º, º sºlº ºr sº ºn
B R A R Y
º
- THE ADVENTURES or.
Jr. Thorndyke
* Ausºn ºn
"YOU CANT GO WRONG WITH AN R AUST
FREEMAN MYSTERY NEW YORK HERALD TRIBUNE





3REAT STORIES OF A GREAT DETECTIVE
| The Adventures of
DR. THORNDYKE
(The Singing Bone)
By R. AUSTIN FREEMAN
POPULAR LIBRARY - NEW YORK


PREFACE
Tre peculiar construction of the first four stories in the
present collection will probably strike both reader and critic
and seem to call for some explanation, which I accordingly
proceed to supply.
In the conventional “detective story” the interest is made
to focus on the question, “Who did it?” The identity of
the criminal is a secret that is jealously guarded up to the
very end of the book, and its disclosure forms the final
climax. -
This I have always regarded as somewhat of a mistake.
In real life, the identity of the criminal is a question of
supreme importance for practical reasons; but in fiction,
where no such reasons exist, I conceive the interest of the
reader to be engaged chiefly by the demonstration of un-
expected consequences of simple actions, of unsuspected
causal connections, and by the evolution of an ordered train
of evidence from a mass of facts apparently incoherent and
unrelated. The reader’s curiosity is concerned not so much
with the question “Who did it?” as with the question “How
was the discovery achieved?” That is to say, the ingenious
reader is interested more in the intermediate action than in
the ultimate result.
The offer by a popular author of a prize to the reader
who should identify the criminal in a certain “detective
story,” exhibiting as it did the opposite view, suggested to
me an interesting question.
Would it be possible to write a detective story in which
from the outset the reader was taken entirely into the
author's confidence, was made an actual witness of the
crime and furnished with every fact that could possibly be
used in its detection? Would there be any story left when
the reader had all the facts? I believed that there would;
3


and as an experiment to test the justice of my belief, I
wrote “The Case of Oscar Brodski.” Here the usual condi-
tions are reversed; the reader knows everything, the detec-
tive knows nothing, and the interest focuses on the un-
expected significance of trivial circumstances.
By excellent judges on both sides of the Atlantic—in-
cluding the editor of Pearson’s Magazine—this story was
so far approved of that I was invited to produce others of
the same type.
Three more were written and are here included together
with one of the more orthodox character, so that the reader
can judge of the respective merits of the two methods of
narration.
Nautical readers will observe that I have taken the lib-
erty (for obvious reasons connected with the law of libel)
of planting a screw-pile lighthouse on the Girdler Sand in
place of the light-vessel. I mention the matter to forestall
criticism and save readers the trouble of writing to point
out the error.
R. A. F.
Gravesend


|||
CONTENTS
THE CASE OF OSCAR BRODSKI
| The Mechanism of Crime
|| The Mechanism of Detection
A CASE OF PREMEDITATION
| The Elimination of Mr. Pratt
| Rival Sleuth-Hounds
THE ECHO OF A MUTINY
| Death on the Girdler .
|| "The Singing Bone"
A WASTREL'S ROMANCE
| The Spinsters' Guest .
|| Munera Pulveris
THE OLD LAG
| The Changed Immutable
|| The Ship of the Desert
23
52
74
92
|06
| 26
|40
| 60
| 75





THE CASE OF OSCAR BRODSKI
PART |
THE MECHANISM OF CRIME
A SURPRISING amount of nonsense has been talked about
conscience. On the one hand remorse (or the “again-bite,”
as certain scholars of ultra-Teutonic leanings would prefer
to call it); on the other hand “an easy conscience”: these
have been accepted as the determining factors of happiness
or the reverse.
Of course there is an element of truth in the “easy con-
science” view, but it begs the whole question. A particularly
hardy conscience may be quite easy under the most un-
favourable conditions—conditions in which the more feeble
conscience might be severely afflicted with the “again-bite.”
And, then, it seems to be the fact that some fortunate per-
sons have no conscience at all; a negative gift that raises
them above the mental vicissitudes of the common herd of
humanity.
Now, Silas Hickler was a case in point. No one, looking
into his cheerful, round face, beaming with benevolence and
wreathed in perpetual smiles, would have imagined him to
be a criminal. Least of all, his worthy, high-church house-
keeper, who was a witness to his unvarying amiability, who
constantly heard him carolling light-heartedly about the
house and noted his appreciative zest at meal-times.
Yet it is a fact that Silas earned his modest, though com-
fortable, income by the gentle art of burglary. A precarious
trade and risky withal, yet not so very hazardous if pur-
sued with judgment and moderation. And Silas was emin-
ently a man of judgment. He worked invariably alone. He
kept his own counsel. No confederate had he to turn King's
Evidence at a pinch; no one he knew would bounce off in
a fit of temper to Scotland Yard. Nor was he greedy and
thriftless, as most criminals are. His “scoops” were few
and far between, carefully planned, secretly executed, and


the proceeds judiciously invested in “weekly property.”
In early life Silas had been connected with the diamond
industry, and he still did a little rather irregular dealing. In
the trade he was suspected of transactions with I.D.B.'s,
and one or two indiscreet dealers had gone so far as to
whisper the ominous word “fence.” But Silas Smiled a benev-
olent smile and went his way. He knew what he knew,
and his clients in Amsterdam were not inquisitive.
Such was Silas Hickler. As he strolled round his garden
in the dusk of an October evening, he seemed the very type
of modest, middle-class prosperity. He was dressed in the
travelling suit that he wore on his little continental trips;
his bag was packed and stood in readiness on the sitting-
room sofa. A parcel of diamonds (purchased honestly,
though without impertinent questions, at Southampton)
was in the inside pocket of his waistcoat, and another more
valuable parcel was stowed in a cavity in the heel of his
right boot. In an hour and a half it would be time for him
to set out to catch the boat train at the junction; meanwhile
there was nothing to do but to stroll round the fading gar-
den and consider how he should invest the proceeds of the
impending deal. His housekeeper had gone over to Welham
for the week's shopping, and would probably not be back
until eleven o'clock. He was alone in the premises and just
a trifle dull.
He was about to turn into the house when his ear caught
the Sound of footsteps on the unmade road that passed the
end of the garden. He paused and listened. There was no
other dwelling near, and the road led nowhere, fading away
into the waste land beyond the house. Could this be a
visitor? It seemed unlikely, for visitors were few at Silas
Hickler's house. Meanwhile the footsteps continued to ap-
proach, ringing out with increasing loudness on the hard,
Stony path.
Silas strolled down to the gate, and, leaning on it, looked
out with some curiosity. Presently a glow of light showed
him the face of a man, apparently lighting his pipe; then
a dim figure detached itself from the enveloping gloom,
advanced towards him and halted opposite the garden.
The stranger removed a cigarette from his mouth and, blow-
8


bottle on the table together with a couple of his best star-
pattern tumblers and a siphon.
“Thanks, I think I will,” said Brodski. “The railway
journey and all this confounded tramping about, you
know—”
“Yes,” agreed Silas. “Doesn't do to start with an empty
stomach. Hope you don't mind oat-cakes; I see they’re the
only biscuits I have.” -
Brodski hastened to assure him that oat-cakes were his
special and peculiar fancy; and in confirmation, having
mixed himself a stiff jorum, he fell to upon the biscuits with
evident gusto.
Brodski was a deliberate feeder, and at present appeared
to be somewhat sharp set. His measured munching being
unfavourable to conversation, most of the talking fell to
Silas; and, for once, that genial transgressor found the task
embarrassing. The natural thing would have been to dis-
cuss his guest's destination and perhaps the object of his
journey; but this was precisely what Hickler avoided doing.
For he knew both, and instinct told him to keep his knowl-
edge to himself.
Brodski was a diamond merchant of considerable reputa-
tion, and in a large way of business. He bought stones
principally in the rough, and of these he was a most ex-
cellent judge. His fancy was for stones of somewhat unusual
size and value, and it was well known to be his custom,
when he had accumulated a sufficient stock, to carry them
himself to Amsterdam and supervise the cutting of the rough
stones. Of this Hickler was aware, and he had no doubt that
Brodski was now starting on one of his periodical excursions;
that somewhere in the recesses of his rather shabby clothing
was concealed a paper packet possibly worth several thou-
Sand pounds.
Brodski sat by the table munching monotonously and
talking little. Hickler sat opposite him, talking nervously
and rather wildly at times, and watching his guest with a
growing fascination. Precious stones, and especially dia-
monds, were Hickler's specialty. “Hard stuff”—silver plate
—he avoided entirely; gold, excepting in the form of specie,
he seldom touched; but stones, of which he could carry off
10


a whole consignment in the heel of his boot and dispose of
with absolute safety, formed the staple of his industry. And
here was a man sitting opposite him with a parcel in his
pocket containing the equivalent of a dozen of his most suc-
cessful “scoops”; stones worth perhaps Here he pulled
himself up short and began to talk rapidly, though without
much coherence. For, even as he talked, other words, formed
subconsciously, seemed to insinuate themselves into the in-
terstices of the sentences, and to carry on a parallel train
of thought.
“Gets chilly in the evenings now, doesn't it?” said Hickler.
“It does indeed,” Brodski agreed, and then resumed his
slow munching, breathing audibly through his nose.
“Five thousand at least,” the subconscious train of
thought resumed; “probably six or seven, perhaps ten.”
Silas fidgeted in his chair and endeavoured to concentrate
his ideas on some topic of interest. He was growing dis-
agreeably conscious of a new and unfamiliar state of mind.
“Do you take any interest in gardening?” he asked.
Next to diamonds and weekly “property,” his besetting
weakness was fuchsias.
Brodski chuckled sourly. “Hatton Garden is the nearest
approach ” He broke off suddenly, and then added, “I
am a Londoner, you know.”
The abrupt break in the sentence was not unnoticed by
Silas, nor had he any difficulty in interpreting it. A man
who carries untold wealth upon his person must needs be
wary in his speech.
“Yes,” he answered absently, “it’s hardly a Londoner's
hobby.” And then, half consciously, he began a rapid calcu-
lation. Put it at five thousand pounds. What would that
represent in weekly property? His last set of houses had
cost two hundred and fifty pounds apiece, and he had let
them at ten shillings and sixpence a week. At that rate, five
thousand pounds represented twenty houses at ten and
sixpence a week—say ten pounds a week—one pound eight
shillings a day—five hundred and twenty pounds a year—
for life. It was a competency. Added to what he already
had, it was wealth. With that income he could fling the tools
of his trade into the river and live out the remainder of his
11


by nature and habit. He was a beast of prey. His livelihood
had never been earned; it had been taken by stealth or, if
necessary, by force. His instincts were predacious, and the
proximity of unguarded valuables suggested to him, as a
logical consequence, their abstraction or seizure. His un-
willingness to let these diamonds go away beyond his reach
was fast becoming overwhelming.
But he would make one more effort to escape. He would
keep out of Brodski's actual presence until the moment for
Starting came.
“If you’ll excuse me,” he said, “I will go and put on a
thicker pair of boots. After all this dry weather we may
get a change, and damp feet are very uncomfortable when
you are travelling.”
“Yes; dangerous too,” agreed Brodski.
Silas walked through into the adjoining kitchen, where,
by the light of the little lamp that was burning there, he
had seen his stout, country boots placed, cleaned and in
readiness, and sat down upon a chair to make the change.
He did not, of course, intend to wear the country boots, for
the diamonds were concealed in those he had on. But he
would make the change and then alter his mind; it would all
help to pass the time. He took a deep breath. It was a
relief, at any rate, to be out of that room. Perhaps if he
stayed away, the temptation would pass. Brodski would go
on his way—he wished that he was going alone—and the
danger would be over—at least—and the opportunity would
have gone—the diamonds -
He looked up as he slowly unlaced his boot. From where
he sat he could see Brodski sitting by the table with his back
towards the kitchen door. He had finished eating, now, and
was composedly rolling a cigarette. Silas breathed heavily,
and, slipping off his boot, sat for a while motionless, gazing
steadily at the other man's back. Then he unlaced the other
boot, still staring abstractedly at his unconscious guest, drew
it off, and laid it very quietly on the floor.
Brodski calmly finished rolling his cigarette, licked the
paper, put away his pouch, and, having dusted the crumbs
of tobacco from his knees, began to search his pockets for
a match. Suddenly, yielding to an uncontrollable impulse,
14


Silas stood up and began stealthily to creep along the passage
to the sitting-room. Not a sound came from his stockinged
feet. Silently as a cat he stole forward, breathing softly
with parted lips, until he stood at the threshold of the room.
His face flushed duskily, his eyes, wide and staring, glittered
in the lamplight, and the racing blood hummed in his ears.
Brodski struck a match—Silas noted that it was a wooden
vesta—lighted his cigarette, blew out the match and flung
it into the fender. Then he replaced the box in his pocket
and commenced to smoke.
Slowly and without a sound Silas crept forward into the
room, step by step, with catlike stealthiness, until he stood
close behind Brodski's chair—so close that he had to turn
his head that his breath might not stir the hair upon the
other man's head. So, for half-a-minute, he stood motion-
less, like a symbolical statue of Murder, glaring down with
horrible, glittering eyes upon the unconscious diamond
merchant, while his quick breath passed without a sound
through his open mouth and his fingers writhed slowly like
the tentacles of a giant hydra. And then, as noiselessly as
ever, he backed away to the door, turned quickly and
walked back into the kitchen.
He drew a deep breath. It had been a near thing. Brod-
ski's life had hung upon a thread For it had been so easy.
Indeed, if he had happened, as he stood behind the man's
chair, to have a weapon—a hammer, for instance, or even
a St0me
He glanced round the kitchen and his eyes lighted on
a bar that had been left by the workmen who had put up
the new greenhouse. It was an odd piece cut off from a
square, wrought-iron stanchion, and was about a foot long
and perhaps three-quarters of an inch thick. Now, if he
had had that in his hand a minute ago
He picked the bar up, balanced it in his hand and swung
it round his head. A formidable weapon this: silent, too.
And it fitted the plan that had passed through his brain.
Bah! He had better put the thing down.
But he did not. He stepped over to the door and looked
again at Brodski, sitting, as before, meditatively smoking,
with his back towards the kitchen.
15


Suddenly a change came over Silas. His face flushed, the
veins of his neck stood out and a sullen scowl settled on
his face. He drew out his watch, glanced at it earnestly and
replaced it. Then he strode swiftly but silently along the
passage into the sitting-room.
A pace away from his victim's chair he halted and took
deliberate aim. The bar swung aloft, but not without some
faint rustle of movement, for Brodski looked round quickly
even as the iron whistled through the air. The movement
disturbed the murderer's aim, and the bar glanced off his
victim's head, making only a trifling wound. Brodski sprang
up with a tremulous, bleating cry, and clutched his as-
sailant's arms with the tenacity of mortal terror.
Then began a terrible struggle, as the two men, locked
in a deadly embrace, swayed to and fro and trampled back-
wards and forwards. The chair was overturned, .an empty
glass swept from the table and, with Brodski's spectacles,
crushed beneath stamping feet. And thrice that dreadful,
pitiful, bleating cry rang out into the night, filling Silas,
despite his murderous frenzy, with terror lest some chance
wayfarer should hear it. Gathering his great strength for
a final effort, he forced his victim backwards onto the table
and, snatching up a corner of the tablecloth, thrust it into
his face and crammed it into his mouth as it opened to utter
another shriek. And thus they remained for a full two
minutes, almost motionless, like some dreadful group of
tragic allegory. Then, when the last faint twitchings had
died away, Silas relaxed his grasp and let the limp body
slip softly onto the floor.
It was over. For good or for evil, the thing was done.
Silas stood up, breathing heavily, and, as he wiped the
sweat from his face, he looked at the clock. The hands stood
at one minute to seven. The whole thing had taken a little
over three minutes. He had nearly an hour in which to
finish his task The goods train that entered into his scheme
came by at twenty minutes past, and it was only three hun-
dred yards to the line. Still, he must not waste time. He
was now quite composed, and only disturbed by the thought
that Brodski's cries might have been heard. If no one had
heard them it was all plain sailing.
16


