
for there are not many men of sixty-two who have
not a single false tooth, nor even one that has been
stopped by the dentist. As to his clothing, he wears
the ordinary dress of a lay brother, which you are
probably familiar with, and he nearly always wears
gloves, even indoors.”


270
A SILENT WITNESS
“Is there any reason for his wearing gloves?”
Thorndyke asked.
“Not now. The habit began when he had some
affection of the skin, which made it necessary for
him to keep his hands covered with gloves which
contained some ointment or dressing, and afterwards
for a time to conceal the disagreeable appearance of
the skin. The habit having been once formed, he
continued it, saying that his hands were more
comfortable covered up than when exposed to the
air."
“Was he dressed in this fashion when he called
at your office, Marchmont?” asked Thorndyke.
"Yes. Even to the gloves. I noticed, with some
surprise, that he did not take them off even when he
wrote and signed the note of which I told you."
“Was he then wearing the reliquary and crucifix
as Father Humperdinck has described, on the front
of his waistcoat?"
“He may have been, but I didn't notice them, as I
fancy I should have done if they had been there."
“And you have nothing more to tell us, Father
Humperdinck, as to your friend's personal appear-
“
ance?"
“No. I will send you the photograph and write
to you if I think of anything that I have forgotten.
And now, perhaps you can tell me if you think that
you will be able to answer those questions that Mr.
Marchmont put to you."
“I cannot, of course, answer them now," replied
Thorndyke. “The facts that you have given us will
have to be considered and compared, and certain
inquiries will have to be made. Are you staying
long in England?”
"I shall be here for at least a month; and I may as
well leave you my address, although Mr. Marchmont
has it."


ENTER FATHER HUMPERDINCK 271
"In the course of a month," Thorndyke said, as he
took the proffered card, “I think I may promise you
that we shall have settled definitely whether your
friend is alive or dead; and if we find that he is alive,
we shall, no doubt, be able to ascertain his
whereabouts."
"That is very satisfactory,” said Father Humper-
dinck. “I hope you shall be able to make good
your promise.
With this he rose, and, having shaken hands stiffly
with Thorndyke, bestowed on Jervis and me a cere-
monious bow and moved towards the door. I
thought that Marchmont looked a little wistful, as
if he would have liked to stay and have a few words
with us alone; indeed, he lingered for a moment
or two after the door was open, but then, apparently
altering his mind, he wished us "good night" and
followed his client.


274
SILENT WITNESS
is a great advantage. If I should want to invoke
the aid of the powers that be, I can do so now with
a definite locus standi as the legal representative of
interested parties.
“I can't imagine,” said I, “in what direction you
are going to push your inquiries. Father Humper-
dinck has given us, as you say, a connected story,
but it is a very unexpected one, to me, at least, and
does not fall into line at all with what we know-
that is, if you are assuming, as I have been, that the
man whom I saw lying in Millfield Lane was Vitalis
Reinhardt."
“It is difficult,” replied Thorndyke, “to avoid that
assumption, though we must be on our guard against
coincidences; but the man whom you saw agreed
with the description that has been given to us;
we know that Reinhardt was in the neighborhood
on that day; and you found the reliquary on the
following morning in the immediate vicinity. We
seem to be committed to the hypothesis that the
man was Reinhardt unless we can prove that he was
someone else, or that Reinhardt was in some other
place at the time; which at present we cannot.”
“Then,” said I, “in that case, the Bobby must
have been right, after all. The man couldn't have
been dead, seeing that he called on Marchmont the
following day and was afterwards traced to Paris.
But I must say that he looked as dead as Queen
Anne. It just shows how careful one ought to be in
giving opinions."
"Some authority has said,” remarked Jervis,
"that the only conclusive proof of death is decompo-
sition. I believe it was old Taylor who said so, and
I am inclined to think that he wasn't far wrong.
"But," said Thorndyke, "assuming that the man
whom you saw was Reinhardt, and that he was not


THE PALIMPSEST
275
dead, how do you explain the other circumstances?
Was be insensible from the effects of injury or drugs?
Or was he deliberately shamming insensibility?
Was it he who passed over the fence? and if so, did
he climb over unassisted or was he helped over?
And what answers do you suggest to the questions
that Marchmont propounded? You answer his first
question: 'Is Reinhardt alive?' in the affirmative.
What about the others?"
“As to where he is," I replied, “I can only say,
the Lord knows; probably skulking somewhere on
the Continent. As to his state of mind, the facts
seem to suggest that, in vulgar parlance, he has
gone off his onion. He must be as mad as a hatter
to have behaved in the way that he has. For, even
assuming that he wanted to get clear of the Poor
Brothers of Saint Jeremiah Diddler without explicitly
saying so, he adopted a fool's plan. There is no
sense in masquerading as a corpse one day and
turning up smiling at your lawyer's office the next.
If he meant to be dead, he should have stuck to it
and remained dead.”
“The objection to that,” said Jervis, “is that
Marchmont would have proceeded to get permission
to presume death and administer the will."
"I see. Then I can only suppose that he had got
infected by Father Humperdinck and resolved to be
artful at all costs and hang the consequences.
“Then,” said Thorndyke, “I understand your view
to be that Reinhardt is at present hiding somewhere
on the Continent and that his mind is more or less
affected?”
“Yes. Though as to his being unfit to control
his own affairs, I am not so clear. I fancy there was
more evidence in that direction when he was forking
out the bulk of his income to maintain the poverty


278
A SILENT WITNESS
of the following morning. But when that was
finished, I was without any definite employment,
and, though I was not in the least dull-for I was
accustomed to a solitary life I suppose I was in
that state of susceptibility to mischief that is pro-
verbially associated with unemployment. And in
these untoward circumstances I was suddenly ex-
posed to a great temptation; and after some feeble
efforts at resistance, succumbed ignominiously.
I shall offer no excuses for my conduct nor seek
in any way to mitigate the judgment that all dis-
creet persons will pass upon my folly. I make no
claims to discretion or to the caution and foresight
of a man like Thorndyke. At this time I was an
impulsive and rather heedless young man, and my
actions were pretty much those which might have
been expected from a person of such temperament.
The voice of the tempter issued in the first place
from our letter-box, and assumed the sound of the
falling of letters thereinto. I hastened to extract
the catch, and sorting out the envelopes, selected
one, the superscription of which was in Sylvia's now
familiar handwriting. It was actually addressed
to Dr. Thorndyke, but a private mark, on which we
had agreed, exposed that naïvely pious fraud and
gave me the right to open it; which I did, and
seated myself in the armchair to enjoy its perusal
at my ease.
It was a delightful letter; bright, gossipy and full
of frank and intimate friendliness. As I read it, the
trim, graceful figure and pretty face of the writer
rose before me and made me wonder a little discon-
tentedly how long it would be before I should look
on her and hear her voice again. It was now
getting into the third week since I had last seen her,
and as the time passed, I was feeling more and


280
A SILENT WITNESS
dear maid was missing me as I missed her; was
wanting my sympathy with her little interests and
pleasures and was telling me, half unconsciously per-
haps, that my absence had created a blank in her
life, as her absence had in mine.
ce had in mine. And forthwith I
began to ask myself whether there was really any
good reason why I should not, just for this once,
break out of my prison and snatch a few brief
hours of sunshine. The spy had been exploded.
He was not likely to pick up my tracks after all this
time and now that my appearance was so altered;
and I did not care much if he did, seeing that he
had been shown to be perfectly harmless. The only
circumstance that tended to restrain me from this
folly was the one that mitigated its rashness—the
change in my appearance; and even that, now that
I was used to it and knew that my aspect was
neither grotesque nor ridiculous, had little weight,
for Sylvia would be prepared for the change and we
could enjoy the joke together.
I was aware, even at the time, that I was not
being quite candid with myself, for if I had been, I
should obviously have consulted Thorndyke. In-
stead of which I answered by return, announcing
my intention of coming to tea on the following day;
and having sent Polton out to post the letter, spent
the remainder of the afternoon in gleeful anticipa-
tion of my little holiday, tempered by some nervous-
ness as to what Thorndyke would have to say on
the matter, and as to what “my pretty friend,"
as Mrs. Samway had very appropriately called her,
would think of my having begun my letter with the
words, “My dear Sylvia.
Nothing happened to interfere with my nefarious
plans.
On the following morning Thorndyke and Jervis


THE PALIMPSEST
281
went off after an early breakfast, leaving me in pos-
session of the premises and master of my actions. I
elected to anticipate the usual luncheon time by
half an hour, and when this meal was disposed of I
crept to my room and thoroughly cleansed my hair
of the grease which Polton still persisted in applying
to it; for, since my hat would conceal it while I was
out of doors, the added disfigurement was unneces-
sary. I was even tempted to tamper slightly with
my eye-brows, but this impulse I nobly resisted; and,
having dried my hair and combed it in its normal
fashion, I descended on tip-toe to the sitting-room
and wrote a short, explanatory note to Polton,
which I left conspicuously on the table. Then I
switched the door-bell on to the laboratory, and,
letting myself out like a retreating burglar, closed
the door silently and sneaked away down the dark
staircase.
Once fairly outside, I went off like a lamp-lighter,
and, shooting out through the Tudor Street gate,
made my way eastward to Broad Street Station,
where I was fortunate enough to catch a train that
was just on the point of starting. At Hampstead
Heath Station I got out, and, snuffing the air joy-
fully, set forth at my best pace up the slope that
leads to the summit; and in little over twenty
minutes found myself at the gate of “The Haw-
thorns.”
There was no need to knock or ring. My
approach had been observed from the window, and,
as I strode up the garden path, the door opened and
Sylvia ran out to meet me.
“It was nice of you to come!” she exclaimed, as I
took her hand and held it in mine. “I don't believe
you ought to have ventured out, but I am most
delighted all the same. Don't make a noise;


THE PALIMPSEST
283
"Well, Sylvia, if you liked me as well as I like
you, I don't see why you shouldn't call me Hum-
phrey. We are quite old friends now.”
“So we are," she agreed; "and perhaps it would
be less formal. So Humphrey it shall be in future,
since that is your royal command. But tell me how
did you prevail on Dr. Thorndyke to let you come
here? Is there any change in the situation?”
“There's a change in my situation, and a mighty
agreeable change, too. I'm here."
“Now don't be silly. How did you persuade Dr.
Thorndyke to let you come?"
“Ha—that, my dear Sylvia, is a rather embar-
rassing question. Shall we change the subject?”
“No, we won't.” She looked at me suspiciously
for a moment and then exclaimed in low, tragical
tones: “Humphrey! You don't mean to tell me
that you came away without his knowledge!"
“I'm afraid that is what it amounts to. I saw a
loophole and I popped through it; and here I am,
as I remarked before."
“But how dreadful of you! Perfectly shocking!
And whatever will be say to you when you go
back?"
“That is a question that I am not proposing to
present vividly to my consciousness until I arrive
on the doorstep. I've broken out of chokee and
I'm going to have a good time to go on having a
good time, I should say.”
“Then you consider that you are having a good
time now?"
"I don't consider. I am sure of it. Am I not,
at this very moment, looking at you? And what
more could a man desire?"
She tried to look severe, though the attempt was
not strikingly successful, and retorted in an admon-
ishing tone:


284
A SILENT WITNESS
“You needn't try to wheedle me with compli-
ments. You are a very wicked person and most
indiscreet. But it seems to me that some sort of
change has come over you since you retired from
the world. Don't you think I'm right?"
“You're perfectly right. I've improved. That's
what it is. Matured and mellowed, you know, like
a bottle of claret that has been left in a cellar and
forgotten. Say you think I've improved, Sylvia.”
“I won't," she replied, and then, changing her
mind, she added, “Yes, I will. I'll say that you are
more insinuating than ever, if that will do. And
now, as you are clearly quite incorrigible, I won't
scold you any more, especially as you 'broke out of
chokee' to come and see me. You shall tell me all
about your adventures."
“I didn't come here to talk about myself, Sylvia.
I came to tell you something-well, about myself,
perhaps, but-er-not my adventures, you know, or
or that sort of thing—but, I have been thinking
a good deal, since I have been alone so much-
about you, I mean, Sylvia-and-er- Oh! the
deuce!”
The latter exclamation was evoked by the warn-
ing voice of the gong, evidently announcing tea, and
the subsequent appearance of the housemaid, who
was certainly not such a goose as she was supposed
to be, for she tapped discreetly at the door and
waited three full seconds before entering; and even
then she appeared demurely unconscious of my
existence.
“If you please, Miss Sylvia, Miss Vyne has woke
up
and I've taken in the tea."
Such was the paltry interruption that arrested the
flow of my eloquence and scattered my flowers of
rhetoric to the winds. I murmured inwardly,