He stooped, and, gently disengaging the table-cloth from
the dead man's teeth, began a careful search of his pockets.
He was not long finding what he sought, and, as he pinched
the paper packet and felt the little hard bodies grating on
one another inside, his faint regrets for what had happened
were swallowed up in self-congratulations.
He now set about his task with business-like briskness
and an attentive eye on the clock. A few large drops of
blood had fallen on the table-cloth, and there was a small
bloody smear on the carpet by the dead man's head. Silas
fetched from the kitchen some water, a nail-brush and a dry
cloth, and, having washed out the stains from the table-cover
—not forgetting the deal table-top underneath—and cleaned
away the smear from the carpet and rubbed the damp places
dry, he slipped a sheet of paper under the head of the corpse
to prevent further contamination. Then he set the table-
cloth straight, stood the chair upright, laid the broken
spectacles on the table and picked up the cigarette, which
had been trodden flat in the struggle, and flung it under
the grate. Then there was the broken glass, which he swept
up into a dust-pan. Part of it was the remains of the shat-
tered tumbler, and the rest the fragments of the broken
spectacles. He turned it out onto a sheet of paper and
looked it over carefully, picking out the larger recognizable
pieces of the spectacle-glasses and putting them aside on a
separate slip of paper, together with a sprinkling of the
minute fragments. The remainder he shot back into the
dust-pan and, having hurriedly put on his boots, carried it
out to the rubbish-heap at the back of the house.
It was now time to start. Hastily cutting off a length of
string from his string-box—for Silas was an orderly man
and despised the oddments of string with which many people
make shift—he tied it to the dead man's bag and umbrella
and slung them from his shoulder. Then he folded up the
paper of broken glass, and, slipping it and the spectacles into
his pocket, picked up the body and threw it over his
shoulder. Brodski was a small, spare man, weighing not
more than nine stone; not a very formidable burden for a
big, athletic man like Silas.
The night was intensely dark, and, when Silas looked
17


out of the back gate over the waste land that stretched from
his house to the railway, he could hardly see twenty yards
ahead. After listening cautiously and hearing no sound, he
went out, shut the gate softly behind him and set forth at
a good pace, though carefully, over the broken ground. His
progress was not as silent as he could have wished for, though
the scanty turf that covered the gravelly land was thick
enough to deaden his footfalls, the swinging bag and um-
brella made an irritating noise; indeed, his movements were
more hampered by them than by the weightier burden.
The distance to the line was about three hundred yards.
Ordinarily he would have walked it in from three to four
minutes, but now, going cautiously with his burden and
stopping now and again to listen, it took him just six minutes
to reach the three-bar fence that separated the waste land
from the railway. Arrived here he halted for a moment and
once more listened attentively, peering into the darkness on
all sides. Not a living creature was to be seen or heard in
this desolate spot, but far away, the shriek of an engine's
whistle warned him to hasten.
Lifting the corpse easily over the fence, he carried it a
few yards farther to a point where the line curved sharply.
Here he laid it face downwards, with the neck over the near
rail. Drawing out his pocket-knife, he cut through the knot
that fastened the umbrella to the string and also secured the
bag; and when he had flung the bag and umbrella on the
track beside the body, he carefully pocketed the string, ex-
cepting the little loop that had fallen to the ground when
the knot was cut.
The quick Snort and clanking rumble of an approaching
goods train began now to be clearly audible. Rapidly, Silas
drew from his pockets the battered spectacles and the packet
of broken glass. The former he threw down by the dead
man's head, and then, emptying the packet into his hand,
sprinkled the fragments of glass around the spectacles.
He was none too soon. Already the quick, laboured puffing
of the engine sounded close at hand. His impulse was to
stay and watch; to witness the final catastrophe that should
convert the murder into an accident or suicide. But it was
hardly safe: it would be better that he should not be near
18


lest he should not be able to get away without being seen.
Hastily he climbed back over the fence and strode away
across the rough fields, while the train came Snorting and
clattering towards the curve.
He had nearly reached his back gate when a sound from
the line brought him to a sudden halt; it was a prolonged
whistle accompanied by the groan of brakes and the loud
clank of colliding trucks. The snorting of the engine had
ceased and was replaced by the penetrating hiss of escaping
Steam. -
The train had stopped! º
For one brief moment Silas stood with bated breath and
mouth agape like one petrified; then he strode forward
quickly to the gate, and, letting himself in, silently slid the
bolt. He was undeniably alarmed. What could have hap-
pened on the line? It was practically certain that the body
had been seen; but what was happening now? and would
they come to the house? He entered the kitchen, and hav-
ing paused again to listen—for somebody might come and
knock at the door at any moment—he walked through the
sitting-room and looked round. All seemed in order there.
There was the bar, though, lying where he had dropped it
in the scuffle. He picked it up and held it under the lamp.
There was no blood on it; only one or two hairs. Somewhat
absently he wiped it with the table-cover, and then, running
out through the kitchen into the back garden, dropped it
over the wall into a bed of nettles. Not that there was any-
thing incriminating in the bar, but, since he had used it as
a weapon, it had somehow acquired a sinister aspect to his
eye. -
He now felt that it would be well to start for the station
at once. It was not time yet, for it was barely twenty-five
minutes past seven; but he did not wish to be found in
the house if any one should come. His soft hat was on the
sofa with his bag, to which his umbrella was strapped.
He put on the hat, caught up the bag and stepped over to
the door; then he came back to turn down the lamp.
And it was at this moment, when he stood with his hand
raised to the burner, that his eyes, travelling by chance into
the dim corner of the room, lighted on Brodski's grey felt
19


hat, reposing on the chair where the dead man had placed
it when he entered the house.
Silas stood for a few moments as if petrified, with the
chilly sweat of mortal fear standing in beads upon his
forehead. Another instant and he would have turned the
lamp down and gone on his way; and then He strode
over to the chair, snatched up the hat and looked inside
it. Yes, there was the name, “Oscar Brodski,” written
plainly on the lining. If he had gone away, leaving it
to be discovered, he would have been lost; indeed, even
now, if a search-party should come to the house, it was
enough to send him to the gallows.
His limbs shook with horror at the thought, but in spite
of his panic he did not lose his self-possession. Darting
through into the kitchen, he grabbed up a handful of the
dry brush-wood that was kept for lighting fires and car-
ried it to the sitting-room grate where he thrust it on
the extinct, but still hot, embers, and crumpling up the
paper that he had placed under Brodski's head—on which
paper he now noticed, for the first time, a minute bloody
smear—he poked it in under the wood, and striking a wax
match, set light to it. As the wood flared up, he hacked
at the hat with his pocket knife and threw the ragged
strips into the blaze. -
And all the while his heart was thumping and his hands
a-tremble with the dread of discovery. The fragments
of felt were far from inflammable, tending rather to fuse
into cindery masses that smoked and smouldered than
to burn away into actual ash. Moreover, to his dismay,
they emitted a powerful resinous stench mixed with the
odour of burning hair, so that he had to open the kitchen
window (since he dared not unlock the front door) to
disperse the reek. And still, as he fed the fire with small
cut fragments, he strained his ears to catch, above the
crackling of the wood, the sound of the dreaded footsteps,
the knock on the door that should be as the summons of
Fate.
The time, too, was speeding on. Twenty-one minutes
to eight! In a few minutes more he must set out or he
would miss the train. He dropped the dismembered hat-


brim on the blazing wood and ran upstairs to open a
window, since he must close that in the kitchen before he
left. When he came back, the brim had already curled
up into a black, clinkery mass that bubbled and hissed as
the fat, pungent smoke rose from it sluggishly to the
chimney.
Nineteen minutes to eight! It was time to start. He
took up the poker and carefully beat the cinders into
small particles, stirring them into the glowing embers of
the wood and coal. There was nothing unusual in the
appearance of the grate. It was his constant custom to
burn letters and other discarded articles in the sitting-
room fire: his housekeeper would notice nothing out of
the common. Indeed, the cinders would probably be re-
duced to ashes before she returned. He had been careful
to notice that there were no metallic fittings of any kind
in the hat, which might have escaped burning.
Once more he picked up his bag, took a last look round,
turned down the lamp and, unlocking the door, held it
open for a few moments. Then he went out, locked the
door, pocketed the key (of which his housekeeper had a
duplicate) and set off at a brisk pace for the station.
He arrived in good time after all, and, having taken
his ticket, strolled through onto the platform. The train
was not yet signalled, but there seemed to be an unusual
stir in the place. The passengers were collected in a group
at one end of the platform, and were all looking in one
direction down the line; and, even as he walked towards
them, with a certain tremulous, nauseating curiosity,
two men emerged from the darkness and ascended the
slope to the platform, carrying a stretcher covered with a
tarpaulin. The passengers parted to let the bearers pass,
turning fascinated eyes upon the shape that showed faintly
through the rough pall; and, when the stretcher had been
borne into the lamp-room, they fixed their attention upon
a porter who followed carrying a hand-bag and an um-
brella.
Suddenly one of the passengers started forward with an
exclamation.
“Is that his umbrella?” he demanded.
21


y
“Yes, sir,” answered the porter, stopping and holding it
out for the speaker's inspection.
“My God!” ejaculated the passenger; then, turning
sharply to a tall man who stood close by, he said ex-
citedly: “That's Brodski's umbrella. I could swear to it.
You remember Brodski?” The tall man nodded, and
the passenger, turning once more to the porter, said: “I
identify that umbrella. It belongs to a gentleman named
Brodski. If you look in his hat you will see his name
written in it. He always writes his name in his hat.”
“We haven’t found his hat yet,” said the porter; “but
here is the station-master coming up the line.” He
awaited the arrival of his superior and then announced:
“This gentleman, sir, has identified the umbrella.”
“Oh,” said the station-master, “you recognize the um-
brella, sir, do you? Then perhaps you would step into
the lamp-room and see if you can identify the body.”
“Is it—is he—very much injured?” the passenger asked
tremulously.
“Well, yes,” was the reply. “You see, the engine and
six of the trucks went over him before they could stop
the train. Took his head clean off, in fact.”
“Shocking! shocking!” gasped the passenger. “I think,
if you don’t mind—I’d—I’d rather not. You don’t think
it's necessary, doctor, do you?”
“Yes, I do,” replied the tall man. “Early identifica-
tion may be of the first importance.”
“Then I suppose I must,” said the passenger.
Very reluctantly he allowed himself to be conducted by
the station-master to the lamp-room, as the clang of the
bell announced the approaching train. Silas Hickler fol-
lowed and took his stand with the expectant crowd out-
side the closed door. In a few moments the passenger
burst out, pale and awe-stricken, and rushed up to his
tall friend. “It is!” he exclaimed breathlessly. “It’s
Brodski! Poor old Brodski! Horrible! horrible! He was
to have met me here and come on with me to Amsterdam.”
“Had he any—merchandize about him?” the tall man
asked; and Silas strained his ears to catch the reply.
“He had some stones, no doubt, but I don’t know what.
22


a.
lifted it down and unlocked it. As a matter of fact he was
rather proud of his “portable laboratory,” and certainly it
was a triumph of condensation, for, small as it was—only
a foot square by four inches deep—it contained a fairly
complete outfit for a preliminary investigation.
“Wonderful!” exclaimed Boscovitch, when the case lay
open before him, displaying its rows of little re-agent bottles,
tiny test-tubes, diminutive spirit-lamp, dwarf microscope
and assorted instruments on the same Lilliputian scale;
“it’s like a doll's house—everything looks as if it was seen
through the wrong end of a telescope. But are these tiny
things really efficient? That microscope now yy
“Perfectly efficient at low and moderate magnifications,”
said Thorndyke. “It looks like a toy, but it isn't one; the
lenses are the best that can be had. Of course a full-sized
instrument would be infinitely more convenient—but I
shouldn't have it with me, and should have to make shift
with a pocket-lens. And so with the rest of the under-sized
appliances; they are the alternative to no appliances.”
Boscovitch pored over the case and its contents, finger-
ing the instruments delicately and asking questions in-
numerable about their uses; indeed, his curiosity was but
half appeased when, half-an-hour later, the train began to
slow down.
“By Jove!” he exclaimed, starting up and seizing his
bag, “here we are at the junction already. You change here
too, don't you?”
“Yes,” replied Thorndyke. “We take the branch train
on to Warmington.”
As we stepped out onto the platform, we became aware
that Something unusual was happening or had happened.
All the passengers and most of the porters and supernumer-
aries were gathered at one end of the station, and all were
looking intently into the darkness down the line.
“Anything wrong?” asked Mr. Boscovitch, addressing
the station-inspector.
“Yes, sir,” the official replied; “a man has been run over
by the goods train about a mile down the line. The station-
master has gone down with a stretcher to bring him in, and
I expect that is his lantern that you see coming this way.”
25