THE PALIMPSEST
285
"Blow the tea!” for the opportunity was gone; but
I comforted myself with the reflection that it didn't
matter very much, since Sylvia and I seemed to
have arrived at a pretty clear understanding; which
understanding was further clarified by a momentary
contact of our hands as we followed the maid to the
drawing room.
Miss Vyne was on this occasion, as
on the last, seated in the exact center of the room,
and with the same monumental effect; so that my
thoughts were borne irresistibly to the ethnograph-
ical section of the British Museum, and especially to
that part of it wherein the deities of Polynesia look
out from their cases in perennial surprise at the
degenerate European visitors. If she had been
asleep previously, she was wide enough awake now;
but the glittering eyes were not directed at me.
From the moment of our entering the room they
focussed themselves on Sylvia's face and there
remained riveted, whereby the heightening of that
young lady's complexion, which our interview had
produced, became markedly accentuated.
It was
to no purpose that I placed myself before the rigid
figure and offered my hand. A paw was lifted
automatically to mine, but the eyes remained fixed
on Sylvia.
“What did you say this gentleman's name was?”
the waxwork asked frigidly.
“This is Dr. Jardine,” was the reply.
“Oh, indeed. And who was the gentleman who
called some three weeks ago?”
“Why, that was Dr. Jardine; you know it was.'
“So I thought, but my memory is not very reli-
able. And this is a Dr. Jardine, too? Very
interesting. A medical family, apparently. But
not much alike."
I was beginning to explain my identity and the


288
A SILENT WITNESS
I agreed that I probably should; and the talk
then turned into fresh channels.
The short winter day was running out apace.
The daylight had long since gone, and I began, with
infinite reluctance, to think of returning to my cage.
Indeed, when I looked at my watch, I was horrified
to see how the time had fled.
“My word!" I exclaimed. “I must be off, or
Thorndyke will be putting the sleuth-hounds of the
law on my track. And I don't know what you will
think of me for having stayed such an unconscion-
able time.”
“It isn't a ceremonial visit,” said Sylvia, as I rose
and made my adieux to her aunt. “We should
have liked you to stay much longer.”
Here she paused suddenly, and clasping her
hands, gazed at me with an expression of dismay.
“Good Heavens! Humphrey!” she exclaimed.
"Eh?" said Miss Vyne.
“I was addressing Dr. Jardine,” Sylvia explained,
in some confusion.
“I didn t suppose you were addressing me," was
the withering reply.
“Do you know," said Sylvia, “that I haven't
shown you those sketches, after all. You must see
them. They were the special object of your visit.”
This was perfectly untrue, and she knew it; but I
did not think it worth while to contest the state-
ment in Miss Vyne's presence. Accordingly I
expressed the utmost eagerness to see the trumpery
sketches, and the more so since I had understood
that they were on view in the studio; which turned
out to be the case.
“It won't take a minute for you to see them,'
said Sylvia. "I'll just run up and light the gas;
and you are not to come in until I tell you.'


THE PALIMPSEST
289
She preceded me up the stairs to the little room
on the first floor in which she worked, and when I
had waited a few moments on the landing she
summoned me to enter.
“These are the sketches," said she, “that have
finished. You see, they are quite presentable now.
I cleaned off the rough daubs of paint with a scraper
and finished up with a soft rag dipped in chloro-
form.'
I ran my eye over the framed sketches, which,
now that the canvases were strained on stretchers
and the disfiguring brush-strokes removed, were, as
she had said, quite presentable, though too rough
and unfinished to be attractive.
“I daresay they are very interesting,” said I,
“but they are only bare beginnings. I shouldn't
have thought them worth framing.
“Not as pictures,” she agreed; "but as examples
of a very curious technique, I find them most
instructive. However, you haven't seen the real
gem of the collection. This is it, on the easel. Sit
down on the chair and say when you are ready.
I'm going to give you a surprise.”
I seated myself on the chair opposite the easel, on
which was a canvas with its back towards me.
"Now" said Sylvia, "are you ready? One, two,
three!”
She picked up the canvas, and, turning it round
quickly, presented its face to me. I don't know
what I had expected-if I had expected anything;
but certainly I was not in the least prepared for
what I saw. The sketch had originally
represented,
very roughly, a dark mass of trees which occupied
nearly the whole of the canvas; but of this the
middle had been cleaned away, exposing an under
painting. And this it was that filled me with such
19



290
A SILENT WITNESS
amazement that after a first startled exclamation,
I could do nothing but stare open-mouthed at the
canvas; for, from the opening in the dark mass of
foliage there looked out at me, distinct and unmis-
takable, the face of Mrs. Samway.
It was no illusion or chance resemblance. Rough
as the painting was, the likeness was excellent. All
the well-known features which made her so different
from other women were there, though expressed by
a mere dextrous turn of the knife; the jet-black,
formally-parted hair, the clear, bright complexion,
the pale, inscrutable eyes; all were there, even to
the steady, penetrating expression that looked out
at me from the canvas as if in silent recognition.
As I sat staring at the picture with a surprise that
almost amounted to awe, Sylvia looked at me a
little blankly.
“Well!” she exclaimed, at length, “I meant to give
you a surprise, but-what is it, Humphrey? Do you
know her?”
“Yes," I replied; "and so do you. Don't you
remember a woman who looked in at you through
the glass door of Robinson's shop?”
“Do you mean that black and scarlet creature?
I didn't recognize her. I had no idea she was so
handsome; for this is really a very beautiful face,
though there is something about it that I don't
understand. Something—well, eerie; rather un-
canny and almost sinister. Don't you think so?”
“I have always thought her a rather weird woman,
but this is the weirdest appearance she has made.
How on earth came her face on that canvas?”
"It is an odd coincidence. And yet I don't know
that it is. She may have been some relative of that
rather eccentric artist, or even his wife. I don't
know why it shouldn't be so."


THE PALIMPSEST
291
Neither did I. But the coincidence remained a
very striking one, to me, at least; much more so
than Sylvia realized; though what its significance
might be-if it had any-I could not guess. Nor
was there any opportunity to discuss it at the
moment, for it was high time for me to be gone.
“You will send me a telegram when you get back,
to say that you have arrived home safely, won't
you,” said Sylvia, as we descended the stairs with our
arms linked together. “Of course nothing is going
to happen to you, but I can't help feeling a little
nervous. And you'll go down to the station by the
High Street and keep to the main roads. That is a
promise, isn't it?'
I made the promise readily, having decided pre-
viously to take every possible precaution, and when
I had wished Sylvia "good-bye" at some length, I
proceeded to execute it; making my way down the
well-populated High Street and keeping a bright
lookout both there and at the station. Once more
I was fortunate in the matter of trains, and
having
taken a hansom from Broad Street to the Temple,
was set down in King's Bench Walk soon after half-
past six.
As I approached our building, I looked up with
some anxiety at the sitting-room windows; and when
I saw them brightly lighted, a suspicion that Thorn-
dyke had returned earlier than usual filled me with
foreboding. I had had my dance and now I was
going to pay the piper, and I did not much enjoy
the prospect; in fact, as I ascended the stairs and
took my latch-key from my pocket I was as nervous
as a school-boy who has been playing truant. How-
ever, there was no escape unless I sneaked up to my
bedroom, so, inserting the key into the lock, I turned
it as boldly as I could and entered.


A VISITOR FROM THE STATES
293
letter to Curtis and take your questions one by one.
By the way, what made you write to Curtis?"
“I saw when I inspected Maddock's will at
Somerset House, that he had left a small legacy to
Curtis. Naturally, I inferred that Curtis knew
him and could give me some account of him.”
“It struck you as a bit queer, I reckon, that he
should be leaving a legacy to the head of an American
detective agency.
"The
circumstance suggested possibilities,”
Thorndyke admitted.
O'Donnell laughed. “I can guess what possibili-
ties suggested themselves to you, if you knew
Maddock. Your letter and the lawyer's, announcing
the legacy, came within a mail or two of one another.
Curtis showed them both to me and we grinned.
We took it for granted that the worthy testator was
foxing. But we were wrong. And so are you, if
that is what you thought."
“You assumed that the will was not a genuine
one?”
“Yes; we thought it was a fake, put up with the
aid of some shyster to bluff us into giving up Mr.
Maddock as deceased. So, as I had to come across
about these other affairs, Curtis suggested that I
should look into the matter. And a considerable
surprise I got when I did; for the will is perfectly
regular and so is everything else. That legacy was a
sort of posthumous joke, I guess.
“Then do I understand that Mr. Curtis was not
really a friend of Maddock's?”
O'Donnell chuckled. “Not exactly a friend,
Doctor," said he. “He felt the warmest interest in
Maddock's welfare, but they weren't what you might
call bosom friends. The position was this: Curtis
was the chief of our detective agency; Maddock


294
A SILENT WITNESS
was a gentleman whom he had been looking for and
not finding for a matter of ten years. At last he
found him; and then he lost him again; and this
legacy I take it, was a sort of playful hint to show
which hole he'd gone down.”
“Was Maddock in hiding all that time?” asked
Thorndyke.
"In hiding!” repeated O'Donnell. “Bless your
innocent heart, Doctor, he had a nice convenient
studio in one of the best blocks in New York a couple
of doors from our agency, and he used to send us
cards for his private views. No sir, our dear departed
friend wasn't the kind that lurks out of sight in
cellars or garrets. It was Maddock, sure enough,
that Curtis wanted, only he didn't know it. But
I guess I'm fogging you. I'd best answer the
questions that you put to Curtis.
“First, do we know anything about Maddock?
Yes, we do. But we didn't know that his name was
Maddock until a few months ago. Isaac Van Damme
was the name we knew him by, and it seems that he
had one or two other names that he used on occasion.
We now know that the gay Isaac was a particularly
versatile kind of crook, and a mighty uncommon
kind, too, the Lord be praised; for if there were
many more like him we should have to raise our
prices some. He wasn't the kind of fool that
makes a million dollar coup and then goes on the
razzle and drops it all. That sort of man is easy
enough to deal with. When he's loaded up with
dollars everybody knows it, and he's sure to be back
in a week or two with empty pockets, ready for
another scoop.
Isaac wasn't that sort. When he
made a little pile, he invested his winnings like a
sensible man and didn't live beyond his means;
and the only mystery to me is that when he died he


A VISITOR FROM THE STATES
295
didn't leave more pickings. I see from his will
which I've had a look at that the whole estate
couldn't have been above five thousand dollars.
He had a lot more than that at one time."
“He may have disposed of the bulk of his property
by gift just before his death,” Jervis suggested.
"That's possible,” agreed O'Donnell. “He'd
escape the death dues that way. However, to return
to his engaging little ways. His leading line was
penmanship-forgery—and he did it to an absolute
finish. He was the most expert penman that I have
ever known. But where he had us all was that he
didn't only know how to write another man's name;
he knew when to write it. I reckon that the great
bulk of his forgeries were never spotted at all, and
of the remainder, very few got beyond the bare
suspicion that they were forgeries. In the case of
the few that were actually spotted as forgeries, his
tracks were covered up so cleverly that no one could
guess who the forger was.”
"And how did you come to suspect him
eventually?” Thorndyke asked.
“Ah!” said O'Donnell. “There you are. Every
crook-even the cleverest-has a strain of the fool
in him. Isaac's folly took the form of suspicion.
He suspected us of suspecting him. We didn't;
but he thought we did, and then he started to dodge
and make some false clues for us. That drew our
attention to him. We looked into his record,
traced his little wanderings and then we began to
find things out. A nice collection there was, too,
by the time we had worked a month or two at his
biography; forgeries, false notes and at least two
murders that had been a complete mystery to us all.
We made ready to drop on Isaac, but at that psycho-
logical moment he disappeared. It looked as if he