“Well, yes,” was the reply. “You see, the engine and
six of the trucks went over him before they could stop the
train. Took his head clean off, in fact.”
“Shocking! shocking!” gasped Boscovitch. “I think—
if you don’t mind—I’d—I’d rather not. You don’t think
it necessary, doctor, do you?”
“Yes, I do,” replied Thorndyke. “Early identification
may be of the first importance.”
“Then I suppose I must,” said Boscovitch; and, with
extreme reluctance, he followed the station-master to the
lamp-room, as the loud ringing of the bell announced the
approach of the boat train. His inspection must have been
of the briefest, for, in a few moments, he burst out, pale
and awe-stricken, and rushed up to Thorndyke.
“It is!” he exclaimed breathlessly. “It’s Brodski! Poor
old Brodski! Horrible! horrible! He was to have met me
here and come on with me to Amsterdam.”
“Had he any—merchandize about him?” Thorndyke
asked; and, as he spoke, the stranger whom I had previously
noticed edged up closer as if to catch the reply.
“He had some stones, no doubt,” answered Boscovitch,
“but I don’t know what they were. His clerk will know, of
course. By the way, doctor, could you watch the case for
me? Just to be sure it was really an accident or—you
know what. We were old friends, you know, fellow towns-
men, too; we were both born in Warsaw. I’d like you to
give an eye to the case.”
“Very well,” said Thorndyke. “I will satisfy myself that
there is nothing more than appears, and let you have a
report. Will that do?”
“Thank you,” said Boscovitch. “It’s excessively good of
you, doctor. Ah, here comes the train. I hope it won't in-
convenience you to stay and see to the matter.”
“Not in the least,” replied Thorndyke. “We are not due
at Warmington until to-morrow afternoon, and I expect we
can find out all that is necessary to know and still keep our
appointment.”
As Thorndyke spoke, the stranger, who had kept close
to us with the evident purpose of hearing what was said,
bestowed on him a very curious and attentive look; and
27


it was only when the train had actually come to rest by
the platform that he hurried away to find a compartment.
No Sooner had the train left the station than Thorn-
dyke sought out the station-master and informed him of
the instructions that he had received from Boscovitch. “Of
course,” he added, in conclusion, “we must not move in the
matter until the police arrive. I suppose they have been
informed?” -
“Yes,” replied the station-master; “I sent a message at
once to the Chief Constable, and I expect him or an inspec-
tor at any moment. In fact, I think I will slip out to the
approach and see if he is coming.” He evidently wished
to have a word in private with the police officer before com-
mitting himself to any statement.
As the official departed, Thorndyke and I began to pace
the now empty platform, and my friend, as was his wont,
when entering on a new inquiry, meditatively reviewed the
features of the problem.
“In a case of this kind,” he remarked, “we have to decide
on one of three possible explanations: accident, suicide or
homicide; and our decision will be determined by inferences
from three sets of facts: first, the general facts of the case;
second, the special data obtained by examination of the
body, and, third, the special data obtained by examining
the spot on which the body was found. Now the only
general facts at present in our possession are that the de-
ceased was a diamond merchant making a journey for a
specific purpose and probably having on his person property
of small bulk and great value. These facts are somewhat
against the hypothesis of suicide and somewhat favourable
to that of homicide. Facts relevant to the question of
accident would be the existence or otherwise of a level cross-
ing, a road or path leading to the line, an enclosing fence
with or without a gate, and any other facts rendering prob-
able or otherwise the accidental presence of the deceased at
the spot where the body was found. As we do not possess
these facts, it is desirable that we extend our knowledge.”
“Why not put a few discreet questions to the porter who
brought in the bag and umbrella?” I suggested. “He is at
this moment in earnest conversation with the ticket collector
28


and would, no doubt, be glad of a new listener.”
“An excellent suggestion, Jervis,” answered Thorndyke.
“Let us see what he has to tell us.” We approached the
porter and found him, as I had anticipated, bursting to
unburden himself of the tragic story.
“The way the thing happened, sir, was this,” he said, in
answer to Thorndyke's question: “There's a sharpish bend
in the road just at that place, and the goods train was just
rounding the curve when the driver suddenly caught sight
of something lying across the rails. As the engine turned,
the head-lights shone on it and then he saw it was a man.
He shut off steam at once, blew his whistle, and put the
brakes down hard, but, as you know, sir, a goods train takes
some stopping; before they could bring her up, the engine
and half-a-dozen trucks had gone over the poor beggar.”
“Could the driver see how the man was lying?” Thorn-
dyke asked.
“Yes, he could see him quite plain, because the head-
lights were full on him. He was lying on his face with his
neck over the near rail on the down side. His head was in
the four-foot and his body by the side of the track. It
looked as if he had laid himself out a-purpose.”
“Is there a level crossing thereabouts?” asked Thorn-
dyke. -
“No, sir. No crossing, no road, no path, no nothing,”
said the porter, ruthlessly sacrificing grammar to emphasis.
“He must have come across the fields and climbed over the
fence to get onto the permanent way. Deliberate suicide is .
what it looks like.” -
“How did you learn all this?” Thorndyke inquired.
“Why, the driver, you see, sir, when him and his mate
had lifted the body off the track, went on to the next signal-
box and sent in his report by telegram. The station-master
told me all about it as we walked down the line.”
Thorndyke thanked the man for his information, and,
as we strolled back towards the lamp-room, discussed the
bearing of these new facts.
“Our friend is unquestionably right in one respect,” he
said; “this was not an accident. The man might, if he
were near-sighted, deaf or stupid, have climbed over the


ence and got knocked down by the train. But his position,
ying across the rails, can only be explained by one of two
hypotheses: either it was, as the porter says, deliberate
juicide, or else the man was already dead or insensible. We
must leave it at that until we have seen the body, that is,
f the police will allow us to see it. But here comes the
station-master and an officer with him. Let us hear what
hey have to say.”
The two officials had evidently made up their minds to
lecline any outside assistance. The divisional surgeon
would make the necessary examination, and information
sould be obtained through the usual channels. The pro-
luction of Thorndyke's card, however, somewhat altered the
situation. The police inspector hummed and hawed irreso-
utely, with the card in his hand, but finally agreed to allow
is to view the body, and we entered the lamp-room together,
he station-master leading the way to turn up the gas.
The stretcher stood on the floor by one wall, its grim
Jurden still hidden by the tarpaulin, and the hand-bag and
Imbrella lay on a large box, together with the battered
rame of a pair of spectacles from which the glasses had
allen out.
“Were these spectacles found by the body?” Thorndyke
nquired.
“Yes,” replied the station-master. “They were close to
he head and the glass was scattered about on the ballast.”
Thorndyke made a note in his pocket-book, and then, as
he inspector removed the tarpaulin, he glanced down on the
:orpse, lying limply on the stretcher and looking grotesquely
horrible with its displaced head and distorted limbs. For
ully a minute he remained silently stooping over the un-
:anny object, on which the inspector was now throwing the
ight of a large lantern; then he stood up and said quietly
o me: “I think we can eliminate two out of the three
hypotheses.”
The inspector looked at him quickly, and was about to
ask a question, when his attention was diverted by the
ravelling-case which Thorndyke had laid on a shelf and
now opened to abstract a couple of pairs of dissecting
orceps.
30


official answered. “The report has probably come in by
now. I'd better see before we start down the line.”
We emerged from the lamp-room and, at the door, found
the station-inspector waiting with a telegram. He handed it
to the station-master, who read it aloud.
“The engine has been carefully examined by me. I find
small smear of blood on near leading wheel and smaller one
on next wheel following. No other marks.” He glanced
questioningly at Thorndyke, who nodded and remarked:
“It will be interesting to see if the line tells the same tale.”
The station-master looked puzzled and was apparently
about to ask for an explanation; but the inspector, who
had carefully pocketed the dead man's property, was im-
patient to start and, accordingly, when Thorndyke had re-
packed his case and had, at his own request, been furnished
with a lantern, we set off down the permanent way, Thorn-
dyke carrying the light and I the indispensable green case.
“I am a little in the dark about this affair,” I said, when
we had allowed the two officials to draw ahead out of ear-
shot; “you came to a conclusion remarkably quickly. What
was it that so immediately determined the opinion of mur-
der as against suicide?” -
“It was a small matter but very conclusive,” replied
Thorndyke. “You noticed a small scalp-wound above the
left temple? It was a glancing wound, and might easily
have been made by the engine. But—the wound had bled;
and it had bled for an appreciable time. There were two
streams of blood from it, and in both the blood was firmly
clotted and partially dried. But the man had been decapi-
tated; and this wound, if inflicted by the engine, must have
been made after the decapitation, since it was on the side
most distant from the engine as it approached. Now, a
decapitated head does not bleed. Therefore, this wound
was inflicted before the decapitation.
“But not only had the wound bled: the blood had trickled
down in two streams at right angles to one another. First,
in the order of time as shown by the appearance of the
stream, it had trickled down the side of the face and dropped
on the collar. The second stream ran from the wound to the
back of the head. Now, you know, Jervis, there are no


exceptions to the law of gravity. If the blood ran down
the face towards the chin, the face must have been upright
at the time; and if the blood trickled from the front to the
back of the head, the head must have been horizontal and
face upwards. But the man when he was seen by the engine-
driver, was lying face downwards. The only possible in-
ference is that when the wound was inflicted, the man was
in the upright position—standing or sitting; and that sub-
sequently, and while he was still alive, he lay on his back
for a sufficiently long time for the blood to have trickled to
the back of his head.”
“I see. I was a duffer not to have reasoned this out for
myself,” I remarked contritely.
“Quick observation and rapid inference come by practice,”
replied Thorndyke. “What did you notice about the face?”
“I thought there was a strong suggestion of asphyxia.”
“Undoubtedly,” said Thorndyke. “It was the face of a
suffocated man. You must have noticed, too, that the
tongue was very distinctly swollen and that on the inside
of the upper lip were deep indentations made by the teeth,
as well as one or two slight wounds, obviously caused by
heavy pressure on the mouth. And now observe how com-
pletely these facts and inferences agree with those from the
scalp wound. If we knew that the deceased had received a
blow on the head, had struggled with his assailant and been
finally borne down and suffocated, we should look for pre-
cisely those signs which we have found.”
“By the way, what was it that you found wedged be-
tween the teeth? I did not get a chance to look through the
microscope.”
“Ah!” said Thorndyke, “there we not only get confirma-
tion, but we carry our inferences a stage further. The object
was a little tuft of some textile fabric. Under the micro-
scope I found it to consist of several different fibres, differ-
ently dyed. The bulk of it consisted of wool fibres dyed
crimson, but there were also cotton fibres dyed blue and a
few which looked like jute, dyed yellow. It was obviously
a parti-coloured fabric and might have been part of a
woman's dress, though the presence of the jute is much more
suggestive of a curtain or rug of inferior quality.”
35


“And its importance?”
“Is that, if it is not part of an article of clothing, then
it must have come from an article of furniture, and furni-
ture suggests a habitation.”
“That doesn't seem very conclusive,” I objected.
“It is not; but it is valuable corroboration.”
“Of what?” -
“Of the suggestion offered by the soles of the dead man’s
boots. I examined them most minutely and could find no
trace of sand, gravel or earth, in spite of the fact that he
must have crossed fields and rough land to reach the place
where he was found. What I did find was fine tobacco ash,
a charred mark as if a cigar or cigarette had been trodden
on, Several crumbs of biscuit, and, on a projecting brad,
Some coloured fibres, apparently from a carpet. The mani-
fest suggestion is that the man was killed in a house with
a carpeted floor, and carried from thence to the railway.”
I was silent for Some moments. Well as I knew Thorn-
dyke, I was completely taken by surprise; a sensation, in-
deed, that I experienced anew every time that I accom-
panied him on one of his investigations. His marvellous
power of co-ordinating apparently insignificant facts, of
arranging them into an ordered sequence and making them
tell a coherent story, was a phenomenon that I never got
used to; every exhibition of it astonished me afresh.
“If your inferences are correct,” I said, “the problem is
practically solved. There must be abundant traces inside
the house. The only question is, which house is it?”
“Quite so,” replied Thorndyke; “that is the question,
and a very difficult question it is. A glance at that interior
would doubtless clear up the whole mystery. But how are
we to get that glance? We cannot enter houses speculatively
to see if they present traces of a murder. At present, our
clue breaks off abruptly. The other end of it is in some
unknown house, and, if we cannot join up the two ends,
our problem remains unsolved. For the question is, you
remember, Who killed Oscar Brodski?”
“Then what do you propose to do?” I asked.
“The next stage of the inquiry is to connect some par-
ticular house with this crime. To that end, I can only gather
36 .


up all available facts and consider each in all its possible
bearings. If I cannot establish any such connection, then
the inquiry will have failed and we shall have to make a
fresh start—say, at Amsterdam, if it turns out that Brodski
really had diamonds on his person, as I have no doubt he
had.”
Here our conversation was interrupted by our arrival at
the spot where the body, had been found. The station-master
had halted, and he and the inspector were now examining
the near rail by the light of their lanterns
“There's remarkably little blood about,” said the former.
“I’ve seen a good many accidents of this kind and there has
always been a lot of blood, both on the engine and on the
road. It’s very curious.”
Thorndyke glanced at the rail with but slight attention:
that question had ceased to interest him. But the light of
his lantern flashed onto the ground at the side of the track
—a loose, gravelly soil mixed with fragments of chalk—and
from thence to the soles of the inspector's boots, which were
displayed as he knelt by the rail.
“You observe, Jervis?” he said in a low voice, and I
nodded. The inspector's boot-soles were covered with ad-
herent particles of gravel and conspicuously marked by the
chalk on which he had trodden.
“You haven't found the hat, I suppose?” Thorndyke
asked, stooping to pick up a short piece of string that lay
on the ground at the side of the track.
“No,” replied the inspector, “but it can't be far off. You
seem to have found another clue, sir,” he added, with a grin,
glancing at the piece of string.
“Who knows,” said Thorndyke. “A short end of white
twine with a green strand in it. It may tell us something
later. At any rate we'll keep it,” and, taking from his
pocket a small tin box containing, among other things, a
number of seed envelopes, he slipped the string into one of
the latter and scribbled a note in pencil on the outside.
The inspector watched his proceedings with an indulgent
smile, and then returned to his examination of the track,
in which Thorndyke now joined.
“I suppose the poor chap was near-sighted,” the officer
37


remarked, indicating the remains of the shattered spec-
tacles; “that might account for his having strayed onto the
line.”
“Possibly,” said Thorndyke. He had already noticed
the fragments scattered over a sleeper and the adjacent
ballast, and now once more produced his “collecting-box,”
from which he took another seed envelope. “Would you
hand me a pair of forceps, Jervis,” he said; “and perhaps
you wouldn’t mind taking a pair yourself and helping me
to gather up these fragments.”
As I complied, the inspector looked up curiously.
“There isn't any doubt that these spectacles belonged
to the deceased, is there?” he asked. “He certainly wore
spectacles, for I saw the mark on his nose.”
“Still, there is no harm in verifying the fact,” said Thorn-
dyke, and he added to me in a lower tone, “Pick up every
particle you can find, Jervis. It may be most important.”
“I don’t quite see how,” I said, groping amongst the
shingle by the light of the lantern in search of the tiny
Splinters of glass.
“Don’t you?” returned Thorndyke. “Well, look at these
fragments; some of them are a fair size, but many of these
on the sleeper are mere grains. And consider their number.
Obviously, the condition of the glass does not agree with
the circumstances in which we find it. These are thick con-
cave spectacle-lenses broken into a great number of minute
fragments. Now how were they broken? Not merely by
falling, evidently: such a lens, when it is dropped, breaks
into a small number of large pieces. Nor were they broken
by the wheel passing over them, for they would then have
been reduced to fine powder, and that powder would have
been visible on the rail, which it is not. The spectacle-
frames, you may remember, presented the same incongruity:
they were battered and damaged more than they would
have been by falling, but not nearly so much as they would
have been if the wheel had passed over them.”
“What do you suggest, then?” I asked.
“The appearances suggest that the spectacles had been
trodden on. But, if the body was carried here the prob-
ability is that the spectacles were carried here too, and that
38