298
A SILENT WITNESS
09
hand for a first-class penman and engraver of flash
notes, but you can't always judge by appearances.
And now as to your other questions: You ask what
Maddock was like in appearance. I can only give
you the description which I gave to Batson and which
he recognized at once.'
“Had he noticed the peculiarity of the hands?"
inquired Thorndyke.
"Yes. I asked him about it and he remembered
having observed it when he was attending Maddock.
Well, then, our friend was about five feet nine in
height, fairly broad and decidedly strong, of a medium
complexion with gray eyes and darkish brown hair.
That's all I can tell you about him.”
“You haven't got his finger-prints, I suppose?”
“No. He was never in prison, so we had no chance
of getting them.”
Was he married?"
"He had been; but some years ago his wife
divorced him, or he divorced her. Latterly he has
lived as a bachelor."
“There is nothing else that you can think of as
throwing light on his personality or explaining his
actions?"
“Nothing at all, Doctor. I've told you all I know
about him, and I only hope the information may be
more useful than it looks to me."
“Thank you,” said Thorndyke, "your information
is not only useful; I expect to find it quite valuable.
Reasoning, you know, Mr. O'Donnell,” he con-
tinued, “is somewhat like building an arch. On a
supporting mould the builder lays a number of shaped
stones or voussoirs; but until all the voussoirs are
there, it is a mere collection of stones, incapable of
bearing its own weight. Then you drop the last
voussoir—the keystone into its place, and the


A VISITOR FROM THE STATES
299
arch is complete; and now you may take away the
supports, for it will not only bear its own weight,
but carry a heavy superstructure.”
“That's so, Doctor,” said O'Donnell. "But, if I
may ask, is this all gratuitous wisdom or has it any
particular bearing?”
“It has this bearing,” replied Thorndyke. “I have
myself been for some time past engaged, metaphor-
ically, in the building of an arch. When you came
here tonight it was but a collection of shaped and
adjusted stones, supported from without. With your
kind aid, I have just dropped the keystone into its
place. That is what I mean.”
The American thoughtfully arranged the papers
in his case, casting an occasional speculative glance
at Thorndyke.
“I'd like to know,” he said presently, “what it was
that I told you. It doesn't seem to me that I have
produced any startling novelties. However, I know
it's no use trying to squeeze you, so I'll get back to
my hotel and have a chew at what you've told me.'
He shook hands with us all round, and when
Thorndyke had let him out, we heard him bustling
downstairs and away up King's Bench Walk towards
Mitre Court.
For a minute or more after his departure none of
us spoke. Thorndyke was apparently ruminating
on his newly acquired information and Jervis and I
on the statement that had so naturally aroused the
detective's curiosity.
At length Jervis opened the inevitable debate.
“I begin to see a glimmer of daylight through the
case of Septimus Maddock, deceased,” said he;
“but it is only a glimmer. Whereas, from what you
said to O'Donnell, I gather that you have the case
quite complete.”



300
A SILENT WITNESS
“Hardly that, Jervis," was the reply.
was the reply. “I spoke
metaphorically, and metaphors are sometimes mis-
leading. Perhaps I overstated the case; so we will
drop metaphor and state the position literally in
terms of good, plain, schoolbook logic. It is this:
We had certain facts presented to us in connection
with Maddock’s death. For instance, we observed
that the cause of death was obscure, that the body
was utterly destroyed by cremation and that Jardine,
who was an unofficial witness to some of the formali-
ties, was subsequently pursued by some unknown
person with the unmistakable purpose of murdering
him. Those were some of the observed facts;
and the explanation of those facts was the problem
submitted to us; that is to say, we had to connect
those facts and supply others by deduction and
research, so that they should form a coherent and
intelligible sequence, of which the motive for murder-
ing Jardine should form a part.
“Having observed and examined our facts, we next
propose a hypothesis which shall explain them.
In this case it would naturally take the form of a
hypothetical reconstruction of the circumstances
of Maddock's death. That hypothesis must, of
course, be in complete agreement with all the facts
known to us, including the attempts to murder
Jardine. Then, having invented a hypothesis
which fits our facts completely, the next stage is to
verify it. If the circumstances of Maddock's death
were such as we have assumed, certain antecedent
events must have occurred and certain conditions
must have existed. We make the necessary inquiries
and investigations and we find that those events had
actually occurred and those conditions had actually
existed. Then it is probable that our hypothesis
is correct, particularly if our researches have brought
to light nothing that disagrees with it.


A VISITOR FROM THE STATES
301
"With our new facts we can probably amplify our
hypothesis; reconstruct it in greater detail; and
then we have to test and verify it afresh in its
amplified and detailed form. And if such new tests
still yield an affirmative result, the confirmation
of the hypothesis becomes overwhelmingly strong.
It is, however, still only hypothesis. But perhaps
we light on some final test which is capable of yield-
ing a definite answer yes or no. If we apply that
test—the ‘Crucial Experiment,' of the logicians-
and obtain an affirmative result, our inquiry is at
an end. It has passed out of the region of hypothesis
into that of demonstrative proof."
“And are we to understand," asked Jervis, “that
you have brought Maddock's case to the stage of
complete demonstration?”
"No," answered Thorndyke. “I am still in the
stage of hypothesis; and when O'Donnell came here
tonight there were two points which I had been
unable to verify. But with his aid I have been able
to verify them both, and I now have a complete
hypothesis of the case which has been tested exhaust-
ively and has answered to every test. All that
remains to be done is to apply the touchstone of the
final experiment.'
“I suppose,” said Jervis, "you have obtained a
good many new facts in the course of your investiga-
tions?"
“Not a great many,” replied Thorndyke; "and
what new data I have obtained, I have, for the most
part, communicated to you and Jardine. I assure
you, Jervis, that if you would only concentrate
your attention on the case, you have ample material
for a most convincing and complete elucidation of
it.”
Jervis looked at me with a wry smile.



302
A SILENT WITNESSA
“Now, Jardine-Howard,” said he; "why don't
you brush up your wits and tell us exactly what
happened to the late Mr. Maddock and why some
person unknown is so keen on your vile body. You
have all the facts, you know.”
“So you tell me,” I retorted; "but this case of
yours reminds me of those elaborate picture puzzles
that used to weary my juvenile brain. You had a
hatful of irregular-shaped pieces which, if you fitted
them together, made a picture. Only the beggars
wouldn't fit together.”
“A very apt comparison," said Thorndyke.
"You put the pieces together, and if they made no
intelligible part of a picture, you knew you were
wrong, no matter how well they seemed to fit. On
the other hand, if they seemed to make parts of a
picture you had to verify the result by finding pieces
of the exact shape and size of the empty spaces.
That is what I have been doing in this case; trying
the data together and watching to see if they made
the expected picture.
As I have told you,
O'Donnell's visit found me with the picture entire
save for two empty spaces of a particular shape and
size; and from him I obtained two pieces that
dropped neatly into those spaces and made the pic-
ture complete. All I have to do now is to see if the
picture is a true representation or only a consistent
work of imagination.”
“I take it that you have worked the case out in
pretty full detail,” said Jervis.
“Yes. If the final verification is successful I shall
be able to tell you exactly what happened in Mad-
dock's house, what was the cause of death-and I
may say that it was not that given in the certificate
who the person is who has been pursuing Jardine and
what is his motive, together with a number of other



304
A SILENT WITNESS
“Very well," I said. “I will promise not to
attempt again to escape from custody. But, all
the same, my little jaunt today has not been entirely
without result. I have picked up a new fact, and
a rather curious one, I think. What should you say
if I suggested that Mrs. Samway was the wife of
that eccentric artist who used to paint on the Heath?
The man, I mean, who always worked in gloves?”
“I have assumed that she was in some such rela-
tion to him,” replied Thorndyke, “but I should
like to hear the evidence."
“Mrs. Samway,” Jervis said in a reflective tone.
“Isn't that the handsome, uncanny-looking lady
with the mongoose eyes, who reminded me of Lucre-
zia Borgia?”
“That is the lady. Well, I met with a portrait of
her today which was evidently the work of the man
with the gloves;” and here I gave them a description
of the portrait and an account of the odd way in
which it had been disinterred from the landscape that
had been painted over it, to which they both listened
with close attention.
“It's a queer incident,” said Thorndyke, “and
quite dramatic. If one were inclined to be super-
stitious, one might imagine some invisible agency
uncovering the tracks that have been so carefully
hidden and working unseen in the interests of justice.
But haven't you rather jumped to your conclusion?
The existence of the portrait establishes a connection,
but not necessarily that of husband and wife.”
“I only suggested the relationship; but it seemed
a likely one, as the portrait had been painted over
and thrown into the rubbish box."
Jervis laughed sardonically, and even Thorndyke's
impassive face relaxed into a smile.
“Our young friend,” said the former, "doesn't



CHAPTER XIX
TENEBRÆ
T
HE resigned composure with which I accepted
Thorndyke's sentence of confinement within
doors was not entirely attributable to
discretion or native virtue. My resolution
to follow scrupulously my principal's very pointed
advice was somewhat like the ascetic resolutions
formed by the gourmet as he rises replete from the
banquet table; for, just as the latter is in a pecu-
liarly favorable condition for the unmoved con-
templation of a-temporary-abstinence from food,
so I, having enjoyed my little dissipation, could
now contemplate with fortitude a brief period of
retirement. Moreover, the weather was in my
favor, being—as Polton reported when he returned,
blue-nosed and powdered with snow, with a fresh
supply of tobacco for me-bitterly cold, with a
threatening of smoky fog from the east.
Under these circumstances it was no great hard-
ship to sit in a roomy armchair with my slippered
feet on the curb and read and meditate as I basked
in the warmth of a glowing fire; though, to be sure,
my reading was perfunctory enough, for the treatise
on “The Surface Markings of the Human Body,"
admirable as it was, competed on very unfavorable
terms with other claimants to my attention. In
truth, I had plenty to think about even if I went no
farther for matter than to the events of the previous
day. There was my visit to Sylvia, for instance.
I had not said much to her, but what I had said
(306)


TENEBRÆ
307
had pledged me to a life-long companionship;
which was a solemn thing to reflect upon, even
though I looked forward to the fulfilment of that
pledge with nothing but hopeful pleasure. The
dice were thrown. Of course they would turn up
sixes, every one; but still—the dice were thrown.
From my own strictly personal affairs my thoughts
rambled by an easy transition to the singular
episode of the buried portrait, and thence to the
subject of that strange palimpsest. Viewed by the
light of Mr. O'Donnell's revelations, Mrs. Samway's
position was not all that could have been desired.
She and her husband had unquestionably been
closely associated with Maddock; but Maddock
was, it seemed, a habitual criminal. Could this
fact have been known to the Samways? Or was
it that the cunning forger and swindler
had sheltered
himself behind their respectability? It was impos-
sible for me to say.
Then there was the strange and perplexing case
of the man Maddock, himself. I could make noth-
ing of that; had not, indeed, been aware that there
had been a "case" until Thorndyke's investigations
had put me in possession of the fact. And even now
I could see nothing on which to base any suspicion,
apart from the attempts on my life, which we were
assuming to be in some way connected with events
that had occurred in Maddock's house. The
cause of death was apparently not "Morbus Cordis”;
which might easily enough be, seeing that the
diagnosis of heart disease was a mere guess on
Batson's part. But if not Morbus Cordis, what was
it? rndyke apparently knew, and seemed to
hint that it was something other than ordinary
disease.
Could there have been foul play? And if so, were