they were then already broken; for it is more likely that
they were trodden on during the struggle than that the
murderer trod on them after bringing them here. Hence
the importance of picking up every fragment.”
“But why?” I inquired, rather foolishly, I must admit.
“Because, if, when we have picked up every fragment
that we can find, there still remains missing a larger por-
tion of the lenses than we could reasonably expect, that
would tend to support our hypothesis and we might find
the missing remainder elsewhere. If, on the other hand, we
find as much of the lenses as we could expect to find, we
must conclude that they were broken on this spot.”
While we were conducting our search, the two officials
were circling around with their lanterns in quest of the
missing hat; and, when we had at length picked up the last
fragment, and a careful search, even aided by a lens, failed
to reveal any other, we could see their lanterns moving, like
will-o'-the-wisps, some distance down the line.
“We may as well see what we have got before our friends
come back,” said Thorndyke, glancing at the twinkling
lights. “Lay the case down on the grass by the fence; it will
serve for a table.”
I did so, and Thorndyke, taking a letter from his pocket,
opened it, spread it out flat on the case, securing it with
a couple of heavy stones, although the night was quite calm.
Then he tipped the contents of the seed envelope out on the
paper, and carefully spreading out the pieces of glass, looked
at them for some moments in silence. And, as he looked,
there stole over his face a very curious expression; with
sudden eagerness he began picking out the large fragments
and laying them on two visiting-cards which he had taken
from his card-case. Rapidly and with wonderful deftness he
fitted the pieces together, and, as the reconstituted lenses
began gradually to take shape on their cards I looked on
with growing excitement, for something in my colleague's
manner told me that we were on the verge of a discovery.
At length the two ovals of glass lay on their respective
cards, complete save for one or two small gaps; and the
little heap that remained consisted of fragments so minute
as to render further reconstruction impossible. Then Thorn-
39


dyke leaned back and laughed softly.
“This is certainly an unlooked-for result,” said he.
“What is?” I asked.
“Don’t you see, my dear fellow? There's too much glass.
We have almost completely built up the broken lenses, and
the fragments that are left over are considerably more than
are required to fill up the gaps.”
I looked at the little heap of small fragments and saw
at once that it was as he had said. There was a surplus
of small pieces.
“This is very extraordinary,” I said. “What do you think
can be the explanation?”
“The fragments will probably tell us,” he replied, “if
we ask them intelligently.”
He lifted the paper and the two cards carefully onto
the ground, and, opening the case, took out the little micro-
scope, to which he fitted the lowest-power objective and
eye-piece—having a combined magnification of only ten
diameters. Then he transferred the minute fragments of
glass to a slide, and, having arranged the lantern as a micro-
scope-lamp, commenced his examination.
“Hal” he exclaimed presently. “The plot thickens. There
is too much glass and yet too little; that is to say, there
are only one or two fragments here that belong to the
spectacles; not nearly enough to complete the building up
of the lenses. The remainder consists of a soft, uneven,
moulded glass, easily distinguished from the clear, hard
optical glass. These foreign fragments are all curved, as
if they had formed part of a cylinder, and are, I should
say, portions of a wine-glass or tumbler.” He moved the
slide once or twice, and then continued: “We are in luck,
Jervis. Here is a fragment with two little diverging lines
etched on it, evidently the points of an eight-rayed star—
and here is another with three points—the ends of three
rays. This enables us to reconstruct the vessel perfectly.
It was a clear, thin glass—probably a tumbler—decorated
with scattered stars; I dare say you know the pattern.
Sometimes there is an ornamented band in addition, but
generally the stars form the only decoration. Have a look
at the specimen.”
40


I had just applied my eye to the microscope when the
station-master and the inspector came up. Our appear-
ance, seated on the ground with the microscope between
us, was too much for the police officer's gravity, and he
laughed long and joyously.
“You must excuse me, gentlemen,” he said apologetically,
“but really, you know, to an old hand, like myself, it does
look a little—well—you understand—I dare say a micro-
scope is a very interesting and amusing thing, but it doesn’t
get you much forrader in a case like this, does it?”
“Perhaps not,” replied Thorndyke. “By the way, where
did you find the hat, after all?”
“We haven't found it,” the inspector replied.
“Then we must help you to continue the search,” said
Thorndyke. “If you will wait a few moments, we will come
with you.” He poured a few drops of xylol balsam on the
cards to fix the reconstituted lenses to their supports and
then, packing them and the microscope in the case, an-
nounced that he was ready to start.
“Is there any village or hamlet near?” he asked the
station-master.
“None nearer than Corfield. That is about half-a-mile
from here.”
“And where is the nearest road?”
“There is a half-made road that runs past a house about
three hundred yards from here. It belonged to a building
estate that was never built. There is a footpath from it to
the station.”
“Are there any other houses near?”
“No. That is the only house for half-a-mile round, and
there is no other road near here.”
“Then the probability is that Brodski approached the rail-
way from that direction, as he was found on that side of the
permanent way.”
The inspector agreeing with this view, we all set off slowly
towards the house, piloted by the station-master and search-
ing the ground as we went. The waste land over which we
passed was covered with patches of docks and nettles,
through each of which the inspector kicked his way, search-
ing with feet and lantern for the missing hat. A walk of three
41


of an unusual tobacco similar to that in Brodski's pouch and
wrapped in an unusual paper similar to those in Brodski's
cigarette book. With due regard to the fourth rule of the
Syllogism, I suggest that this cigarette was made by Oscar
Brodski. But, nevertheless, we will look for corroborative
detail.”
“What is that?” I asked.
“You may have noticed that Brodski's match-box con-
tained round wooden vestas—which are also rather unusual.
As he must have lighted the cigarette within a few steps of
the gate, we ought to be able to find the match with which
he lighted it. Let us try up the road in the direction from
which he would probably have approached.”
We walked very slowly up the road, searching the ground
with the lantern, and we had hardly gone a dozen paces when
I espied a match lying on the rough path and eagerly picked
it up. It was a round wooden vesta.
Thorndyke examined it with interest and having deposited
it, with the cigarette, in his “collecting-box,” turned to re-
trace his steps. “There is now, Jervis, no reasonable doubt
that Brodski was murdered in that house. We have suc-
ceeded in connecting that house with the crime, and now
we have got to force an entrance and join up the other clues.”
We walked quickly back to the rear of the premises, where
we found the inspector conversing disconsolately with the
station-master.
“I think, sir,” said the former, “we had better go back
now; in fact, I don't see what we came here for, but—here!
I say, sir, you mustn't do that!” For Thorndyke, without
a word of warning, had sprung up lightly and thrown one
of his long legs over the wall.
“I can't allow you to enter private premises, sir,” con-
tinued the inspector; but Thorndyke quietly dropped down
on the inside and turned to face the officer over the wall.
“Now, listen to me, inspector,” said he. “I have good
reasons for believing that the dead man, Brodski, has been
in this house, in fact, I am prepared to swear an information
to that effect. But time is precious; we must follow the
scent while it is hot. And I am not proposing to break into
the house off-hand. I merely wish to examine the dust-bin.”
xx
44


room dimly lighted by a hanging lamp turned down low.
As we entered he turned up the light and glanced about
the room. A whisky-bottle was on the table, with a siphon,
a tumbler and a biscuit-box. Pointing to the latter, Thorn-
dyke said to the inspector: “See what is in that box.”
The inspector raised the lid and peeped in, the station-
master peered over his shoulder, and then both stared at
Thorndyke.
“How in the name of goodness did you know that there
were whole-meal biscuits in the house, sir?” exclaimed the
station-master. -
“You’d be disappointed if I told you,” replied Thorndyke.
“But look at this.” He pointed to the hearth, where lay a
flattened, half-smoked cigarette and a round wooden vesta.
The inspector gazed at these objects in silent wonder, while,
as to the station-master, he continued to stare at Thorndyke
with what I can only describe as superstitious awe.
“You have the dead man's property with you, I believe?”
said my colleague.
“Yes,” replied the inspector; “I put the things in my
pocket for safety.”
“Then,” said Thorndyke, picking up the flattened cig-
arette, “let us have a look at his tobacco-pouch.”
As the officer produced and opened the pouch, Thorndyke
neatly cut open the cigarette with his sharp pocket-knife.
“Now,” said he, “what kind of tobacco is in the pouch?”
The inspector took out a pinch, looked at it and smelt it
distastefully. “It’s one of those stinking tobaccos,” he said,
“that they put in mixtures—Latakia, I think.”
“And what is this?” asked Thorndyke, pointing to the
open cigarette.
“Same stuff, undoubtedly,” replied the inspector.
“And now let us see his cigarette papers,” said Thorndyke.
The little book, or rather packet—for it consisted of
separated papers—was produced from the officer's pocket
and a sample paper abstracted. Thorndyke laid the half-
burnt paper beside it, and the inspector, having examined
the two, held them up to the light.
“There isn't much chance of mistaking that “Zig-Zag'
watermark,” he said. “This cigarette was made by the de-
47


ceased; there can't be the shadow of a doubt.”
“One more point,” said Thorndyke, laying the burnt
wooden vesta on the table. “You have his match-box?”
The inspector brought forth the little silver casket, opened
it and compared the wooden vestas that it contained with
the burnt end. Then he shut the box with a snap.
“You’ve proved it up to the hilt,” said he. “If we could
only find the hat, we should have a complete case.”
“I’m not sure that we haven't found the hat,” said Thorn-
dyke. “You notice that something besides coal has been
burned in the grate.”
The inspector ran eagerly to the fire-place and began with
feverish hands, to pick out the remains of the extinct fire.
“The cinders are still warm,” he said, “and they are certainly
not all coal cinders. There has been wood burned here on
top of the coal, and these little black lumps are neither coal
nor wood. They may quite possibly be the remains of a
burnt hat, but, lord! who can tell? You can put together the
pieces of broken spectacle-glasses, but you can’t build up a
hat out of a few cinders.” He held out a handful of little,
black, spongy cinders and looked ruefully at Thorndyke,
who took them from him and laid them out on a sheet of
paper.
“We can’t reconstitute the hat, certainly,” my friend
agreed, “but we may be able to ascertain the origin of these
remains. They may not be cinders of a hat, after all.” He
lit a wax match and, taking up one of the charred fragments,
applied the flame to it. The cindery mass fused at once
with a crackling, seething sound, emitting a dense smoke,
and instantly the air became charged with a pungent, resin-
ous odour mingled with the smell of burning animal matter.
“Smells like varnish,” the station-master remarked.
“Yes. Shellac,” said Thorndyke; “so the first test gives
a positive result. The next test will take more time.”
He opened the green case and took from it a little flask,
fitted for Marsh's arsenic test, with a safety funnel and
escape tube, a small folding tripod, a spirit lamp and a disc
of asbestos to serve as a sand-bath. Dropping into the flask
several of the cindery masses, selected after careful inspec-
tion, he filled it up with alcohol and placed it on the disc,
48


which he rested on the tripod. Then he lighted the spirit
lamp underneath and sat down to wait for the alcohol to boil.
“There is one little point that we may as well settle,” he
said presently, as the bubbles began to rise in the flask. “Give
me a slide with a drop of Farrant on it, Jervis.”
I prepared the slide while Thorndyke, with a pair of for-
ceps, picked out a tiny wisp from the table-cloth. “I fancy
we have seen this fabric before,” he remarked, as he laid
the little pinch of fluff in the mounting fluid and slipped the
slide onto the stage of the microscope. “Yes,” he continued,
looking into the eye-piece, “here are our old acquaintances,
the red wool fibres, the blue cotton and the yellow jute. We
must label this at once or we may confuse it with the other
specimens.”
“Have you any idea how the deceased met his death?’”
the inspector asked.
“Yes,” replied Thorndyke. “I take it that the murderer
enticed him into this room and gave him some refreshments.
The murderer sat in the chair in which you are sitting, Brod-
ski sat in that small arm-chair. Then I imagine the murderer
attacked him with that iron bar that you found among the
nettles, failed to kill him at the first stroke, struggled with
him and finally suffocated him with the table-cloth. By the
way, there is just one more point. You recognize this piece
of string?” He took from his “collecting-box” the little end
of twine that had been picked up by the line. The inspector
nodded. “Look behind you, you will see where it came from.”
The officer turned sharply and his eye lighted on a string-
box on the mantelpiece. He lifted it down, and Thorndyke
drew out from it a length of white twine with one green
strand, which he compared with the piece in his hand. “The
green strand in it makes the identification fairly certain,” he
said. “Of course the string was used to secure the umbrella
and hand-bag. He could not have carried them in his hand,
encumbered as he was with the corpse. But I expect our
other specimen is ready now.” He lifted the flask off the
tripod, and, giving it a vigorous shake, examined the contents
through his lens. The alcohol had now become dark-brown
in colour, and was noticeably thicker and more syrupy in
consistence.
49


“I think we have enough here for a rough test,” said he,
selecting a pipette and a slide from the case. He dipped the
ormer into the flask and, having sucked up a few drops of
he alcohol from the bottom, held the pipette over the slide
in which he allowed the contained fluid to drop.
Laying a cover-glass on the little pool of alcohol, he put
he slide on the microscope stage and examined it attentively,
while we watched him in expectant silence.
At length he looked up, and, addressing the inspector,
asked: “Do you know what felt hats are made of?”
“I can’t say that I do, sir,” replied the officer.
“Well, the better quality hats are made of rabbits’ and
hares' wool—the soft under-fur, you know—cemented to-
gether with shellac. Now there is very little doubt that these
inders contain shellac, and with the microscope I find a
number of small hairs of a rabbit. I have, therefore, little
hesitation in saying that these cinders are the remains of
a hard felt hat; and, as the hairs do not appear to be dyed,
I should say it was a grey hat.”
At this moment our conclave was interrupted by hurried
'ootsteps on the garden path and, as we turned with one
accord, an elderly woman burst into the room.
She stood for a moment in mute astonishment, and then,
ooking from one to the other, demanded: “Who are you?
and what are you doing here?”
The inspector rose. “I am a police officer, madam,” said
ne. “I can’t give you any further information just now, but,
f you will excuse me asking, who are you?”
“I am Mr. Hickler's housekeeper,” she replied.
“And Mr. Hickler; are you expecting him home shortly?”
“No, I am not,” was the curt reply. “Mr. Hickler is away
‘rom home just now. He left this evening by the boat train.”
“For Amsterdam?” asked Thorndyke.
“I believe so, though I don’t see what business it is of
yours,” the housekeeper answered.
“I thought he might, perhaps, be a diamond broker or
merchant,” said Thorndyke. “A good many of them travel
by that train.”
“So he is,” said the woman, “at least, he has something
to do with diamonds.” -
50


“Ah, Well, we must be going, Jervis,” said Thorndyke.
“we have finished here, and we have to find an hotel or inn.
Can I have a word with you, inspector?”
The officer, now entirely humble and reverent, followed
us out into the garden to receive Thorndyke's parting advice.
“You had better take possession of the house at once, and
get rid of the housekeeper. Nothing must be removed. Pre-
serve those cinders and see that the rubbish-heap is not dis-
turbed, and, above all, don’t have the room swept. An officer
will be sent to relieve you.”
With a friendly “good-night” we went on our way, guided
by the station-master; and here our connection with the case
came to an end. Hickler (whose Christian name turned out
to be Silas) was, it is true, arrested as he stepped ashore
from the steamer, and a packet of diamonds, subsequently
identified as the property of Oscar Brodski, found upon his
person. But he was never brought to trial, for on the returr
voyage he contrived to elude his guards for an instant as the
ship was approaching the English coast, and it was not until
three days later, when a hand-cuffed body was cast up or
the lonely shore by Orfordness, that the authorities knew
the fate of Silas Hickler.
“An appropriate and dramatic end to a singular and yet
typical case,” said Thorndyke, as he put down the news-
paper. “I hope it has enlarged your knowledge, Jervis, and
enabled you to form one or two useful corollaries.”
“I prefer to hear you sing the medico-legal doxology,”
I answered, turning upon him like the proverbial worm and
grinning derisively (which the worm does not).
“I know you do,” he retorted, with mock gravity, “and 1
lament your lack of mental initiative. However, the points
that this case illustrates are these: First, the danger of delay;
the vital importance of instant action before that frail and
fleeting thing that we call a clue has time to evaporate. A
delay of a few hours would have left us with hardly a single
datum. Second, the necessity of pursuing the most trivial
clue to an absolute finish, as illustrated by the spectacles,
Third, the urgent need of a trained scientist to aid the police;
and, last,” he concluded, with a smile, “we learn never to go
abroad without the invaluable green case.”
51


A CASE OF PRENMEDITATION
PART |
THE FLIM|NATION OF MR. PRATT
T. wine merchant who should supply a consignment of
petit win to a customer who had ordered, and paid for, a
vintage wine, would render himself subject to unambiguous
comment. Nay! more; he would be liable to certain legal
penalties. And yet his conduct would be morally indistin-
guishable from that of the railway company which, having
accepted a first-class fare, inflicts upon the passenger that
kind of company which he has paid to avoid. But the cor-
porate conscience, as Herbert Spencer was wont to explain,
is an altogether inferior product to that of the individual.
Such were the reflections of Mr. Rufus Pembury when, as
the train was about to move out of Maidstone (West) sta-
tion, a coarse and burly man (clearly a denizen of the third-
class) was ushered into his compartment by the guard. He
had paid the higher fare, not for cushioned seats, but for
seclusion or, at least, select companionship. The man's entry
had deprived him of both, and he resented it.
But if the presence of this stranger involved a breach of
contract, his conduct was a positive affront—an indignity;
for, no sooner had the train started than he fixed upon Mr.
Pembury a gaze of impertinent intensity, and continued
thereafter to regard him with a stare as steady and un-
winking as that of a Polynesian idol.
It was offensive to a degree, and highly disconcerting
withal. Mr. Pembury fidgeted in his seat with increasing
discomfort and rising temper. He looked into his pocket-
book, read one or two letters and sorted a collection of
visiting-cards. He even thought of opening his umbrella.
Finally, his patience exhausted and his wrath mounting to
boiling-point, he turned to the stranger with frosty remon-
Strance.
“I imagine, sir, that you will have no difficulty in recog-
nizing me, should we ever meet again—which God forbid.”
52


“I should recognize you among ten thousand,” was the
reply, so unexpected as to leave Mr. Pembury speechless.
“You see,” the stranger continued impressively, “I’ve got
the gift of faces. I never forget.”
“That must be a great consolation,” said Pembury.
“It’s very useful to me,” said the stranger, “at least, it
used to be, when I was a warder at Portland—you remember
me, I dare say: my name is Pratt. I was assistant-warder
in your time. God-forsaken hole, Portland, and mighty glad
I was when they used to send me up to town on reckernizing
duty. Holloway was the house of detention then, you re-
member; that was before they moved to Brixton.”
Pratt paused in his reminiscences, and Pembury, pale and
gasping with astonishment, pulled himself together.
“I think,” said he, “you must be mistaking me for Some
one else.”
“I don’t,” replied Pratt. “You’re Francis Dobbs, that's
who you are. Slipped away from Portland one evening
about twelve years ago. Clothes washed up on the Bill next
day. No trace of fugitive. As neat a mizzle as ever I heard
of. But there are a couple of photographs and a set of finger-
prints at the Habitual Criminals Register. Pr'aps you'd like
to come and see 'em?” -
“Why should I go to the Habitual Criminals Register?”
Pembury demanded faintly.
“Ah! Exactly. Why should you? When you are a man
of means, and a little judiciously invested capital would
render it unnecessary?”
Pembury looked out of the window, and for a minute or
more preserved a stony silence. At length he turned suddenly
to Pratt. “How much?” he asked.
“I shouldn’t think a couple of hundred a year would hurt
you,” was the calm reply. -
Pembury reflected awhile. “What makes you think I am
a man of means?” he asked presently.
Pratt smiled grimly. “Bless you, Mr. Pembury,” said he,
“I know all about you. Why, for the last six months I have
been living within half-a-mile of your house.”
“The devil you have!”
“Yes. When I retired from the service, General O'Gorman
53 -


you know. I'm an old hand and pretty fly, I am. So don’t
you try any chickery-pokery on me. That's all.” He with-
drew his head and disappeared, leaving Pembury to his
reflections.
The nature of those reflections, if some telepathist—
transferring his attention for the moment from hidden court-
yards or missing thimbles to more practical matters—could
have conveyed them into the mind of Mr. Pratt, would have
caused that quondam official some surprise and, perhaps, a
little disquiet. For long experience of the criminal, as he
appears when in durance, had produced some rather mislead-
ing ideas as to his behaviour when at large. In fact, the
ex-warder had considerably under-estimated the ex-convict.
Rufus Pembury, to give his real name—for Dobbs was
literally a nom de guerre—was a man of strong character
and intelligence. So much so that, having tried the criminal
career and found it not worth pursuing, he had definitely
abandoned it. When the cattle-boat that picked him up off
Portland Bill had landed him at an American port, he
brought his entire ability and energy to bear on legitimate
commercial pursuits, and with such success that, at the end
of ten years, he was able to return to England with a mod-
erate competence. Then he had taken a modest house near
the little town of Baysford, where he had lived quietly on his
savings for the last two years, holding aloof without much
difficulty from the rather exclusive local society; and here
he might have lived out the rest of his life in peace but for
the unlucky chance that brought the man Pratt into the
neighbourhood. With the arrival of Pratt his security was
utterly destroyed.
There is something eminently unsatisfactory about a
blackmailer. No arrangement with him has any permanent
validity. No undertaking that he gives is binding. The thing
which he has sold remains in his possession to sell over again.
He pockets the price of emancipation, but retains the key of
the fetters. In short, the blackmailer is a totally impossible
person.
Such were the considerations that had passed through the
mind of Rufus Pembury, even while Pratt was making his
proposals; and those proposals he had never for an instant
56


entertained. The ex-warder's advice to him to “turn the
matter over in his mind” was unnecessary. For his mind was
already made up. His decision was arrived at in the very
moment when Pratt had disclosed his identity. The conclu-
sion was self-evident. Before Pratt appeared he was living
in peace and security. While Pratt remained, his liberty was
precarious from moment to moment. If Pratt should dis-
appear, his peace and security would return. Therefore Pratt
must be eliminated.
It was a logical consequence.
The profound meditations, therefore, in which Pembury
remained immersed for the remainder of the journey, had
nothing whatever to do with the quarterly allowance; they
were concerned exclusively with the elimination of ex-warder
Pratt.
Now Rufus Pembury was not a ferocious man. He was
not even cruel. But he was gifted with a certain magnani-
mous cynicism which ignored the trivialities of sentiment and
regarded only the main issues. If a wasp hummed over his
tea-cup, he would crush that wasp; but not with his bare
hand. The wasp carried the means of aggression. That was
the wasp’s look-out. His concern was to avoid being stung.
So it was with Pratt. The man had elected, for his own
profit, to threaten Pembury's liberty. Very well. He had
done it at his own risk. That risk was no concern of Pem-
bury's. His concern was his own safety.
When Pembury alighted at Charing Cross, he directed his
steps (after having watched Pratt's departure from the sta-
tion) to Buckingham Street, Strand, where he entered a
quiet private hotel. He was apparently expected, for the
manageress greeted him by his name as she handed him his
key.
“Are you staying in town, Mr. Pembury?” she asked.
“No,” was the reply. “I go back to-morrow morning, but
I may be coming up again shortly. By the way, you used
to have an encyclopaedia in one of the rooms. Could I see it
for a moment?” -
“It is in the drawing-room,” said the manageress. “Shall
I show you?—but you know the way, don't you?”
Certainly Mr. Pembury knew the way. It was on the first
57


floor; a pleasant old-world room looking on the quiet old
street; and on a shelf, amidst a collection of novels, stood
the Sedate volumes of Chambers’s Encyclopædia.
That a gentleman from the country should desire to look
up the subject of “hounds” would not, to a casual observer,
have seemed unnatural. But when from hounds the student
proceeded to the article on blood, and thence to one devoted
to perfumes, the observer might reasonably have felt some
surprise; and this surprise might have been augmented if he
had followed Mr. Pembury's subsequent proceedings, and
Specially if he had considered them as the actions of a man
whose immediate aim was the removal of a superfluous unit
of the population.
Having deposited his bag and umbrella in his room, Pem-
bury set forth from the hotel as one with a definite purpose;
and his footsteps led, in the first place, to an umbrella shop
on the Strand, where he selected a thick rattan cane. There
was nothing remarkable in this, perhaps; but the cane was
of an uncomely thickness and the salesman protested. “I
like a thick cane,” said Pembury.
“Yes, sir; but for a gentleman of your height” (Pembury
was a small, slightly-built man) “I would venture to Sug-
gest 3)
“I like a thick cane,” repeated Pembury. “Cut it down to
the proper length and don’t rivet the ferrule on. I’ll cement
it on when I get home.” -
His next investment would have seemed more to the pur-
pose, though suggestive of unexpected crudity of method.
It was a large Norwegian knife. But not content with this
he went on forthwith to a second cutler's and purchased a
second knife, the exact duplicate of the first. Now, for what
purpose could he want two identically similar knives? And
why not have bought them both at the same shop? It was
highly mysterious.
Shopping appeared to be a positive mania with Rufus
Pembury. In the course of the next half-hour he acquired a
cheap hand-bag, an artist's black-japanned brush-case, a
three-cornered file, a stick of elastic glue and a pair of iron
crucible-tongs. Still insatiable, he repaired to an old-fash-
ioned chemist's shop in a by-street, where he further enriched
58


himself with a packet of absorbent cotton-wool and an ounce
of permanganate of potash; and, as the chemist wrapped up
these articles, with the occult and necromantic air peculiar to
chemists, Pembury watched him impassively.
“I suppose you don't keep musk?” he asked carelessly.
The chemist paused in the act of heating a stick of sealing-
wax, and appeared as if about to mutter an incantation. But
he merely replied: “No, sir. Not the solid musk; it's so
very costly. But I have the essence.”
“That isn't as strong as the pure stuff, I suppose?”
“No,” replied the chemist, with a cryptic smile, “not so
strong, but strong enough. These animal perfumes are so
very penetrating, you know; and so lasting. Why, I venture
to say that if you were to sprinkle a table-spoonful of the
essence in the middle of St. Paul’s, the place would smell
of it six months hence.”
“You don't say so!” said Pembury. “Well, that ought to
be enough for anybody. I’ll take a small quantity, please,
and, for goodness' sake, see that there isn't any on the out-
side of the bottle. The stuff isn't for myself, and I don’t
want to go about smelling like a civet cat.”
“Naturally you don’t, sir,” agreed the chemist. He then
produced an ounce bottle, a small glass funnel and a stop-
pered bottle labelled “Ess. Moschi,” with which he proceeded
to perform a few trifling feats of legerdemain.
“There, sir,” said he, when he had finished the perform-
ance, “there is not a drop on the outside of the bottle, and,
if I fit it with a rubber cork, you will be quite secure.”
Pembury's dislike of musk appeared to be excessive, for,
when the chemist had retired into a secret cubicle as if to
hold converse with some familiar spirit (but actually to
change half-a-crown), he took the brush-case from his bag,
pulled off its lid, and then, with the crucible-tongs, daintily
lifted the bottle off the counter, slid it softly into the brush-
case, and, replacing the lid, returned the case and tongs to
the bag. The other two packets he took from the counter
and dropped into his pocket, and, when the presiding wizard,
having miraculously transformed a single half-crown into
four pennies, handed him the product, he left the shop and
walked thoughtfully back towards the Strand. Suddenly a
59


new idea seemed to strike him. He halted, considered for a
few moments and then strode away northward to make the
oddest of all his purchases.
The transaction took place in a shop in the Seven Dials,
whose strange stock-in-trade ranged the whole zoological
gamut, from water-snails to Angora cats. Pembury looked
at a cage of guinea-pigs in the window and entered the shop.
“Do you happen to have a dead guinea-pig?” he asked.
“No; mine are all alive,” replied the man, adding, with
a sinister grin: “But they’re not immortal, you know.”
Pembury looked at the man distastefully. There is an ap-
preciable difference between a guinea-pig and a blackmailer.
“Any small mammal would do,” he said.
“There's a dead rat in that cage, if he's any good,” said
the man. “Died this morning, so he's quite fresh.”
“I’ll take the rat,” said Pembury; “he’ll do quite well.”
The little corpse was accordingly made into a parcel and
deposited in the bag, and Pembury, having tendered a com-
plimentary fee, made his way back to the hotel.
After a modest lunch he went forth and spent the re-
mainder of the day transacting the business which had orig-
inally brought him to town. He dined at a restaurant and
did not return to his hotel until ten o’clock, when he took his
key, and tucking under his arm a parcel that he had brought
in with him, retired for the night. But before undressing—
and after locking his door—he did a very strange and un-
accountable thing. Having pulled off the loose ferrule from
his newly-purchased cane, he bored a hole in the bottom of it
with the spike end of the file. Then, using the latter as a
broach, he enlarged the hole until only a narrow rim of the
bottom was left. He next rolled up a small ball of cotton-
wool and pushed it into the ferrule; and having smeared the
end of the cane with elastic glue, he replaced the ferrule,
warming it over the gas to make the glue stick.
When he had finished with the cane, he turned his atten-
tion to one of the Norwegian knives. First, he carefully
removed with the file most of the bright, yellow varnish from
the wooden case or handle. -
Then he opened the knife, and, cutting the string of the
parcel that he had brought in, took from it the dead rat
60 -


which he had bought at the zoologist's. Laying the animal
on a sheet of paper, he cut off its head, and, holding it up
by the tail, allowed the blood that oozed from the neck to
drop on the knife, spreading it over both sides of the blade
and handle with his finger. -
Then he laid the knife on the paper and softly opened the
window. From the darkness below came the voice of a cat,
apparently perfecting itself in the execution of chromatic
Scales; and in that direction Pembury flung the body and
head of the rat, and closed the window. Finally, having
washed his hands and stuffed the paper from the parcel into
the fire-place, he went to bed.
But his proceedings in the morning were equally myste-
rious. Having breakfasted betimes, he returned to his bed-
room and locked himself in. Then he tied his new cane,
handle downwards, to the leg of the dressing-table. Next,
with the crucible-tongs, he drew the little bottle of musk
from the brush-case, and, having assured himself, by sniffing
at it, that the exterior was really free from odour, he with-
drew the rubber cork. Then, slowly and with infinite care,
he poured a few drops—perhaps half-a-teaspoonful—of the
essence on the cotton-wool that bulged through the hole in
the ferrule, watching the absorbent material narrowly as it
soaked up the liquid. When it was saturated he proceeded
to treat the knife in the same fashion, letting fall a drop of
the essence on the wooden handle—which soaked it up read-
ily. This done, he slid up the window and looked out. Im-
mediately below was a tiny yard in which grew, or rather
survived, a couple of faded laurel bushes. The body of the
rat was nowhere to be seen; it had apparently been spirited
away in the night. Holding out the bottle, which he still
held, he dropped it into the bushes, flinging the rubber cork
after it.
His next proceeding was to take a tube of vaseline from
his dressing-bag and squeeze a small quantity onto his fingers.
With this he thoroughly smeared the shoulder of the brush-
case and the inside of the lid, so as to ensure an air-tight
joint. Having wiped his fingers, he picked the knife up with
the crucible-tongs, and, dropping it into the brush-case, im-
mediately pushed on the lid. Then he heated the tips of the
61