308
A SILENT WITNESS
the Samways involved in it in any way? It seemed
incredible, for had not Maddock himself suspected
that he was in a dangerous state of health. There
was certainly one possibility which I considered
with a good deal of distaste; namely, that Maddock
had been in a hypochondriacal state and that the
Samways had taken advantage of his gloomy views
as to his health to administer poison. The thing was
actually possible; but I did not entertain it; for,
even if one assumed that poison had been admin-
istered, at any rate, the cremation of the body was
not designed to hide the traces of the crime. The
Samways had nothing to do with that; the crema-
tion had been adopted in preference to burial by
Maddock's own wish.
So my thoughts flitted from topic to topic, with
occasional interludes of “Surface Markings,” through
the lazy forenoon until Polton came to lay my soli-
tary luncheon. And after this little break in the
comfortable monotony, another spell of meditative
idleness set in. Polton was busy upstairs in the
laboratory with some photographic copying opera-
tions and I was disposed to wander up and look on;
but my small friend politely but very firmly vetoed
any such proceeding. On some other occasion he
would be delighted to show me the working of the
great copying camera, but just now he had a big
job in hand, and as he was working against time he
would prefer to be alone. He even suggested that
I might attend to any stray callers and make my
own tea on the gas-ring so as to avoid interrupting
his work; and when I had agreed to relieve him to
this extent, he thanked me profusely and retired
and I saw no more of him.
For some time after his departure I stood at the
window looking out across the wide space at Paper


TENEBRÆ
309
Buildings and the end of Crown Office Row. It
was a wretched afternoon. The yellow, turbid sky
brooded close down upon the house-roofs and grew
darker and more brown moment by moment, as if
the invisible sun had given the day up in despair
home early. A comfortless powdering
of snow filtered down at intervals and melted on the
pavements, along which depressed wayfarers hurried
with their coat collars turned up and their hands
thrust deep into their pockets. I watched them
commiseratingly, reflecting on the superior advan-
tages of being within doors and forbidden to go
out; and then, having flung another scoopful of
coal on the fire, I betook myself once more to the
armchair, the "Surface Markings” and idle medi-
tation.
It was some time past four, when my reflective
browsings had begun to proceed in the direction of
the tea-kettle, that I heard a light footstep on the
landing as of someone wearing goloshes. Then a
letter dropped softly into the box, and as I instantly
pushed back my chair to rise, the footsteps retreated.
I crossed the room quickly and opened the door;
but the messenger had already disappeared down
the dark staircase, and had gone so silently on his
rubber soles that, though I listened attentively,
I could hear no sound from below.
Having closed the door, I extracted the letter
from the box and took it over to the window to
examine it, when I was not a little surprised to find
that it was addressed to W. M. Howard, Esq.
This was the first communication that I had received
in my borrowed name, and my surprise at its arrival
was not unreasonable, for, of the few persons who
knew me by that name, none with the exception,
perhaps, of Mr. Marchmont-was in the least
likely to write to me.
.



310
A SILENT WITNESS
But if the address on the envelope had surprised
me, the letter itself surprised me a good deal more;
for, though the writer was quite unknown to me,
even by name, he seemed to be in possession of cer-
tain information concerning me which I had sup-
posed to be the exclusive property of Thorndyke,
Jervis, Polton and myself. It bore the address,
29 Figtree Court, Inner Temple, and ran thus:
DEAR SIR,
I am taking the liberty of writing to you to ask for your assistance,
as I happen to know that my friends, Drs. Thorndyke and Jervis,
are away at Maidstone and not available at the moment, and I
understand that you have some acquaintance with medical technicali-
ties.
The circumstances are these. At half-past five today I shall be
meeting a solicitor to advise as to action in respect of a case in which
I am retained; and the decision as to our action will be vitally affected
by a certain issue on which I am not competent to form an opinion
for lack of medical knowledge. If Dr. Thorndyke had been within
reach I should have taken his opinion; as he is not, it occurred to
me to ask if you would fill his place on this occasion, it being, of
course, understood that the usual fee of five guineas will be paid by
the solicitor.
If you should be unable to come to the consultation, do not trouble
to reply, as I am now going out and shall not be returning until five-
thirty, the time of the appointment.
I am
Yours faithfully,
ARTHUR COURTLAND.
The contents of this letter, as I have said, sur-
prised me more than a little. How, in the name of
all that was wonderful, had this stranger, whose
very name was unknown to me, come to be aware
that I had any knowledge of medicine? Not from
Thorndyke, I felt perfectly sure; nor from Jervis,
who, notwithstanding a certain flippant facetious-
ness of manner, was really an extremely caut
and judicious man. Could it be that my principal
was overseen in his trusted laboratory assistant?
Was it conceivable that the suave and discreet



312
A SILENT WITNESS
care and method that one expects from a professional
man.
And there was another point. The time of the
consultation was half-past five. Now within an
hour of that time Thorndyke would be back or
even sooner if he came by the earlier train as he had
done on the previous day—as Mr. Courtland must
have known, since he knew whither my principal
had gone, and he must have often attended assizes
himself. Could he not have waited an hour? And
again; had this business been sprung upon him so
suddenly that he had had no time to get Thorndyke's
opinion? And yet again, why had he written at
all, instead of dropping in at our chambers with
the solicitor, as was so commonly done by Thorn-
dyke's clients?
All of which were curious and puzzling ques-
tions which I put to myself, one by one, and had to
dismiss unanswered. And then I came to the
practical question, to which I had to find an ans-
wer, and which was: Could I, under the existing
circumstances, accede to Mr. Courtland's request?
To go outside the precincts of the Inn was, I recog-
nized, absolutely forbidden; but I had given no
actual promise to remain in our chambers, nor
had I been positively forbidden to leave them.
Thorndyke had advised me to remain indoors,
and his advice had been given so pointedly and with
so evident a desire that it should be followed that
I had not hitherto even thought of leaving our
premises. But this was an unforeseen contingency;
and the question was, did it alter my position in
regard to Thorndyke's advice?
I think I have never been so undecided in my life.
On the one hand, I was strongly tempted to keep the
appointment. The prospect
of triumphantly hand-



316 A SILENT WITNESS
“Are we?” she said, looking up at me earnestly.
“Perhaps it is so; but still, this is good-bye. I
ought to say it and go; but, o God!” she exclaimed
with sudden passion, “I don't want to go-away
from you, Humphrey, out into the cold and the
dark!”
She buried her face against my shoulder, and I
could feel that she was sobbing, though she uttered
no sound.
It was a dreadful situation. Instinctively certain
though I was that her grief had a real and tragic
basis, I could offer no word of comfort. For what
was there to say? She was going, clearly, to a life
of wretchedness without hope of any relief or change
and without a single friend to cheer her loneliness.
That much I could guess, vaguely and dimly. But
it was enough. And it wrung my heart to witness
her passion of grief and to be able to offer no more
than a pressure of the hand.
After a few seconds she raised her head and looked
in my face, with the tears still clinging to her lashes.
“Humphrey,” she said, laying her hands on my
shoulders, “I have a few last words to say to you,
and then I must go. Listen to me, dearest friend,
and remember what I say. When I am gone people
will tell you things and you will come to know
others. People will say that I am a wicked woman,
which is true enough, God knows. But if they say
I have done or connived at wickedness against you,
try to believe that it was not as it seemed, and to
forgive me for what I have done amiss. And say to
yourself, “This wicked woman would have willingly
given her heart's blood for me. Say that, Hum-
phrey. It is true. I would gladly give my life to
make you safe and happy. And try to think kindly
of me in the evil report that will reach you sooner
or later. Will you try, Humphrey?”.


318
A SILENT WITNESS
A vague
The seconds passed. A man came out of our
entry and, turning to the left, walked at a rapid
pace towards the Tudor Street gate. Still she did
not appear. Perhaps she had heard him on the
stairs and was waiting to pass out unnoticed. But
yet it was strange. Nearly a minute had elapsed
since she started to descend the stairs. Could I
have missed her? It seemed impossible, since I had
come to the window almost immediately.
uneasiness began to take possession of me. I
recalled her white face and frightened eyes, and as I
stared down at the door-step with growing anxiety,
I found myself listening-listening nervously for I
knew not what.
Suddenly I caught a sound-faint and vague, but
certainly a sound. And it seemed to come from the
staircase. In a moment I had the door open and was
stealing on tip-toe out on the landing. The house
was profoundly silent. No murmur even penetrated
from the distant streets. I crept across the landing,
breathing softly and listening. And then, from the
stillness below but near at hand, came a faint,
whispering sigh or moan. Instantly I sprang
forward, all of a-tremble, and darted down the
stairs.
At the first turn I saw, projecting round the angle,
a hand a woman's hand, plump and shapely and
white as marble. With a gasp of terror I flew round
the turn of the staircase and-
God in Heaven! She was there! Huddled limply
in the angle, her head resting against the baluster and
one hand spread out on her bosom, she lay so still
that she might have been dead but for the shallow
rise and fall of her breast and the wide-staring eyes
that turned to me with such dreadful appeal. I
stooped over her and spoke her name, and it seemed





TENEBRÆ
319
to me that a pitiful little smile trembled for a moment
on the bloodless lips; but she made no answer
beyond a faint, broken sigh, and it was only when she
moved her hand slightly that the overwhelming
horror of the reality burst upon me. Then, when I
saw the crimson stain upon her fingers and upon the
bosom of her dress, the meaning of that horrible
pallor, the sharpening features and strange, pinched
expression flashed upon me with a shock that seemed
to arrest the very blood at my heart. Yet, stunned
as I was, I realized instantly that human skill
could avail her nothing; that I could do naught for
her but raise her from the sharp edge of the stair
and rest her head on my arm. And so I held her,
whispering endearments brokenly, and looking as
well as I might through the blinding tears into those
inscrutable eyes that gazed up at me, no longer with
that stare of horror but with a vague and childlike
wonder. And even as I looked, the change came in
an instant. The wide eyelids relaxed and drooped,
the eyes grew filmy and sightless, the hand slipped
from her breast and dropped with a thud on the
stair, and the supple body in my arms shrank of a
sudden with the horrible limpness of death.
Up to this point my recollection is clear, even
vivid, but of what followed I have only a dim
and confused impression. The awfulness-the un-
believable horror of this frightful thing that had
happened left me so dazed and numb that I recall
but vaguely the passage of time or what went on
around me in this terrible dream from which there
was to be no waking. Dimly I recollect kneeling
by her side on the silent staircase-but how long
I know not-holding her poor body in my arms and
gazing incredulously at the marble-white face-now,
with its drowsy lids and parted lips, grown suddenly


320
A SILENT WITNESS
girlish and fragile-while the hot tears dropped down
on her aress; choking with grief and horror and a
fury of hate for the foul wretch who had done this
appalling thing, and who was now far away out of
reach.
I seedimly still—the livid marks of
accursed fingers lingering yet on the whiteness
around the mouth to tell me why no cry from her
had reached me, and the dreadful, red-edged cut in
the bodice, mutely demanding vengeance from God
and man.
And then of a sudden the silence is shattered by
rushing feet and the clamor of voices. Someone
it is Jervis—leads me forcibly away to our room and
places me in a chair by the table. Presently I see
her lying on our sofa, drowsy-eyed, peaceful, like a
marble figure on a tomb. And I see Thorndyke,
with a strange, coppery flush and something grim
and terrible in the set calm of his face, showing the
letter, which I had left on the table, to a tall stranger,
who hurries from the room. Anon come two con-
stables with heads uncovered, carrying a stretcher.
I see her laid on the sordid bier and reverently
covered. The dread procession moves out through
the doorway; the door is shut after it; and so, in
dreadful fulfilment of her words, she passed out of
my life.


322
A SILENT WITNESS
silence. His busy presence and brisk, matter-of-
fact speech, though distressing to me at the moment,
served as a distraction and brought me out of my
painful reverie to the grim realities of this appalling
catastrophe.
“You were quite right, sir,” said he. “The
chambers were an empty set.
Mr. Courtland left
them about six weeks ago, so they tell me at the
office. I've looked them over carefully, and I think
it is pretty clear what this man meant to do.”
“Did you go in?” asked Thorndyke.
“Yes. Mr. Polton went with me and picked the
lock, so I was able to go right through the rooms.
And it is evident that this villain was not acting
on the spur of the moment. He'd made a very neat
plan, and I should say that it was pretty near to
coming off. He had selected his chambers with
remarkable judgment, and uncommonly well suited
they were to his purpose. In the first place, they
were the top set-nothing above them; no chance
strangers passing up or down; and they were the
only set on that landing. Then some previous
tenant had made a little trap or grille in the outer
door, a little hole about six inches square with a
sliding cover on the inside. That was the attraction,
I fancy. The landing lamp was alight-he must have
lighted it himself, as the landing was out of use
and I fancy he meant to watch through the grille
for your friend to come and shoot him as he knocked
at the door.”
“That would be taking more risk than he usually
did," said Thorndyke.
"You mean that the report of the shot would have
been heard. Perhaps it might. But these modern,
small-bore, repeating pistols make very little noise,
though they are uncommonly deadly, especially if
you open the nose of the bullets."



324
A SILENT WITNESS
A
“I suppose it is not necessary to ask if you were
actually present when this poor lady was murdered?”
“No, I was not.”
“And I presume you did not see the murderer?”
"I saw a man, whom I believe to have been the
murderer, come out of our entry and walk quickly
towards the Tudor Street gate. But I can give you
no description of him. I saw him from the window
and by the light of the entry lamp."
The Superintendent wrote down my answer and
reflected for a few moments.
“Perhaps,” said he, “you had better just give us
an account of what happened and we can ask you
any questions afterwards. It's very painful for you,
I know, but it has to be, as you will understand.”
It was more than painful; it was harrowing to
reconstitute that hideous tragedy, step by step,
with the knowledge that the poor murdered corpse
was still warm. But it had to be, and I did it,
haltingly, indeed, and with many a pause to com-
mand my voice; but in the end I gave the superin-
tendent a full description of the actual occurrences,
though I withheld any reference to those words that
my poor dead friend had spoken for my ear alone.
When I had read through and signed my state-
ment, Mr. Miller studied his note-book with an air
of dissatisfaction and then turned to Thorndyke.
“This is all quite clear, Doctor,” said he, “and
just about what you inferred from that letter. But
it doesn't help us much. The question is, Who is
this man? I've an inkling that you know, Doctor."
“I have a very strong suspicion as to who he is,"
replied Thorndyke.
"That will do for me,” said Miller. “Your strong
suspicion is equal to another man's certainty. Do
you know his name, sir?”


THE HUE AND CRY
325
"He has recently passed under the name of
Samway,” replied Thorndyke. “What his real
name is, I think I shall be able to tell you later.
Meanwhile, I can give you such particulars as are
necessary for making an arrest."
The Superintendent looked narrowly at Thorndyke
as the latter pressed the button of the electric bell.
Apparently, Doctor,” said he, "you have been
making some investigations concerning this man, and,
as it was not in connection with this crime, it must
have been in connection with something else."
“Yes," replied Thorndyke, "you are quite right,
Miller, and it will be a matter of the deepest regret
to me to my dying day that circumstances have
hindered those investigations as they have. The
delay has cost this poor woman her life. A few more
days and my case would almost certainly have been
complete, and then this terrible disaster would have
been impossible.”
As Thorndyke finished speaking, the door opened
quietly and Polton entered with a small, neatly-made
parcel in his hand.
“Ah!" said Thorndyke, "you guessed what I
wanted, and guessed right, as you always do,
Polton. How many are there in that parcel?”
“Three dozen, sir," replied Polton.
“That ought to be enough for the moment.
Hand them to the Superintendent, Polton. If you
want any more, Miller, we can let you have a further
supply, and I am having a half-tone block made which
will be ready tomorrow morning."
“Are these portraits of the man you suspect?”
asked Miller.
“No, I haven't his portrait, unfortunately, but on
each card is a photograph of three of his finger-
prints, which are all I have been able to collect, and



326
A SILENT WITNESS
on the back is a description which will enable you
easily to identify him. You can post them off to the
various seaports and telegraph the description in
advance; and I would recommend you especially
to keep a watch on Dover and Folkestone, as I know
that he has been in the habit of using that route.”
“Speaking of finger-prints,” said Miller, “have
you tried that letter for them?”
“Yes,” replied Thorndyke, "I powdered it very
carefully, but there is not a single trace of a finger-
print. He must have realized the risk he was taking
and worn gloves when he wrote it."
The Superintendent pocketed the parcel with a
thoughtful air, and after a few moments' cogitation,
turned once more to Thorndyke.
“You've supplied me with the means of arresting
the man, Doctor,” said he, “but that's all. Suppos-
ing I find him and detain him in custody? What
then? I don't know that he murdered this poor
woman. Do you? Dr. Jardine can't identify him,
and apparently no one else saw him. I have no
doubt that you have substantial grounds for suspect-
ing him, but I should like to know what they are.”
Thorndyke reflected for a moment or two before
replying.
"You are quite right, Miller,” he said, at length;
"you ought to have enough information to establish
a prima facie case. But I think that on this occasion
I can say no more than that, if you produce the man,
you can rely upon me to furnish enough evidence
to secure a conviction. Will that do?”
“It will do from you, sir,” replied Miller, rising
and buttoning his overcoat. “I will get this descrip-
tion circulated at once. Oh—there was one more
matter: the name of the deceased lady was Samway
—the same as that of the suspected murderer.
What was the relationship?”


THE HUE AND CRY
329
As soon as he was gone, Jervis turned to his senior
and, looking at him with a sort of puzzled curiosity,
exclaimed:
“You are a most astounding person, Thorndyke!
You really are! I thought I had begun to see day-
light in that Maddock case, and now I find that I was
all abroad. And I can't for the life of me conceive
what in the world you expect to discover by examin-
ing a few pounds of calcined phosphates. Suppose
Maddock was poisoned, what evidence will be
obtainable from the ashes? Of the poisons which
could possibly have been used under the known
circumstances, not one would leave a trace after
cremation. But, of course, you've thought of all
that.'
“Certainly, I have," replied Thorndyke, "and I
agree with you that the ashes of a body that has been
cremated are highly unpromising material for a
primary investigation. But does it not occur to
you that in a case where certain circumstantial
evidence is available, excellent corroborative data
might be obtained by the examination of the ashes?”
“No,” replied Jervis, “I can't say that it does.”
“It is not too late to consider the question,” said
Thorndyke. “I shall probably not get the authority
for a day or two, so you will have time to turn the
problem over in the interval. It is quite worth your
while, I assure you, apart from this particular case,
as a mere exercise in constructive theory. You
can acquire experience from imaginary cases as well
as from real ones, as I have often pointed out; in
fact, much of my own experience has been gained
in this way. I think I have mentioned to you that
in my early days, when I had more leisure than
practice, it was my custom to construct imaginary
crimes of an elaborately skilful type, and then-


THE HUE AND CRY
331
will carry special weight. Neither the judge nor the
jury are likely to have much special knowledge of
chemistry, but they will be able to appreciate the
fact that Woodfield is a man with a world-wide
reputation, and they will respect his opinion accord-
ingly."
“Yes,” agreed Jervis, “I think you are quite
right. A well-known name goes a long way with a
jury. I hope your experiment will turn out as you
expect, and I hope, too, that some of Miller's men
will manage to lay that murderous devil by the
heels. But I'm afraid they'll have their work cut
out. He is a clever scoundrel; one must admit that.
How do you suppose he contrived to track Jardine
here?"
“I think,” replied Thorndyke," that he must have
seen us on one of the two occasions when we went
to the mineral water works and followed us here.
Then, when Jardine disappeared from his lodgings,
he would naturally look for him here, this being, in
fact, the only place known to him in connection with
Jardine, excepting Batson's house, on which he also
probably kept a watch."
“But how would he have discovered that Jardine
actually was here?”
“There are a number of ways in which he might
have ascertained the fact. A good many persons
knew that we had a new resident. We could not
conceal his presence here. Many of our visitors
have seen him, and the porter and hangers-on of the
Inn will have noticed him taking his exercise in the
morning. Samway, himself, even, may have seen him,
and he would easily have penetrated the disguise if
he saw him out of doors, for there is no disguising a
man's stature. He might have made inquiries of one
of the porters or lamp-lighters, or he might have


332
A SILENT WITNESS
employed someone else to make inquiries. The
fact that someone was staying here and that his
name was Howard could not have been very difficult
to discover, while, as for ourselves, we are as well
known in the Inn as the griffin at Temple Bar.
From the circumstance that he knew of our attend-
ance at the Maidstone Assizes, it seems likely that
he had subsidized some solicitor's clerk who would
know our movements.'
“And I suppose,” said I, “as he is gone now, I may
as well go back to my lodgings.
“Not at all,” replied Thorndyke. “In the first
place, we don't know that he is gone, and we do
know that he is now absolutely desperate and reck-
less. And you must not forget, Jardine, that
whether we charge him with murder in the case of
Maddock, with the murder of poor Mrs. Samway,
or the attempted murder of yourself, in either case
you are the chief witness for the prosecution. You
are the appointed instrument of retribution in this
man's case, and you must take the utmost care of
yourself until your mission is accomplished. He
knows the value of your evidence better than you
do, and it is still worth his while to get rid of you if he
But you, I am sure, are at least as anxious as
we are to see him hanged.”
“I'd sooner twist his neck with my own hands,”
said I.
"I dare say you would,” said Thorndyke, "and it
is perfectly natural that you should. But it is not
desirable. This is a case for a few fathoms of good,
stout, hempen rope, and the common hangman.
The private vengeance of a decent man would be an
undeserved honor for a wretch like this.
must stay here quietly for a few days more and give
us a little help when we need it.”
can.
So you


THE HUE AND CRY
333
Thorndyke's decision was not altogether unwel-
come. Shaken as I was by the shock of this horrible
tragedy, I was in no state to return to the solitude
of my lodgings. The quiet and tactful sympathy
of my two friends—or I should rather say three, for
Polton was as kind and gentle as a woman—was
infinitely comforting, and their sober cheerfulness
and the interest of their talk prevented me from
brooding morbidly over the catastrophe of which I
had been the involuntary cause. And, dreadful as
the associations of the place were, I could not but
feel that those of my older resorts would be equally
painful. For me, at present, the Heath would be
haunted by the figure of poor Letitia, walking at ny
side, telling me her pitiful tale and so pathetically
craving my sympathy and friendship. And the
Highgate Road could not but wring my heart with
the recollection of that evening when we had walked
together up the narrow laneall unconscious of the
black-hearted murderer stealing after us and foiled
only by that futile spy—when, as we said good-bye,
I had kissed her and she had run off blushing like a
girl.
Moreover, if Thorndyke's chambers were fraught
with terrible and gloomy associations, they were also
pervaded by an atmosphere of resolute, relentless
preparation which was itself a relief to me; for, as
the first shock of horrified grief passed, it left me
possessed by a fury of hatred for the murderer and
consumed by an inextinguishable craving for ven-
geance. Nor was the time of suspense so long as we
had anticipated. On the very next morning a letter
arrived from the Home Office containing the neces-
sary authority to make the proposed examination
and informing Thorndyke that on the following day
the police would take possession of the ashes, which



334
A A SILENT WITNESS
would be delivered to him by an officer who would
remain to witness the examination and to resume
possession of the remains when it was concluded.
I saw very little more of Thorndyke that day, but
I gathered that he was busy making the final arrange-
ments for the important work of the morrow and in
clearing off various tasks so as to leave himself free
from engagements. Nor did I enjoy much of Jervis'
society, for he, too, was anxious to have the day
free for the “Crucial Experiment,” which was we
hoped-to solve the mystery of Septimus Maddock's
death and explain the villain Samway's strange
vindictiveness towards me.
Left to myself, and by no means enamored of my
own society, I wandered up to the laboratory to
see what Polton was doing and to distract my gloomy
thoughts by a little gossip with him on the various
technical processes of which he possessed so much
curious information. I found him arrayed in a
white apron, with his sleeves turned up, busily
occupied with what I took to be a slab of dough,
which he had spread on a pastry board and was
leveling with a hard-wood rolling-pin. He greeted
me, as I entered, with his queer, crinkly smile, but
made no remark; and I stood awhile in silence,
watching him cut the paste in halves, sprinkle it
with flour, fold it up and once more roll it out into
a sheet with the wooden pin.
"Is this going to be a meat pie, Polton?” I asked,
at length.
His smile broadened at my question-for which I
suspect he had been waiting.
"I don't think you'd care much for the flavor of it,
if it was, sir," he answered. "But it does look like
dough, doesn't it? It's moulding-wax; a special
formula of the Doctor's own."