each as large as a fair-sized tree, of which the largest swept
outward in a great curve half-way across the avenue. On
this patriarch Pembury bestowed especial attention, walking
completely round it and finally laying down his bag and cane
(the latter resting on the bag with the ferrule off the ground)
that he might climb up, by the aid of the warty outgrowths,
to examine the crown; and he had just stepped up into the
space between the three limbs, when the creaking of the iron
gates was followed by a quick step in the avenue. Hastily
he let himself down from the tree, and, gathering up his
possessions, stood close behind the great bole.
“Just as well not to be seen,” was his reflection, as he
hugged the tree closely and waited, peering cautiously round
the trunk. Soon a streak of moving shadow heralded the
stranger's approach, and he moved round to keep the trunk
between himself and the intruder. On the footsteps came,
until the stranger was abreast of the tree; and when he had
passed Pembury peeped round at the retreating figure. It
was only the postman, but then the man knew him, and he
was glad he had kept out of sight.
Apparently the oak did not meet his requirements, for he
stepped out and looked up and down the avenue. Then,
beyond the elm, he caught sight of an ancient pollard horn-
beam—a strange, fantastic tree whose trunk widened out
trumpet-like above into a broad crown, from the edge of
which multitudinous branches uprose like the limbs of some
weird hamadryad.
That tree he approved at a glance, but he lingered behind
the oak until the postman, returning with brisk step and
cheerful whistle, passed down the avenue and left him once
more in solitude. Then he moved on with a resolute air to
the hornbeam.
The crown of the trunk was barely six feet from the
ground. He could reach it easily, as he found on trying.
Standing the cane against the tree—ferrule downwards, this
time—he took the brush-case from the bag, pulled off the lid,
and, with the crucible-tongs, lifted out the knife and laid it
on the crown of the tree, just out of sight, leaving the tongs—
also invisible—still grasping the knife. He was about to re-
place the brush-case in the bag, when he appeared to alter


his mind. Sniffing at it, and finding it reeking with the sickly
perfume, he pushed the lid on again and threw the case up
into the tree, where he heard it roll down into the central
hollow of the crown. Then he closed the bag, and, taking
the cane by its handle, moved slowly away in the direction
whence he had come, passing out of the avenue between the
elm and the oak.
His mode of progress was certainly peculiar. He walked
with excessive slowness, trailing the cane along the ground,
and every few paces he would stop and press the ferrule
firmly against the earth, so that, to any one who should have
observed him, he would have appeared to be wrapped in an
absorbing reverie. -
Thus he moved on across the fields, not, however, return-
ing to the high road, but crossing another stretch of fields
until he emerged into a narrow lane that led out into the
High Street. Immediately opposite to the lane was the
police station, distinguished from the adjacent cottages
only by its lamp, its open door and the notices pasted up
outside. Straight across the road Pembury walked, still trail-
ing the cane, and halted at the station door to read the
notices, resting his cane on the doorstep as he did so.
Through the open doorway he could see a man writing at a
desk. The man's back was towards him, but, presently, a
movement brought his left hand into view, and Pembury
noted that the forefinger was missing. This, then, was Jack
Ellis, late of the Civil Guard at Portland.
Even while he was looking the man turned his head, and
Pembury recognized him at once. He had frequently met
him on the road between Baysford and the adjoining village
of Thorpe, and always at the same time. Apparently Ellis
paid a daily visit to Thorpe—perhaps to receive a report
from the rural constable—and he started between three and
four and returned between seven and a quarter past.
Pembury looked at his watch. It was a quarter past three.
He moved away thoughtfully (holding his cane, now, by the
middle), and began to walk slowly in the direction of Thorpe
—westward.
For a while he was deeply meditative, and his face wore
a puzzled frown. Then, suddenly, his face cleared and he
64


strode forward at a brisker pace. Presently he passed
through a gap in the hedge, and, walking in a field parallel
with the road, took out his purse—a small pigskin pouch.
Having frugally emptied it of its contents, excepting a few
shillings, he thrust the ferrule of his cane into the small com-
partment ordinarily reserved for gold or notes.
And thus he continued to walk on slowly, carrying the
cane by the middle and the purse jammed on the end.
At length he reached a sharp double curve in the road
whence he could see back for a considerable distance; and
here opposite a small opening, he sat down to wait. The
hedge screened him effectually from the gaze of passers-by
—though these were few enough—without interfering with
his view.
A quarter of an hour passed. He began to be uneasy.
Had he been mistaken? Were Ellis's visits only occasional
instead of daily, as he had thought? That would be tire-
some though not actually disastrous. But at this point in
his reflections a figure came into view, advancing along the
road with a steady swing. He recognized the figure. It was
Ellis.
But there was another figure advancing from the opposite
direction: a labourer, apparently. He prepared to shift his
ground, but another glance showed him that the labourer
would pass first. He waited. The labourer came on and, at
length, passed the opening, and, as he did so, Ellis dis-
appeared for a moment in a bend of the road. Instantly
Pembury passed his cane through the opening in the hedge,
shook off the purse and pushed it into the middle of the foot-
way. Then he crept forward, behind the hedge, towards the
approaching official, and again sat down to wait. On came
the steady tramp of the unconscious Ellis, and, as it passed,
Pembury drew aside an obstructing branch and peered out at
the retreating figure. The question now was, would Ellis
see the purse? It was not a very conspicuous object.
The footsteps stopped abruptly. Looking out, Pembury
saw the police official stoop, pick up the purse, examine its
contents and finally stow it in his trousers pocket. Pembury
heaved a sigh of relief; and, as the dwindling figure passed
out of sight round a curve in the road, he rose, stretched
65


himself and strode away briskly.
Near the gap was a group of ricks, and, as he passed them,
a fresh idea suggested itself. Looking round quickly he
passed to the farther side of one and, thrusting his cane
deeply into it, pushed it home with a piece of stick that he
picked up near the rick, until the handle was lost among
the straw. The bag was now all that was left, and it was
empty—for his other purchases were in the dressing-bag,
which, by the way, he must fetch from the station. He
opened it and smelt the interior, but, though he could detect
no odour, he resolved to be rid of it if possible.
As he emerged from the gap a wagon jogged slowly past.
It was piled high with sacks, and the tail-board was down.
Stepping into the road, he quickly overtook the wagon, and,
having glanced round, laid the bag lightly on the tail-board.
Then he set off for the station.
On arriving home he went straight up to his bedroom,
and, ringing for his housekeeper, ordered a substantial meal.
Then he took off his clothes and deposited them, even to his
shirt, socks and necktie, in a trunk, wherein his summer
clothing was stored with a plentiful sprinkling of naphthol
to preserve it from the moth. Taking the packet of per-
manganate of potash from his dressing-bag, he passed into
the adjoining bathroom, and, tipping the crystals into the
bath, turned on the water. Soon the bath was filled with a
pink solution of the salt, and into this he plunged, immersing
his entire body and thoroughly soaking his hair. Then he
emptied the bath and rinsed himself in clear water, and,
having dried himself, returned to the bedroom and dressed
himself in fresh clothing. Finally he took a hearty meal, and
then lay down on the sofa to rest until it should be time to
start for the rendezvous. -
Half-past six found him furking in the shadow by the
station-approach, within sight of the solitary lamp. He
heard the train come in, saw the stream of passengers
emerge, and noted one figure detach itself from the throng
and turn on to the Thorpe road. It was Pratt, as the lamp-
light showed him; Pratt, striding forward to the meeting-
place with an air of jaunty satisfaction and an uncommonly
creaky pair of boots.
66


surprise. He had not reckoned on a horse. His intended
flight across the meadows towards Thorpe was now im-
practicable. If he were overtaken he was lost, for he knew
there was blood on his clothes and his hands were wet and
slippery—to say nothing of the knife in his pocket.
But his confusion lasted only for an instant. He remem-
bered the oak tree; and, turning out of the avenue, he ran
to it, and, touching it as little as he could with his bloody
hands, climbed quickly up into the crown. The great hori-
zontal limb was nearly three feet in diameter, and, as he lay
out on it, gathering his coat closely round him, he was quite
invisible from below.
He had hardly settled himself when the light which he
had seen came into full view, revealing a woman advancing
with a stable lantern in her hand. And, almost at the same
moment, a streak of brighter light burst from the opposite
direction. The horseman was accompanied by a man on a
bicycle.
The two men came on apace, and the horseman, sighting
the woman, called out: “Anything the matter, Mrs. Parton?”
But, at that moment, the light of the bicycle lamp fell full
on the prostrate corpse. The two men uttered a simul-
taneous cry of horror; the woman shrieked aloud: and
then the horseman sprang from the saddle and ran forward
to the body.
“Why,” he exclaimed, stooping over it, “it’s Pratt;” and,
as the cyclist came up and the glare of his lamp shone on a
great pool of blood, he added: “There's been foul play here,
Hanford.”
Hanford flashed his lamp around the body, lighting up
the ground for several yards.
“What is that behind you, O'Gorman?” he said suddenly;
“isn't it a knife?” He was moving quickly towards it when
O'Gorman held up his hand.
“Don’t touch it!” he exclaimed. “We’ll put the hounds
onto it. They’ll soon track the scoundrel, whoever he is.
By God! Hanford, this fellow has fairly delivered himself
into our hands.” He stood for a few moments looking down
at the knife with something uncommonly like exultation,
and then, turning quickly to his friend, said: “Look here,
69


Hanford; you ride off to the police station as hard as you
can pelt. It is only three-quarters of a mile; you'll do it in
five minutes. Send or bring an officer and I’ll scour the
meadows meanwhile. If I haven't got the scoundrel when
you come back, we'll put the hounds onto this knife and
run the beggar down.”
“Right,” replied Hanford, and without another word he
wheeled his machine about, mounted and rode away into
the darkness.
“Mrs. Parton,” said O'Gorman, “watch that knife. See
that nobody touches it while I go and examine the meadows.”
“Is Mr. Pratt dead, sir?” whimpered Mrs. Parton.
“Gad! I hadn't thought of that,” said the general. “You’d
better have a look at him; but mind! nobody is to touch that
knife or they will confuse the scent.”
He scrambled into the saddle and galloped away across
the meadows in the direction of Thorpe; and, as Pembury
listened to the diminuendo of the horse's hoofs, he was glad
that he had not attempted to escape; for that was the di-
rection in which he had meant to go, and he would surely
have been overtaken.
As soon as the general was gone, Mrs. Parton, with many
a terror-stricken glance over her shoulder, approached the
corpse and held the lantern close to the dead face. Sud-
denly she stood up, trembling violently, for footsteps were
audible coming down the avenue. A familiar voice reassured
her.
“Is anything wrong, Mrs. Parton?” The question pro-
ceeded from one of the maids who had come in search of the
elder woman, escorted by a young man, and the pair now
came out into the circle of light.
“Good God!” ejaculated the man. “Who’s that?”
“It's Mr. Pratt,” replied Mrs. Parton. “He’s been mur-
dered.”
The girl screamed, and then the two domestics approached
on tiptoe, staring at the corpse with the fascination of horror.
“Don’t touch that knife,” said Mrs. Parton, for the man
was about to pick it up. “The general's going to put the
bloodhounds onto it.”
“Is the general here, then?” asked the man; and, as he
70


spoke, the drumming of hoofs, growing momentarily louder,
answered him from the meadow.
O'Gorman reined in his horse as he perceived the group
of servants gathered about the corpse. “Is he dead, Mrs.
Parton?” he asked.
“I am afraid so, sir,” was the reply.
“Ha! Somebody ought to go for the doctor; but not you,
Bailey. I want you to get the hounds ready and wait with
them at the top of the avenue until I call you.”
He was off again into the Baysford meadows, and Bailey
hurried away, leaving the two women staring at the body
and talking in whispers. -
Pembury's position was cramped and uncomfortable. He
dared not move, hardly dared to breathe, for the women
below him were not a dozen yards away; and it was with
mingled feelings of relief and apprehension that he presently
saw from his elevated station a group of lights approaching
rapidly along the road from Baysford. Presently they were
hidden by the trees, and then, after a brief interval, the
whirr of wheels sounded on the drive and streaks of light on
the tree-trunks announced the new arrivals. There were
three bicycles, ridden respectively by Mr. Hanford, a police
inspector and a sergeant; and, as they drew up, the general
came thundering back into the avenue.
“Is Ellis with you?” he asked, as he pulled up.
“No, sir,” was the reply. “He hadn’t come in from Thorpe
when we left. He's rather late to-night.”
“Have you sent for a doctor?”
“Yes, sir, I've sent for Dr. Hills,” said the inspector, rest-
ing his bicycle against the oak. Pembury could smell the
reek of the lamp as he crouched. “Is Pratt dead?”
“Seems to be,” replied O'Gorman, “but we'd better leave
that to the doctor. There's the murderer's knife. Nobody
has touched it. I’m going to fetch the bloodhounds now.”
“Ah! that's the thing,” said the inspector. “The man can't
be far away.” He rubbed his hands with a satisfied air as
O'Gorman cantered away up the avenue.
In less than a minute there came out from the darkness
the deep baying of a hound followed by quick footsteps on
the gravel. Then into the circle of light emerged three sinis-
71


ter shapes, loose-limbed and gaunt, and two men advancing
at a shambling trot.
“Here, inspector,” shouted the general, “you take one;
I can’t hold 'em both.”
The inspector ran forward and seized one of the leashes,
and the general led his hound up to the knife, as it lay on
the ground. Pembury, peering cautiously round the bough,
watched the great brute with almost impersonal curiosity;
noted its high poll, its wrinkled forehead and melancholy
face as it stooped to snuff suspiciously at the prostrate knife.
For some moments the hound stood motionless, sniffing
at the knife; then it turned away and walked to and fro with
its muzzle to the ground. Suddenly it lifted its head, bayed
loudly, lowered its muzzle and started forward between the
oak and the elm, dragging the general after it at a run.
The inspector next brought his hound to the knife, and
was soon bounding away to the tug of the leash in the gen-
eral's wake.
“They don’t make no mistakes, they don’t,” said Bailey,
addressing the gratified sergeant, as he brought forward the
third hound; “you’ll see—” But his remark was cut short
by a violent jerk of the leash, and the next moment he was
flying after the others, followed by Mr. Hanford.
The sergeant daintily picked the knife up by its ring,
wrapped it in his handkerchief and bestowed it in his pocket.
Then he ran off after the hounds.
Pembury smiled grimly. His scheme was working out
admirably in spite of the unforeseen difficulties. If those
confounded women would only go away, he could come down
and take himself off while the course was clear. He listened
to the baying of the hounds, gradually growing fainter in
the increasing distance, and cursed the dilatoriness of the
doctor. Confound the fellow! Didn’t he realize that this
was a case of life or death?
Suddenly his ear caught the tinkle of a bicycle bell; a
fresh light appeared coming up the avenue and then a bicycle
swept up swiftly to the scene of the tragedy, and a small
elderly man jumped down by the side of the body. Giving
his machine to Mrs. Parton, he stooped over the dead man,
felt the wrist, pushed back an eyelid, held a match to the
72