336
A SILENT WITNESS
question of quantity at all. It's a different kind of
intelligence. Ordinary men have to reason from vis-
ible facts. He doesn't. He reasons from facts
which his imagination tells him exist, but which
nobody else can see. He's like a portrait painter
who can do you a likeness of your face by looking
at the back of your head. I suppose it's what he
calls constructive imagination, such as Darwin
and Harvey and Pasteur and other great discoverers
had, which enabled them to see beyond the facts
that were known to the common herd of humanity."
I was somewhat doubtful as to the soundness of
Polton's views on the transcendental intellect,
though respectfully admiring of the thoughtfulness
of this curious little handicraftsman; accordingly I
returned to the more concrete subject of wax.
“Haven't you any idea what this stuff is going to
be used for?”
“Not the slightest,” he replied. “The Doctor's
instructions were to make six pounds of it, to make
it soft enough to take a squeeze of a stiff feather if
warmed gently, and firm enough to keep its shape
in a half-inch layer with a plaster backing, and
to be
sure to have it ready by tomorrow morning. That's
all. I know there's an important analysis on to-
morrow and I suppose this wax has got something
to do with it. But as to what moulding-wax can
have to do with a chemical analysis, that's a question
that I can't make head or tail of."
Neither could I, though I had more data than
Polton appeared to possess.
Nor could Jervis, to
whom I propounded the riddle when he came in to
tea. We went up to the laboratory together and
inspected not only the wax, but the exterior of three
large parcels addressed to Professor Woodfield, care
of Dr. Thorndyke, and bearing the labels of a firm


THE HUE AND CRY
337
of wholesale chemists. But neither of us could
suggest any solution of the mystery; and the only
result of our visit to the laboratory was that Polton
was somewhat scandalized by the conduct of his
junior employer, who consoled himself for his failure
by executing with the wax, a life-sized and highly
grotesque portrait of Father Humperdinck.
22


CHAPTER XXI
THE FINAL PROBLEM
A
T exactly half-past eleven in the following
forenoon, Professor Woodfield arrived, bear-
ing a massive cowhide bag which he deposited
on a chair as a preliminary to taking off his
hat and wiping his forehead. He was a big, burly,
heavy-browed man, sparing of speech and rather
gruff in manner.
“Stuff arrived yet?” he asked when he had
brought his forehead to a satisfactory polish.
“I think it came yesterday morning,” replied
Thorndyke.
“The deuce it did!” exclaimed Woodfield.
“Yes. Three parcels from Townley and
Drapers-
“Oh, you're talking of the chemicals. I meant
the other stuff.'
“No; the officer hasn't arrived yet, but I expect
he will be here in a few minutes. Superintendent
Miller is a scrupulously punctual man.
The professor strode over to the window
and glared out in the direction of Crown Office
Row.
“That man of yours got everything ready?” he
asked.
“Yes," answered Thorndyke; “and I have looked
over the laboratory myself. Everything is ready.
You can begin the instant the ashes are delivered to
us.
· Woodfield expressed his satisfaction or whatever
(338)


THE FINAL PROBLEM
339
he intended to express—by a grunt, without remov-
ing his eyes from the approach to our chamber.
“Cab coming,” he announced a few moments
later.
“Man inside with a parcel. That the
officer?"
Jervis looked out over the professor's shoulder.
“Yes," said he, "that's Miller; and, confound it!
here's Marchmont with old Humperdinck. Shall we
bolt up to the laboratory and send down word that
we're all out of town?"
"I don't see why we should," said Thorndyke.
“Woodfield won't be inconsolable if we have to
leave him to work by himself for a while.”
The professor confirmed this statement by another
grunt, and shortly afterwards the clamor of the little
brass knocker announced the arrival of the first
contingent, which, when I opened the door, was
seen to consist of the solicitor and his very reverend
client.
“My dear Thorndyke!” exclaimed Marchmont,
shaking our principal's hand; "what a shocking
affair this is—this murder, I mean. I read about it
in the paper. A dreadful affair!''
“Yes, indeed," Thorndyke assented; "a most
callous and horrible crime."
“Terrible! Terrible!” said Marchmont. “So
unpleasant for you, too, and so inconvenient.
Actually on your own stairs, I understand. But I
hope they'll be able to catch the villain. Have you
any idea who he is?"
“I have a very strong suspicion,” Thorndyke
replied.
'Ah!" exclaimed Marchmont, “I thought so.
The rascal brought his pigs to the wrong market.
What? Like doing a burglary at Scotland Yard.
He couldn't have known who lived here. Hallo!



340
A SILENT WITNESS
why here's Mr. Miller. Howdy-do, Superinten-
dent?
The officer, for whom I had left the door ajar
entered in his usual brisk fashion, and, having
bestowed a comprehensive salutation on the assem-
bled company, deposited on the table an apparently
weighty parcel, securely wrapped and decorated
with a label bearing the inscription “This side up."
“There, sir,” said he, “there's your box of mystery;
and I don't mind telling you that I'm on tenter-hooks
of curiosity to see what you are going to make of it.”
“Professor Woodfield is the presiding magician,
said Thorndyke, “so we will hand it over to him. I
suppose the casket is sealed?”
Yes; it was sealed in my presence, and I've got
to be present when the seals are broken.
“We'll break the seals up in the laboratory," said
Woodfield, “but we may as well undo the parcel
here."
He produced a solid-looking pocket knife, fitted
with a practicable corkscrew, and having cut the
string, stripped off the wrappings of the parcel.
“God bless my soul!” exclaimed Marchmont, as
the last wrapping was removed. “Why, it's a
cremation urn! What in the name of Fortune are
you going to do?”
Miller tapped the lid of the urn with a dramatic
gesture.
“Dr. Thorndyke," said he, "is going, I hope, to
extract from the ashes in this casket an instrument of
vengeance on the murderer of Mrs. Samway.”
“Ach!” exclaimed Father Humperdinck, “do not
speak of vengeance in ze bresence of zese boor
remains of a fellow greature. Chustice if you laig,
but not vengeance. ‘Vengeance is mine, saiz ze
Lordt!”


THE FINAL PROBLEM
341
“M’yes,” agreed Miller, “that's perfectly true,
sir, and we quite understand your point of view.
Still, we've got our job to do, you know.”
"But," said Marchmont, "I don't understand.
What is the connection? These appear to be the
remains of Septimus Maddock, whoever he may have
been, and he seems to have died last November.
What has he to do with the murder of this poor
woman, Samway?”
“The connection is this,” replied Thorndyke;
“the man who murdered Mrs. Samway murdered
the man whose ashes are in this urn.
That is my
proposition; and I hope, with the skilful aid of my
friend, Professor Woodfield, to prove it.'
"Well," said Marchmont, “it is a remarkable
proposition and the proof will be still more remark-
able. I certainly thought that a body that had
been cremated was beyond the reach of any possible
inquiry.”
*I am afraid that is so, as a rule," Thorndyke
admitted. “But I hope to find an exception in this
case. Shall we go upstairs and commence the
examination?”
Woodfield having agreed with gruff emphasis,
Miller picked up the casket and we all proceeded to
the laboratory, where Polton, like a presiding
analytical demon, was discovered amidst his beloved
apparatus. The casket was placed on a table, the
seals broken and the cover removed by Woodfield,
whereupon we all, with one accord, craned forward
to peer in at what looked like a mass of fragments
of snowy madrepore coral.
“Ach!” exclaimed Father Humperdinck, "bot it
is a solemn zought zat zese boor ashes vas vunce a
living man chust like ourselves.'
“Yes,” said Marchmont, “it is, and I suppose we



342
A SILENT WITNESS
shall all be pretty much alike by the time we reach
this stage. Cremation is a leveler, with a vengeance.
Still, I will say this much, these remains are perfectly
unobjectionable in every way; in fact, they are
almost agreeable in appearance; whereas, an ordinary
disinterment after this lapse of time would have been
a most horrible business."
“Yes, indeed,” agreed Thorndyke; "I have had
to make a good many examinations of exhumed
bodies, and, as you say, they were very different
from this. If I were not a practitioner of legal
medicine in which exhumation often furnishes
crucial evidence-I should say that this cleanly
and decent method of disposing of the dead was
incomparably superior to any other. Unfortunately
it has serious medico-legal drawbacks. I think,
Woodfield, that we will turn the ashes out on that
sheet of paper on the bench, and then, with your
permission, I will pick out the recognizable fragments
and examine them while you are working on the
small, powdery portions.”
He took up the urn—which was an oblong, terra-
cotta vessel some fourteen inches in length—and
very carefully inverted it over the large sheet of
clean white paper. Then, from the dazzling, snowy.
heap, he picked out daintily the larger fragments,
handling them with the utmost tenderness—for,
of course, they were excessively fragile
and finally
transferring them, one by one, to another sheet of
paper at the other end of the bench.
The appearance of the remains was not quite as I
had expected. Among the powdery débris was a
quite considerable number of larger fragments,
most of which were easily recognizable by the
anatomical eye, while some of the larger long bones
almost gave the impression of having been broken


THE FINAL PROBLEM
343
to enable them to be placed in the urn, and suggested
that a partial reconstitution, for the purpose of
determining the stature or other peculiarities of the
skeleton, was by no means as impossible as I had
supposed. But, large and small alike, the pieces
were strangely light and attenuated, like the ghosts
of bones or artificial counterfeits in porous, spongy
coral.
When Thorndyke had picked out such of the
fragments as he wished to examine, Professor Wood-
field glanced casually over the collection, but
suddenly he paused and, stooping over a large piece
of the right innominate bone, narrowly inspected a
somewhat shiny yellow stain on its inner surface.
“Looks as if you were right, Thorndyke,” he said
in his laconic way; "qualitatively, at any rate. We
shall see what the quantitative test says.'
I pored over that dull yellow stain-as did Jervis
also—but could make no guess at its nature or
conceive any explanation of its presence. What
interested me more was a small depression or cavity
in the bone at the center of the stain. That it was
not the result of cremation was obvious from the
fact that it was surrounded by a small area of scle-
rosed or hardened bone, which was quite plainly
distinguishable on the spongy background, and
which clearly pointed to some inflammatory change
that had occurred during life. But of its cause, as of
that of the stain itself, I could think of no intelligible
explanation.
“ Have you enough of the small fragments to go on
with for the present, Woodfield?” Thorndyke asked.
“Plenty," replied Woodfield.
“Then," said Thorndyke, “I will get on with my
side of the inquiry. I shall want the whole-plate
camera first, Polton."


THE FINAL PROBLEM
347
supply of “the stuff"--and taken up a position by
the furnace, with a long pair of crucible-tongs in his
hand. On the bench, hard by, was an iron plate,
and on this an oblong block of iron in which were
six conical hollows.
Presently Woodfield glanced at his watch, turned
off the gas-cock, removed the cover of the furnace
with his tongs, and reaching down into the glowing
interior, lifted out the nearly white-hot crucible.
Instantly Marchmont, Humperdinck and Jervis
gathered round to watch, and even Thorndyke left
his mould to come and see the result of the first
trial.
Having stood the crucible on the iron plate while
he picked out the large nails, one by one, Woodfield
lifted it and steadily poured its molten contents into
the first hollow in the iron block, which they soon
filled and, overflowing, ran along the iron plate in
glowing streams that soon grew dull from contact
with the cold surface. I noticed that as the crucible
was slowly tilted, Thorndyke kept his eyes fixed
on its interior, as also did Jervis and Woodfield;
and watching closely, I saw just as the vessel was
nearly empty, what looked somewhat like a red-hot
oil-globule floating in the last of the glowing liquid.
This passed out as the crucible was tilted further,
and disappeared into the iron mould; when Wood-
field, having exchanged a quick, significant glance
with Thorndyke, proceeded forthwith, in his matter-
of-fact way, to fill up the still red-hot vessel with
another pound and a quarter of the late Septimus
Maddock.
“I suppose," said Marchmont, “it is premature
to ask what is the final object of these very interest-
ing operations?”
"It's no use asking me," replied Woodfield,



348
A SILENT WITNESS
“because I don't know. I am searching for traces
of a particular substance, but what may be the
significance of its presence, I haven't the slightest
idea. You'd better ask Dr. Thorndyke—and he
won't tell you.”
“No, I know," said Marchmont. “Thorndyke
will never tell you anything until he can tell you
everything. By the way, will the remains be com-
pletely destroyed or will it be possible to recover
them?”
“They are not destroyed at all,” replied Woodfield.
"They are all in the slag that came out of the
crucible. We shall simply put the slag in the urn.
There is a little charcoal, soda and borax added,
but nothing is taken away.”
I could see that to the unchemical mind of Father
Humperdinck this was far from satisfactory, and I
observed him poring, with obvious disapproval,
over the dark-colored, glassy masses of slag on the
iron plate. “Ashes to ashes" was an intelligible
formula, but "ashes to slag” was quite another
matter, for which no provision had been made in any
known ritual.
After a rather hurried luncheon, the wax moulds
were carefully opened and the fragments of bone
picked out, when it was seen that each fragment
had left a perfect impression on the wax surface
into which it had been pressed. These hollow
impressions were now filled with liquid plaster, and,
when the latter had thickened sufficiently, the two
halves of each mould were quickly fitted together
and kept in close contact by a weight.
During the interval which was necessary to allow
of the plaster setting quite firmly, I had leisure to
note that Professor Woodfield had filled two more of
the cavities in the iron mould. Now that the furnace


THE FINAL PROBLEM
349
He was
was thoroughly hot, he was able to work rather
more quickly, and he had economized time by leaving
a crucible to heat while we were at lunch.
preparing to take the fourth charge from the furnace
when I observed Polton removing the weight from
one of the moulds and hurriedly transferred my
patronage to his part of the entertainment. The
mould on which he was operating was the one bear-
ing the impressions of the stained fragment of the
innominate bone, and when he separated the two
halves and exposed the newly-made cast inside, one
might have thought that the actual bone had been left
in, so perfectly did the snowy plaster cast reproduce
the dazzlingly white calcined bone. But, naturally,
the stain did not appear in the cast, a defect which
Thorndyke proceeded at once to remedy by making
a tracing of the exact position and extent of the
colored patch and transferring it to the cast. Then,
and not till then, Thorndyke regretfully handed the
original fragment to Professor Woodfield, who im-
passively dropped it into the mortar and pounded
it into a mere characterless powder.
After the opening of the second mould and the
removal of the casts, the interest of the investigation
lapsed for a time. Woodfield's operations were,
doubtless, the most important part of the procedure,
but they were not thrilling to look on at. In fact,
they became, by unvarying repetition, decidedly
tedious, and when the last charge containing the
uttermost crumb of ash-had been placed in the
furnace and there was nothing to do but stare at
the great fire-clay drum, Marchmont and Humper-
dinck began to yawn in the most portentous manner.
I rather wondered that they did not go, for the
investigation was no business of theirs, and there was
little entertainment in* gazing at the outside of the



352
A SILENT WITNESS
“I should suppose,” interposed Miller, “that the
doctor was suggesting a most particularly acute
form of lead poisoning, only that it is impossible to
imagine that a cremation certificate would be granted
in a case where a man had been killed by a pistol
shot."
“I am not so sure of that,” said Thorndyke;
“though it is not likely that a cremation certificate
would be applied for under those circumstances.
But I am certainly not suggesting lead poisoning.”
“What do you say is the weight of this button,
Thorndyke?the professor asked.
“That,” replied Thorndyke, “depends on its
relation to the total content of lead in the ashes.
What percentage do you suppose has been lost in
the process of reduction?”
“Not more than ten per cent, I hope. You may
take this button as representing ninety per cent of
the total lead; perhaps a little more."
Thorndyke made a rapid calculation on a scrap
of paper.
"I suggest,” said he, “that the total lead in the
ashes was three hundred and eighty-six grains.
Deducting a tenth, say thirty-eight and a half
grains, we have three hundred and forty-seven and a
half grains, which should be the weight of this
button."
Woodfield picked up the button, and, striding
over to the glass case which contained the chemical
balance, slid up the front, and, placing the button
in one pan, put the weight corresponding to Thorn-
dyke's estimate in the other. On turning the handle
that released the balance, it was seen that the button
was appreciably heavier than Thorndyke had stated,
and Woodfield adjusted the weights with a small
pair of forceps until the index stood in the middle
of the graduated arc.



354
A SILENT WITNESS
“But,” he exclaimed, at length, “it is impossible!
How can it be, in the ashes of a stranger?"
“I take it,” said Marchmont, “that Dr. Thorndyke
is suggesting that this was the body of Vitalis
Reinhardt."
“Undoubtedly I am,” said Thorndyke.
"It sounds a rather bold supposition,” Marchmont
observed, a little dubiously. “Isn't it basing a
somewhat startling conclusion upon rather slender
data? The presence of the lead is a striking fact,
but still, taken alone"
“But it isn't taken alone,” Thorndyke interrupted.
"It is the final link in a long chain of evidence. You
will hear that evidence later, but, as it happens, I can
prove the identity of these remains from facts elicited
by the examination that we have just made. Let me
put the argument briefly.
“First, I will draw your attention to these plaster
casts, which you have seen me make from the
original bones. Take, to begin with, these small
fragments. Dr. Jervis will tell you what bones they
are."
He handed the small casts to Jervis, who looked
them over--not for the first time-and passed them
to me.
"I say that they represent two complete fingers
and the first, or proximal, joint of a right thumb.
What do you say, Jardine?"
“That is what I had already made them out to
be," I replied.
“Very well,” said Thorndyke. “That gives us an
important initial fact. These remains contained
two complete fingers and the first joint of a thumb.
But these remains profess to be those of a man
named Septimus Maddock. Now this man is
known to have had deformed hands, of the kind



356 A SILENT WITNESS
Marchmont? I mean, of course, only in respect of a
prima facie case.”
“Perfectly satisfied,” replied Marchmont. “And
now I understand why you insisted on my being
present at this investigation and bringing Father
Humperdinck; which, I must admit, has been puz-
zling me the whole day. By the way, I rather infer,
from what you said, that there has been foul play.
Is that so?”
“I think,” replied Thorndyke, “there can hardly
be a doubt that Reinhardt was murdered by Septimus
Maddock.”
Father Humperdinck's face suddenly turned
purple.
“And zis man Maddock,” he exclaimed fiercely,
“zis murderer of my poor friend Vitalis, vere is he?"
“He is being sought by the police at this moment,”
replied Thorndyke.
“He must be caught!" Father Humperdinck
shouted in a furious voice, “and ven he is caught he
must be bunished as he deserves. I shall not vun
moment rest until he is hanged as high as Haman."
Here I caught a quick glance from Marchmont's
eyes, and seemed to hear a faint murmur which
framed the words “Vengeance is mine."
"But,”
the Jesuit continued, after a momentary pause, in
the same loud, angry tone: “Zis villain has a double
grime gommitted; he has murdered a goot, a
chenerous, a bious man; and he has robbed ze boor,
ze suffering and ze unfortunate."
“How has he done that?" asked Marchmont.
“By murdering ze benefactor of our zoziety," was
the answer.
“Yes, to be sure," agreed the solicitor. “I hadn't
thought of that. Of course, the original will in
favor of Miss Vyne probably stands without modifi-
cation."


THE FINAL PROBLEM
357
At this point Superintendent Miller interposed.
“You were saying, sir, that the man Maddock
is now being sought by the police. Do you mean
under that name?”
“No," answered Thorndyke. “I mean under the
name of Samway. Septimus Maddock, alias Isaac
Van Damme, is written off as deceased. But
Samway, alias Maddock, alias Burton of Bruges,
alias Gill, is his re-incarnation, and as such I com-
mend him to your attention; and I hope, Miller, you
will be able to produce him shortly in the flesh.
The evidence, as you see, is now ready, and all that
is lacking is the prisoner."
“He shan't be lacking long, sir, if any efforts of
mine can bring him to light. I see a case here that
will pay for all the work that we can put into it;
and now, with your permission, Doctor, I will take
possession of this urn and get off, to see that every-
thing necessary is being done."
The Superintendent, as so often happens with
departing guests, infected our other two visitors
with a sudden desire to be gone. Father Humper-
dinck, especially, seemed unwilling to lose sight of
the police officer-who was correspondingly anxious
to escape and, having wished us a very hasty adieu,
hurried down the stairs in his wake, followed, at a
greater interval, by his legal adviser.



360
A SILENT WITNESS
normal and its details would soon have been lost
sight of and forgotten. Even as it was, he missed
complete success only by a hair's breadth. But for
the most trivial coincidence, Jardine's body might
be lying undiscovered in that cellar at this very
moment."
“That's a comfortable thought for you, Jardine,"
my younger colleague remarked.
“Very," I agreed, with a slight shudder at the
recollection of that horrible death-trap. “But what
was the coincidence? I never understood how you
came to be in that most unlikely place at that very
opportune moment.
It was the merest chance," replied Thorndyke.
“I happened to have called in at the hospital that
evening and, having an hour to spare, it occurred
to me to look in at Batson's and see if you were
getting on quite happily in your new command.
As I had induced you to take charge, I felt some sort
of responsibility in the matter."
"It was exceedingly kind of you, sir,” said I.
"Not in the least," said Thorndyke. “It was
just the ordinary solicitude of the teacher for a
promising pupil. Well, when I arrived at the
house, I found that excellent girl, Maggie, standing
on the doorstep, looking anxiously up and down the
street. It seemed that, on reflection, she was still
convinced that the works were untenanted, and the
oddity of the whole set of circumstances had made
her somewhat uneasy. I waited a few minutes and
disposed of one or two patients, and then, as you
did not return, after what seemed an unaccountably
long absence, I very easily induced her to show me
where the place was; and when we arrived there,
the deserted aspect of the building and the notice
board over the gate seemed rather to justify her
anxiety.


THORNDYKE REVIEWS THE CASE 363
for the solution of the mystery.
We knew some
thing of our man. He was subtle, resourceful and
absolutely ruthless. Noting this, I was prepared,
in pursuing the case, to find his other actions char-
acterized by subtlety, resourcefulness and ruthless-
ness. His further actions were not going to be
those of a dullard or an ignoramus.
“But this was not all the information that I had
concerning the personality of this unknown villain.
Jervis and I looked over the cellars that same night
within an hour and a half of the rescue and before
anything had been moved. We were then in a
position to infer that the unknown was probably
a somewhat tall man and above the average of
strength, as shown by the weight, position and
arrangement of the iron bottles. Moreover, since
there was no faintest trace of a finger-print on any
of them, it followed that some precautions against
them-such as gloves-had been adopted; which
again suggested either a professional criminal or a
person well acquainted with criminal methods.
"So much for the man. As to the rest of the
information that I obtained by looking into the
cellar, it seemed, at the time, meagre enough; and
yet, when considered by the light of Jardine's state-
ment, it turned out to be of vital importance. You
remember what it was, Jardine? That cellar con-
tained certain objects. They seemed very unillu-
minating and commonplace, but, according to my
invariable custom, I considered them attentively
and made a written list of them. Do you remem-
ber what they were?”
“Yes, quite well. There were ten empty cyl-
inders, a spanner, a packing-case"
“What were the dimensions of the case?" Thorn-
dyke interrupted.