said. “I shall have to go up again tomorrow.”
“Shall you come home the same day?” asked the house-
keeper.
“Perhaps,” was the reply, “and perhaps not. It will de-
pend on circumstances.”
He did not say what the circumstances might be, nor did
the housekeeper ask. Mr. Pembury was not addicted to
confidences. He was an eminently discreet man: and dis-
creet men say little.
PART ||
RIVAL SLEUTH-HOUNDS
(Related by Christopher Jervis, M.D.)
Tr half-hour that follows breakfast, when the fire has,
So to speak, got into its stride, and the morning pipe throws
up its clouds of incense, is, perhaps, the most agreeable in
the whole day. Especially so when a sombre sky, brooding
over the town, hints at streets pervaded by the chilly morn-
ing air, and hoots from protesting tugs upon the river tell of
lingering mists, the legacy of the lately-vanished night.
The autumn morning was raw: the fire burned jovially.
I thrust my slippered feet towards the blaze and meditated,
on nothing in particular, with cat-like enjoyment. Presently
a disapproving grunt from Thorndyke attracted my atten-
tion, and I looked round lazily. He was extracting, with a
pair of office shears, the readable portions of the morning
paper, and had paused with a small cutting between his
finger and thumb. “Bloodhounds again,” said he. “We
shall be hearing presently of the revival of the ordeal by fire.”
“And a deuced comfortable ordeal, too, on a morning like
this,” I said, stroking my legs ecstatically. “What is the
case?”
He was about to reply when a sharp rat-tat from the little
brass knocker announced a disturber of our peace. Thorn-
dyke stepped over to the door and admitted a police inspec-
tor in uniform, and I stood up, and, presenting my dorsal
aspect to the fire, prepared to combine bodily comfort with
attention to business.
74


the general and Mr. Hanford, and all three seem to have
caught sight of the body at the same moment. Mr. Hanford
cycled down to us, at once, with the news; we sent for a
doctor, and I went back with Mr. Hanford and took a ser-
geant with me. We arrived at twelve minutes past seven, and
then the general, who had galloped his horse over the
meadows each side of the avenue without having seen any-
body, fetched out his bloodhounds and led them up to the
knife. All three hounds took up the scent at once—I held
the leash of one of them—and they took us across the
meadows without a pause or a falter, over stiles and fences,
along a lane, out into the town, and then, one after the other,
they crossed the road in a bee-line to the police station,
bolted in at the door, which stood open, and made straight
for the desk, where a supernumerary officer, named Ellis, was
writing. They made a rare to-do, struggling to get at him,
and it was as much as we could manage to hold them back.
As for Ellis, he turned as pale as a ghost.”
“Was any one else in the room?” asked Thorndyke.
“Oh, yes. There were two constables and a messenger.
We led the hounds up to them, but the brutes wouldn't take
any notice of them. They wanted Ellis.”
“And what did you do?”
“Why, we arrested Ellis, of course. Couldn't do anything
else—especially with the general there.”
“What had the general to do with it?” asked Thorndyke.
“He’s a J.P. and a late governor of Dartmoor, and it was
his hounds that had run the man down. But we must have
arrested Ellis in any case.”
“Is there anything against the accused man?”
“Yes, there is. He and Pratt were on distinctly unfriendly
terms. They were old comrades, for Ellis was in the Civil
Guard at Portland when Pratt was warder there—he was
pensioned off from the service because he got his left fore-
finger chopped off—but lately they had had some unpleasant-
ness about a woman, a parlourmaid of the general's. It seems
that Ellis, who is a married man, paid the girl too much
attention—or Pratt thought he did—and Pratt warned Ellis
off the premises. Since then they had not been on speaking
terms.”
76


“And what sort of a man is Ellis?”
“A remarkably decent fellow he always seemed; quiet,
steady, good-natured; I should have said he wouldn't have
hurt a fly. We all liked him—better than we liked Pratt, in
fact; poor Pratt was what you'd call an old soldier—sly, you
know, sir—and a bit of a sneak.”
“You searched and examined Ellis, of course?”
“Yes. There was nothing suspicious about him except that
he had two purses. But he says he picked up one of them—
a small, pigskin pouch—on the footpath of the Thorpe road
yesterday afternoon; and there's no reason to disbelieve him.
At any rate, the purse was not Pratt's.”
Thorndyke made a note on his pad, and then asked:
“There were no blood-stains or marks on his clothing?”
“No. His clothing was not marked or disarranged in any
way.”
“Any cuts, scratches or bruises on his person?”
“None whatever,” replied the inspector.
“At what time did you arrest Ellis?”
“Half-past seven exactly.”
“Have you ascertained what his movements were? Had
he been near the scene of the murder?”
“Yes; he had been to Thorpe and would pass the gates of
the avenue on his way back. And he was later than usual in
returning, though not later than he has often been before.”
“And now, as to the murdered man: has the body been
examined?”
“Yes; I had Dr. Hills's report before I left. There were
no less than seven deep knife-wounds, all on the left side of
the back. There was a great deal of blood on the ground,
and Dr. Hills thinks Pratt must have bled to death in a
minute or two.”
“Do the wounds correspond with the knife that was
found?”
“I asked the doctor that, and he said ‘Yes,’ though he
wasn't going to swear to any particular knife. However, that
point isn't of much importance. The knife was covered with
blood, and it was found close to the body.”
“What has been done with it, by the way?” asked Thorn-
dyke.
77


“The sergeant who was with me picked it up and rolled
it in his handkerchief to carry in his pocket. I took it from
him, just as it was, and locked it in a dispatch-box.”
“Has the knife been recognized as Ellis's property?”
“No, sir, it has not.”
“Were there any recognizable footprints or marks of a
struggle?” Thorndyke asked.
The inspector grinned sheepishly. “I haven’t examined
the spot, of course, sir,” said he, “but, after the general's
horse and the bloodhounds and the general on foot and me
and the gardener and the sergeant and Mr. Hanford had
been over it twice, going and returning, why, you see,
sir 22
“Exactly, exactly,” said Thorndyke. “Well, inspector, I
shall be pleased to act for the defence; it seems to me that
the case against Ellis is in some respects rather inconclusive.”
The inspector was frankly amazed. “It certainly hadn't
struck me in that light, sir,” he said.
“No? Well, that is my view; and I think the best plan
will be for me to come down with you and investigate matters
on the spot.”
The inspector assented cheerfully, and, when we had pro-
vided him with a newspaper, we withdrew to the laboratory
to consult time-tables and prepare for the expedition.
“You are coming, I suppose, Jervis?” said Thorndyke.
“If I shall be of any use,” I replied.
“Of course you will,” said he. “Two heads are better than
one, and, by the look of things, I should say that ours will
be the only ones with any sense in them. We will take the
research case, of course, and we may as well have a camera
with us. I see there is a train from Charing Cross in twenty
minutes.”
For the first half-hour of the journey Thorndyke sat in
his corner, alternately conning over his notes and gazing with
thoughtful eyes out of the window. I could see that the
case pleased him, and was careful not to break in upon his
train of thought. Presently, however, he put away his notes
and began to fill his pipe with a more companionable air, and
then the inspector, who had been wriggling with impatience,
opened fire.
78


“So you think, sir, that you see a way out for Ellis?”
“I think there is a case for the defence,” replied Thorn-
dyke. “In fact, I call the evidence against him rather
flimsy.”
The inspector gasped. “But the knife, sir? What about
the knife?”
“Well,” said Thorndyke, “what about the knife? Whose
knife was it? You don’t know. It was covered with blood.
Whose blood? You don't know. Let us assume, for the
sake of argument, that it was the murderer's knife. Then
the blood on it was Pratt's blood. But if it was Pratt's blood,
when the hounds had smelt it they should have led you to
Pratt's body, for blood gives a very strong scent. But they
did not. They ignored the body. The inference seems to be
that the blood on the knife was not Pratt's blood.”
The inspector took off his cap and gently scratched the
back of his head. “You’re perfectly right, sir,” he said. “I’d
never thought of that. None of us had.”
“Then,” pursued Thorndyke, “let us assume that the
knife was Pratt's. If so, it would seem to have been used
in self-defence. But this was a Norwegian knife, a clumsy
tool—not a weapon at all—which takes an appreciable time
to open and requires the use of two free hands. Now, had
Pratt both hands free? Certainly not after the attack had
commenced. There were seven wounds, all on the left side
of the back; which indicates that he held the murderer
locked in his arms and that the murderer's arms were around
him. Also, incidentally, that the murderer is right-handed.
But, still, let us assume that the knife was Pratt's. Then the
blood on it was that of the murderer. Then the murderer
must have been wounded. But Ellis was not wounded. Then
Ellis is not the murderer. The knife doesn’t help us at all.”
The inspector puffed out his cheeks and blew softly. “This
is getting out of my depth,” he said. “Still, sir, you can’t
get over the bloodhounds. They tell us distinctly that the
knife is Ellis's knife and I don't see any answer to that.”
“There is no answer because there has been no statement.
The bloodhounds have told you nothing. You have drawn
certain inferences from their actions, but those inferences
may be totally wrong and they are certainly not evidence.”
79


“So, probably, were many other people,” answered Thorn-
dyke; “but had he time to wash and change? Because he
would have needed it.”
“I suppose he would,” the inspector agreed dubiously.
“Undoubtedly. There were seven wounds which would
have taken some time to inflict. Now we can't suppose that
Pratt stood passively while the other man stabbed him—
indeed, as I have said, the position of the wounds shows that
he did not. There was a struggle. The two men were locked
together. One of the murderer's hands was against Pratt's
back; probably both hands were, one clasping and the other
stabbing. There must have been blood on one hand and
probably on both. But you say there was no blood on Ellis,
and there doesn’t seem to have been time or opportunity for
him to wash.”
“Well, it’s a mysterious affair,” said the inspector; “but
I don’t see how you are going to get over the bloodhounds.”
Thorndyke shrugged his shoulders impatiently. “The
bloodhounds are an obsession,” he said. “The whole prob-
lem really centres around the knife. The questions are,
Whose knife was it? and what was the connection between
it and Ellis? There is a problem, Jervis,” he continued, turn-
ing to me, “that I submit for your consideration. Some of the
possible solutions are exceedingly curious.”
As we set out from Baysford station, Thorndyke looked at
his watch and noted the time. “You will take us the way
that Pratt went,” he said.
“As to that,” said the inspector, “he may have gone by the
road or by the footpath; but there's very little difference in
the distance.” -
Turning away from Baysford, we walked along the road
westward, towards the village of Thorpe, and presently
passed on our right a stile at the entrance to a footpath.
“That path,” said the inspector, “crosses the avenue about
half-way up. But we'd better keep to the road.” A quarter
of a mile further on we came to a pair of rusty iron gates
one of which stood open, and, entering, we found ourselves
in a broad drive bordered by two rows of trees, between the
trunks of which a long stretch of pasture meadows could be
seen on either hand. It was a fine avenue, and, late in the
y
81


year as it was, the yellowing foliage clustered thickly over-
head.
When we had walked about a hundred and fifty yards
from the gates, the inspector halted.
“This is the place,” he said; and Thorndyke again noted
the time.
“Nine minutes exactly,” said he. “Then Pratt arrived
here about fourteen minutes to seven, and his body was
found at five minutes to seven—nine minutes after his ar-
rival. The murderer couldn't have been far away then.”
“No, it was a pretty fresh scent,” replied the inspector.
“You’d like to see the body first, I think you said, sir?”
“Yes; and the knife, if you please.”
“I shall have to send down to the station for that. It's
locked up in the office.”
He entered the house, and, having dispatched a messenger
to the police station, came out and conducted us to the out-
building where the corpse had been deposited. Thorndyke
made a rapid examination of the wounds and the holes in
the clothing, neither of which presented anything particu-
larly suggestive. The weapon used had evidently been a
thick-backed, single-edged knife similar to the one described,
and the discolouration around the wounds indicated that the
weapon had a definite shoulder like that of a Norwegian
knife, and that it had been driven in with savage violence.
“Do you find anything that throws any light on the case?”
the inspector asked, when the examination was concluded.
“That is impossible to say until we have seen the knife,”
replied Thorndyke; “but while we are waiting for it, we may
as well go and look at the scene of the tragedy. These are
Pratt's boots, I think?” He lifted a pair of stout laced boots
from the table and turned them up to inspect the soles.
“Yes, those are his boots,” replied Fox, “and pretty easy
they'd have been to track, if the case had been the other
way about. Those Blakey's protectors are as good as a
trademark.” -
“We'll take them, at any rate,” said Thorndyke; and, the
inspector having taken the boots from him, we went out and
retraced our steps down the avenue.
The place where the murder had occurred was easily iden-
82


tified by a large dark stain on the gravel at one side of the
drive, half-way between two trees—an ancient pollard horn-
beam and an elm. Next to the elm was a pollard oak with
a squat, warty bole about seven feet high, and three enor-
mous limbs, of which one slanted half-way across the avenue;
and between these two trees the ground was covered with the
tracks of men and hounds superimposed upon the hoof-prints
of a horse.
“Where was the knife found?” Thorndyke asked.
The inspector indicated a spot near the middle of the drive,
almost opposite the hornbeam and Thorndyke, picking up
a large stone, laid it on the spot. Then he surveyed the
Scene thoughtfully, looking up and down the drive and at the
trees that bordered it, and, finally, walked slowly to the
space between the elm and the oak, scanning the ground as
he went. “There is no dearth of footprints,” he remarked
grimly, as he looked down at the trampled earth.
“No, but the question is, whose are they?” said the
inspector.
“Yes, that is the question,” agreed Thorndyke; “and we
will begin the solution by identifying those of Pratt.”
“I don’t see how that will help us,” said the inspector.
“We know he was here.”
Thorndyke looked at him in surprise, and I must confess
that the foolish remark astonished me too, accustomed as I
was to the quick-witted officers from Scotland Yard.
“The hue and cry procession,” remarked Thorndyke,
“seems to have passed out between the elm and the oak;
elsewhere the ground seems pretty clear.” He walked round
the elm, still looking earnestly at the ground, and presently
continued: “Now here, in the soft earth bordering the turf,
are the prints of a pair of smallish feet wearing pointed
boots; a rather short man, evidently, by the size of foot and
length of stride, and he doesn’t seem to have belonged to the
procession. But I don’t see any of Pratt's; he doesn't seem
to have come off the hard gravel.” He continued to walk
slowly towards the hornbeam with his eyes fixed on the
ground. Suddenly he halted and stooped with an eager look
at the earth; and, as Fox and I approached, he stood up and
pointed. “Pratt's footprints—faint and fragmentary, but
83 -