THORNDYKE REVIEWS THE CASE 365
“Now, it is my habit, whenever I have to deal
with a death which has been followed by cremation,
to approach the case with the utmost caution and
scrutinize the circumstances most narrowly. For,
admirable as is this method of disposing of the dead,
regarded from a hygienic standpoint, it has the fatal
defect of lending itself most perfectly to the more
subtle forms of murder, and especially to the admin-
istration of poison. By cremation all traces of the
alkaloids, the toxines and the other organic poisons
are utterly destroyed, while of the metals, the three
whose compounds are most commonly employed for
criminal purposes-arsenic, antimony and mercury
-are volatilized by heat and would be more or less
completely dissipated during the incineration of the
body. It is true that the most elaborate precau-
tions in the form of examination and certification
are prescribed-and usually taken, I presume
before cremation is performed; but, as every med-
ical jurist knows, precautions taken before the event
are useless, for, to be effective, they would have to
cover every possible cause of death, which would
be impracticable. Hence, as suspicion, in cases of
poisoning, commonly does not arise until some time
after death, I always give the closest consideration
to the antecedent circumstances in cases where
cremation has been performed.
“But in this case of Jardine's it was at once
obvious that the circumstances called for the
minutest inquiry and that no inquiry had been
made. On the face of it the case was a suspicious
one; and the curious incident that Jardine described
made it look more suspicious still and, moreover,
suggested a possible motive for the attempt on his
life. Apparently he had seen, or was believed to
have seen, something that he was not desired to see;



366
A SILENT WITNESS
something that it was not intended that anyone
should see.
“Now what might that something have been?
Apparently it was connected with the hand or with
the part of the arm adjacent to the hand. I con-
sidered the possibilities; and at once they fell into
two categories. That something might have been
a wound, an injury, a hypodermic needle-mark;
something, that is to say, related to the cause of
death; or it might have been a mutilation, a
deformity, a finger-ring, a tattoo-mark; something,
that is to say, related to the identity of the de-
ceased. And it followed that the cremation might
have been made use of to conceal either the cause of
death or the identity of the body. But all this was
purely speculative. The case looked suspicious;
but there was not a particle of positive evidence
that anything abnormal had occurred.
“At this point Jardine exploded on us his second
mystery; that of the dead cleric at Hampstead.
This gave us at once an adequate motive for get-
ting rid of him; for it had every appearance of a
case of murder with successful concealment of the
body, and Jardine was the only witness who could
testify to its having occurred. On hearing of this
I was for a moment disposed to dismiss the crema-
tion case; to consider that the suspicious elements
in it had been magnified by our imaginations in
our endeavors to find an explanation of the assault
on Jardine. Moreover, since we now had a suf-
ficient motive for that assault, the cremation case
appeared to be outside the scope of the inquiry.
"But there was a difficulty. It was now six
weeks since Jardine had encountered the body in
the lane, and during that time he had been entirely
unmolested. The assault had occurred on his


THORNDYKE REVIEWS THE CASE 369
for granted—naturally enough, I admit—and no
verification was even thought of. Then, as to
Jardine's experience. The hand or wrist is not
at all a likely region on which to find either a fatal
injury or the trace of a hypodermic injection;
whereas it is a most important region for purposes
of identification. The hand is highly characteristic
in itself even when normal; and there is no part
of the body that is so subject to mutilation or in
which mutilations and deformities are so striking,
so conspicuous, and so characteristic. Lost fingers,
stiff fingers, webbed fingers, supernumerary fingers,
contracted palm, deformed nails, brachydactyly and
numerous other abnormal conditions are not only
easily recognized, but since the hand is usually
unclothed and visible their existence will be known
to a large number of persons.
“The evidence, in short, was strongly in favor of
substitution as against murder.
“If, however, the body which was cremated was
not that of Maddock, then it was the body of some
other person; that is to say that the theory of
substitution left us with a dead body that was
unaccounted for. And since a dead body implies
the death of some person, the theory of substitu-
tion left us with a death unaccounted for and
obviously concealed; that is to say, it raised a
strong presumption of the murder of some unknown
person.
And here it seemed that our data came
to an end; that we had no material whatever for
forming any hypothesis as to the identity of the
person whose dead body we were assuming to have
been substituted for that of Septimus Maddock.
“But while I was thus turning over the possi-
bilities of this cremation case, the other—the Hamp-
stead case-continued to lurk in the background of
24



370
A A SILENT WITNESS
my mind. It was much less hypothetical. There
was positive evidence of some weight that a crime
had been committed. And the circumstances offered
a fully adequate motive for getting rid of Jardine.
Thus it was natural that I should raise the ques-
tion, Was it possible that the two cases could be in
any way connected?
At the first glance, the suggestion looked abso-
lutely wild. But still I considered it at length;
and then it looked somewhat less wild. The two
cases had this in common, that if a crime had been
committed, Jardine was the sole witness. More-
over, the supposition that the two cases were con-
nected and incriminated the same parties, greatly
intensified the motive for making away with Jar-
dine. But there was another and much stronger
point in favor of this view. If we adopted the
theory of substitution, it was impossible, on look-
ing at the two cases, to avoid being struck by the
very curious converseness of their conditions. In
the Hampstead case we were dealing with a body
which had suddenly vanished, no one could say
whither; in the Maddock case we were dealing
with a body which had suddenly appeared, no one
could say whence.
“When I reflected on this very striking appear-
ance of relation it was inevitable that I should ask
myself the question, Is it conceivable that these
two bodies could have been one and the same?
That the body which was cremated could have
been the body which Jardine saw in the lane?
“Again, at the first glance, the question looked
absurd. The first body was seen by Jardine more
than six weeks before the alleged death of Mad-
dock; and the body which he saw at the Samway's
house was that of a man newly dead, with rigor


THORNDYKE REVIEWS THE CASE 375
It
far away—or a house or other building to which the
body could be taken. But the vehicle would, under
the circumstances, be almost impracticable.
would hardly be possible to make an appointment
with any exactness as to time, and the presence of a
waiting or loitering vehicle would, at such an
hour—it was about midnight, you will remember-
be almost certain to arouse suspicion and inquiry.
“On the other hand, a house to which the body
could be conveyed would meet the conditions
perfectly. When once the body was deposited there,
the danger of pursuit would be practically at an end;
and it would be quite possible to have a supply of
the liquid gas ready for use on its arrival. This is
assuming long premeditation and very deliberate
preparation, an assumption supported by Gill's
peculiar tenancy of the factory.
“I, therefore, kept a sharp lookout for a likely
house or building; and, as Jardine and I came out
of Ken Wood by the turnstile, behold! a house which
answered the requirements to perfection. It was a
solitary house; there was no other house near; and
it lay right on the track along which the body had
apparently been carried. Instantly, I decided to
investigate the recent history of that house and its
tenants; but Jardine saved me the trouble. From
him I learned that, at the time of the assumed murder,
it had been inhabited by the artist whom he had
mentioned, but that it had now been empty for a
week or two.
“Here was news indeed! This artist, who habitu-
ally wore gloves and whose right thumb-print was a
twinned loop, had been living in this house at the
time of the assumed murder, but had been living
elsewhere at the time of the cremation! It was a
striking group of facts, and I eagerly availed myself
of the opportunity of looking over the house.



376
A SILENT WITNESS
“At first the examination was quite barren and
disappointing. The man's habits, as shown by the
few discarded articles of use or other traces, were of
no interest to me—and still less to Jardine; and of
traces of his personality there were none. I searched
all the rejected canvases and every available scrap
of paper in the hope of collecting some fresh finger-
prints, but without the smallest result. In fact,
the examination looked like being an utter failure
up to the very last, when we entered the stable-
loft; but here I came upon one or two really signifi-
cant traces of occupation.
“The first of these was a smooth, indented line
on the floor, as if some heavy metallic object had
been dragged along it, with other, rougher lines,
apparently made by a heavy wooden case. Then
there was a quantity of straw, not new straw such as
you might expect to find in a stable loft, but straw
that had evidently been used for packing. And,
finally, there was a pair of canvas pliers which
appeared to have been strained by a violent effort
to rotate from right to left some hard, metallic body,
three-quarters of an inch wide, with sharp corners
and apparently square in section; some body, in
fact, that in shape, in size and apparently in material,
was identical with the square of the cock on one of
the liquid gas bottles; which appeared to have been
connected with a screw thread, and had clearly
required great force to turn it with this inadequate
appliance.
"The evidence collected from the loft, suggesting
that a large case had been moved in and out and
that a gas cylinder had been opened, you will say
was of the flimsiest. And so it was. But the effects
of evidence are cumulative. To estimate the value
of these observations made in the loft, you must


THORNDYKE REVIEWS THE CASE 377
add them to the facts just obtained concerning the
artist himself, the position of his house and the date
on which he vacated it; and these coincidences
and agreements must be added tomor, more strictly,
multiplied into-the body of coincidences and agree-
ments which I have already described.
"But the evidence collected at the house was the
least important part of the day's 'catch.' On return-
ing to Jardine's rooms I ventured to borrow the
sketch and took it home with me; and when I
compared the thumb-print on it with the photo-
graph of the thumb-print on the letter-employing
the excellent method of comparison that is in use
at Scotland Yard—there could be no possible doubt
(disregarding for the moment the chances of
forgery) that they were the prints of one and the
same thumb.
“Here, then, at last I had stepped out of the region
of mere hypothesis. Here was an item of positive
evidence, and one, moreover, of high probative value.
It proved, beyond any reasonable doubt, the existence
of some connection between the house on the Heath
and the factory in Norton Street; and it established
a strong presumption that the artist and the man at
the factory were the same person; the weak point
in this being the absence of proof that the thumb-
print on the painting was made by the artist.
“And here, Jardine, I would draw your attention
to the interesting way in which, when a long train
of hypothetical reasoning has at length elicited an
actual, demonstrable truth, that truth instantly
reacts on the hypothesis, lifting it as a whole on to
an entirely different plane of probability.
compare the effect to that of a crystal dropped into
a super-saturated solution of a salt, such as sodium
sulphate. So long as it is at rest, the solution remains
I may



378
A SILENT WITNESS
a clear liquid; but drop into it the minutest crystal
of its own salt, and in a few moments the entire
liquid has solidified into a mass of crystals.
“So it was in the present case. In the instant
when it became an established fact that the house
at Hampstead and the factory in Norton Street had
been occupied by the same person, the entire sequence
of events which I had hypothetically constructed,
sprang from the plane of mere conceivability to that
of actual probability. It was now more likely than
unlikely that the unknown cleric had been murdered,
that his body had been conveyed to the artist's house,
that it had there been frozen, transferred to the
factory, preserved there for some weeks, passed over
the wall to the Samway's house, and finally cremated
under the name of Septimus Maddock.
“All that now remained to be done was the veri-
fication and identification of the body. As to the
first, I examined the will at Somerset House and
found it, as the American detectives suspected, a
mere notification to the New York authorities that
Septimus Maddock was dead. I wrote to the detec-
tive agency and in due course came O'Donnell with
the answers to my questions; from which we learned
for certain that the artist was Septimus Maddock
and that the assumed peculiarity of the hands
consisted of brachydactyly. And then came the
good Father Humperdinck to enable us to give a
name to the body and to furnish us with that unlook-
ed-for means of identification. Henceforth, all was
plain sailing with only one possible source of failure;
the possibility that the bullet might have been
subsequently extracted. But this was highly
improbable. We knew that the wound had healed
completely, and it was pretty certain that the bullet
was lying quietly encysted or embedded in the bone.


382
A SILENT WITNESS
made for it. As I write these closing words, it hangs
before me, fianked on either side by the little jar of
violets that are renewed religiously from day to day
by my wife or me. The pale, inscrutable eyes look
out on me, her friend whom she loved so faithfully
and who so little merited her love; but as I look
into them, the picture fades and shows me the same
face glorified, waxen, pallid, drowsy-eyed, peaceful
and sweet—the dead face of the woman who gave
her heart's blood as the price of my ransom, and who
was fated then to pass out of my life indeed, but
out of my heart's shrine and my most loving remem-
brance, never.
THE END



The Ohio State University
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The Ohio State University
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A SILENT WITNESS
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