unmistakable. And now, inspector, you see their importance.
They furnish the time factor in respect of the other foot-
prints. Look at this one and then look at that.” He pointed
from one to another of the faint impressions of the dead
man's foot.
“You mean that there are signs of a struggle?” said Fox.
“I mean more than that,” replied Thorndyke. “Here is
one of Pratt's footprints treading into the print of a small,
pointed foot; and there at the edge of the gravel is another
of Pratt's nearly obliterated by the tread of a pointed foot.
Obviously the first pointed footprint was made before Pratt’s,
and the second one after his; and the necessary inference is
that the owner of the pointed foot was here at the same
time as Pratt.”
“Then he must have been the murderer!” exclaimed Fox.
“Presumably,” answered Thorndyke; “but let us see
whither he went. You notice, in the first place, that the
man stood close to this tree”—he indicated the hornbeam
—“and that he went towards the elm. Let us follow him.
He passes the elm, you see, and you will observe that these
tracks form a regular series leading from the hornbeam and
not mixed up with the marks of the struggle. They were,
therefore, probably made after the murder had been per-
petrated. You will also notice that they pass along the backs
of the trees—outside the avenue, that is; what does that
suggest to you?”
“It suggests to me,” I said, when the inspector had shaken
his head hopelessly, “that there was possibly some one in
the avenue when the man was stealing off.”
“Precisely,” said Thorndyke. “The body was found not
more than nine minutes after Pratt arrived here. But the
murder must have taken some time. Then the housekeeper
thought she heard some one calling and came out with a
lantern, and, at the same time, the general and Mr. Hanford
came up the drive. The suggestion is that the man sneaked
along outside the trees to avoid being seen. However, let
us follow the tracks. They pass the elm and they pass on
behind the next tree; but wait! There is something odd
here.” He passed behind the great pollard oak and looked
down at the soft earth by its roots. “Here is a pair of im-
84


pressions much deeper than the rest, and they are not a part
of the track since their toes point towards the tree. What
do you make of that?” Without waiting for an answer he
began closely to scan the bole of the tree and especially a
large, warty protuberance about three feet from the ground.
On the bark above this was a vertical mark, as if something
had scraped down the tree, and from the wart itself a dead
twig had been newly broken off and lay upon the ground.
Pointing to these marks Thorndyke set his foot on the pro-
tuberance, and, springing up, brought his eye above the level
of the crown, whence the great boughs branched off.
“Ah!” he exclaimed. “Here is something much more
definite.” With the aid of another projection, he scrambled
up into the crown of the tree, and, having glanced quickly
round, beckoned to us. I stepped up on the projecting lump
and, as my eyes rose above the crown, I perceived the
brown, shiny impression of a hand on the edge. Climbing
into the crown, I was quickly followed by the inspector, and
we both stood up by Thorndyke between the three boughs.
From where we stood we looked on the upper side of the
great limb that swept out across the avenue; and there on its
lichen-covered surface, we saw the imprints in reddish-brown
of a pair of open hands.
“You notice,” said Thorndyke, leaning out upon the
bough, “that he is a short man; I cannot conveniently place
my hands so low. You also note that he has both forefingers
intact, and so is certainly not Ellis.”
“If you mean to say, sir, that these marks were made by
the murderer,” said Fox, “I say it’s impossible. Why, that
would mean that he was here looking down at us when we
were searching for him with the hounds. The presence of
the hounds proves that this man could not have been the
murderer.” -
“On the contrary,” said Thorndyke, “the presence of this
man with bloody hands confirms the other evidence, which
all indicates that the hounds were never on the murderer’s
trail at all. Come now, inspector, I put it to you: Here is
a murdered man; the murderer has almost certainly blood
upon his hands; and here is a man with bloody hands, lurking
in a tree within a few feet of the corpse and within a few
85


minutes of its discovery (as is shown by the footprints);
what are the reasonable probabilities?”
“But you are forgetting the bloodhounds, sir, and the
murderer's knife,” urged the inspector.
“Tut, tut, man!” exclaimed Thorndyke; “those blood-
hounds are a positive obsession. But I see a sergeant coming
up the drive, with the knife, I hope. Perhaps that will solve
the riddle for us.”
The sergeant, who carried a small dispatch-box, halted
opposite the tree in some surprise while we descended, when
he came forward with a military salute and handed the box
to the inspector, who forthwith unlocked it, and, opening the
lid, displayed an object wrapped in a pocket-handkerchief.
“There is the knife, sir,” said he, “just as I received it.
The handkerchief is the sergeant’s.”
Thorndyke unrolled the handkerchief and took from it a
large-sized Norwegian knife, which he looked at critically
and then handed to me. While I was inspecting the blade, he,
shook out the handkerchief and, having looked it over on
both sides, turned to the sergeant.
“At what time did you pick up this knife?” he asked.
“About seven-fifteen, sir; directly after the hounds had
started. I was careful to pick it up by the ring, and I
wrapped it in the handkerchief at once.”
“Seven-fifteen,” said Thorndyke. “Less than half-an-
hour after the murder. That is very singular. Do you ob-
serve the state of this handkerchief? There is not a mark
on it. Not a trace of any bloodstain; which proves that
when the knife was picked up, the blood on it was already
dry. But things dry slowly, if they dry at all, in the satu-
rated air of an autumn evening. The appearances seem to
suggest that the blood on the knife was dry when it was
thrown down. By the way, sergeant, what do you scent
your handkerchief with?’”
“Scent, sir!” exclaimed the astonished officer in indig-
nant accents; “me scent my handkerchief! No, sir, cer-
tainly not. Never used scent in my life, sir.”
Thorndyke held out the handkerchief, and the sergeant
Sniffed at it incredulously. “It certainly does seem to smell
of scent,” he admitted, “but it must be the knife.” The
86


same idea having occurred to me, I applied the handle of the
knife to my nose and instantly detected the sickly-sweet
odour of musk.
“The question is,” said the inspector, when the two
articles had been tested by us all, “was it the knife that
scented the handkerchief or the handkerchief that scented
the knife?”
“You heard what the sergeant said,” replied Thorndyke.
“There was no scent on the handkerchief when the knife
was wrapped in it. Do you know, inspector, this scent
seems to me to offer a very curious suggestion. Consider the
facts of the case: the distinct trail leading straight to Ellis,
who is, nevertheless, found to be without a scratch or a
spot of blood; the inconsistencies in the case that I pointed
out in the train, and now this knife, apparently dropped
with dried blood on it and scented with musk. To me it
suggests a carefully-planned, coolly-premeditated crime.
The murderer knew about the general's bloodhounds and
made use of them as a blind. He planted this knife, smeared
with blood and tainted with musk, to furnish a scent. No
doubt some object, also scented with musk, would be drawn
over the ground to give the trail. It is only a suggestion,
of course, but it is worth considering.”
“But, sir,” the inspector objected eagerly, “if the mur-
derer had handled the knife, it would have scented him too.”
“Exactly; so, as we are assuming that the man is not a
fool, we may assume that he did not handle it. He will
have left it here in readiness, hidden in some place whence
he could knock it down, say, with a stick, without touch-
ing it.”
“Perhaps in this very tree, sir,’
pointing to the oak.
“No,” said Thorndyke, “he would hardly have hidden
in the tree where the knife had been. The hounds might
have scented the place instead of following the trail at
once. The most likely hiding-place for the knife is the one
nearest the spot where it was found.” He walked over to
the stone that marked the spot, and looking round, con-
tinued: “You see, that hornbeam is much the nearest, and
its flat crown would be very convenient for the purpose—
y
Suggested the sergeant,
87


pull off the lid, we can test the inside.”
There was no difficulty in getting the lid off, for the
shoulder of the case had been smeared with vaseline—ap-
parently to produce an airtight joint—and, as it separated
with a hollow sound, a faint, musky odour exhaled from its
interior.
“The remainder of the inquiry,” said Thorndyke, when
I pushed the lid on again, “will be best conducted at the
police station, where, also, we can photograph these finger-
prints.”
“The shortest way will be across the meadows,” said
Fox; “the way the hounds went.”
By this route we accordingly travelled, Thorndyke carry-
ing the brush-case tenderly by its handle.
“I don’t quite see where Ellis comes in in this job,” said
the inspector, as we walked along, “if the fellow had a
grudge against Pratt. They weren’t chums.”
“I think I do,” said Thorndyke. “You say that both
men were prison officers at Portland at the same time. Now
doesn’t it seem likely that this is the work of some old
convict who had been identified—and perhaps blackmailed
—by Pratt, and possibly by Ellis too? That is where the
value of the finger-prints comes in. If he is an old ‘lag'
his prints will be at Scotland Yard. Otherwise they are
not of much value as a clue.”
“That's true, sir,” said the inspector. “I suppose you
want to see Ellis.”
“I want to see that purse that you spoke of, first,” re-
plied Thorndyke. “That is probably the other end of the
clue.”
As soon as we arrived at the station, the inspector un-
locked a safe and brought out a parcel. “These are Ellis's
things,” said he, as he unfastened it, “and that is the purse.”
He handed Thorndyke a small pigskin pouch, which my
colleague opened, and having smelt the inside, passed to
me. The odour of musk was plainly perceptible, especially
in the small compartment at the back.
“It has probably tainted the other contents of the par-
cel,” said Thorndyke, sniffing at each article in turn, “but
my sense of smell is not keen enough to detect any scent.
89


They all seem odourless to me, whereas the purse smells
quite distinctly. Shall we have Ellis in now?”
The sergeant took a key from a locked drawer and de-
parted for the cells, whence he presently re-appeared ac-
companied by the prisoner—a stout, burly man, in the last
stage of dejection. -
“Come, cheer up, Ellis,” said the inspector. “Here's
Dr. Thorndyke come down to help us and he wants to ask
you one or two questions.”
Ellis looked piteously at Thorndyke, and exclaimed: “I
know nothing whatever about this affair, sir, I swear to
God I don't.”
“I never supposed you did,” said Thorndyke. “But there
are one or two things that I want you to tell me. To begin
with, that purse: where did you find it?”
“On the Thorpe road, sir. It was lying in the middle of
the footway.”
“Had any one else passed the spot lately? Did you meet
or pass any one?”
“Yes, sir, I met a labourer about a minute before I saw
the purse. I can't imagine why he didn't see it.”
“Probably because it wasn’t there,” said Thorndyke. “Is
there a hedge there?”
“Yes, sir; a hedge on a low bank.”
“Ha! Well, now, tell me: is there any one about here
whom you knew when you and Pratt were together at Port-
land? Any old lag—to put it bluntly—whom you and Pratt
have been putting the screw on.”
“No, sir, I swear there isn’t. But I wouldn’t answer for
Pratt. He had a rare memory for faces.”
Thorndyke reflected. “Were there any escapes from
Portland in your time?” he asked.
“Only one—a man named Dobbs. He made off to the
Sea in a sudden fog and he was supposed to be drowned.
His clothes washed up on the Bill, but not his body. At any
rate, he was never heard of again.”
“Thank you, Ellis. Do you mind my taking your finger-
prints?”
“Certainly, not, sir,” was the almost eager reply; and
the office inking-pad being requisitioned, a rough set of
90 -


finger-prints was produced; and when Thorndyke had com-
pared them with those on the brush-case and found no
resemblance, Ellis returned to his cell in quite buoyant
spirits.
Having made several photographs of the strange finger-
prints, we returned to town that evening, taking the nega-
tives with us; and while we waited for our train, Thorn-
dyke gave a few parting injunctions to the inspector. “Re-
member,” he said, “that the man must have washed his
hands before he could appear in public. Search the banks
of every pond, ditch and stream in the neighbourhood for
footprints like those in the avenue; and, if you find any,
search the bottom of the water thoroughly, for he is quite
likely to have dropped the knife into the mud.”
The photographs, which we handed in at Scotland Yard
that same night, enabled the experts to identify the finger-
prints as those of Francis Dobbs, an escaped convict. The
two photographs—profile and full-face—which were at-
tached to his record, were sent down to Baysford with a
description of the man, and were, in due course, identified
with a somewhat mysterious individual, who passed by the
name of Rufus Pembury and who had lived in the neigh-
bourhood as a private gentleman for some two years. But
Rufus Pembury was not to be found either at his genteel
house or elsewhere. All that was known was, that on the
day after the murder, he had converted his entire “person-
alty” into “bearer securities,” and then vanished from mortal
ken. Nor has he ever been heard of to this day.
“And, between ourselves,” said Thorndyke, when we were
discussing the case some time after, “he deserved to escape.
It was clearly a case of blackmail, and to kill a blackmailer
—when you have no other defence against him—is hardly
murder. As to Ellis, he could never have been convicted, and
Dobbs, or Pembury, must have known it. But he would
have been committed to the Assizes, and that would have
given time for all traces to disappear. No, Dobbs was a
man of courage, ingenuity and resource; and, above all,
he knocked the bottom out of the great bloodhound super-
stition.”
91


no woman to look after them and keep ’em tidy. But you
won’t be overworked, Mr. Brown, in these long days; day-
light till past nine o'clock. I don't know what you'll do to
pass the time.”
“Oh, I shall find plenty to do, I expect,” said Brown,
“what with cleanin' the lamps and glasses and paintin' up
the ironwork. And that reminds me,” he added, looking
round at the clock, “that time's getting on. High water at
half-past ten, and here it’s gone eight o'clock.”
Mrs. Solly, acting on the hint, began rapidly to fish out
the washed garments and wring them out into the form of
short ropes. Then, having dried her hands on her apron,
she relieved Brown of the protesting baby.
“Your room will be ready for you, Mr. Brown,” said she,
“when your turn comes for a spell ashore; and main glad me
and Tom will be to see you back.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Solly, ma'am,” answered Brown, ten-
derly placing the cat on the floor; “you won't be more glad
than what I will.” He shook hands warmly with his land-
lady, kissed the baby, chucked the cat under the chin, and,
picking up his little chest by its becket, swung it onto his
shoulder and strode out of the cottage.
His way lay across the marshes, and, like the ships in the
offing, he shaped his course by the twin towers of Reculver
that stood up grotesquely on the rim of the land; and as he
trod the springy turf, Tom Solly's fleecy charges looked up
at him with vacant stares and valedictory bleatings. Once,
at a dyke-gate, he paused to look back at the fair Kentish
landscape: at the grey tower of St. Nicholas-at-Wade peep-
ing above the trees and the faraway mill at Sarre, whirling
slowly in the summer breeze; and, above all, at the solitary
cottage where, for a brief spell in his stormy life, he had
known the homely joys of domesticity and peace. Well,
that was over for the present, and the lighthouse loomed
ahead. With a half-sigh he passed through the gate and
walked on towards Reculver.
Outside the whitewashed cottages with their official black
chimneys a petty-officer of the coast-guard was adjusting
the halyards of the flagstaff. He looked round as Brown
approached, and hailed him cheerily.
* - 93


house in one board. Anyhow don't let her get east of the
lighthouse, or, when the ebb sets in, you’ll be in a fix.”
To these admonitions Brown listened with jaunty in-
difference as he hoisted the sails and watched the incom-
ing tide creep over the level shore. Then the boat lifted
on the gentle swell. Putting out an oar, he gave a vig-
orous shove off that sent the boat, with a final scrape, clear
of the beach, and then, having dropped the rudder onto its
pintles, he seated himself and calmly belayed the main-sheet.
“There he goes,” growled the coast-guard; “makin' fast
his sheet. They will do it” (he invariably did it himself),
“and that's how accidents happen. I hope old Willett 'll
see his boat back all right.”
He stood for some time watching the dwindling boat
as it sidled across the smooth water; then he turned and
followed his mates towards the station.
Out on the south-western edge of the Girdler Sand, just
inside the two-fathom line, the spindle-shanked lighthouse
stood a-straddle on its long screw-piles like some uncouth
red-bodied wading bird. It was now nearly half flood tide.
The highest shoals were long since covered, and the light-
house rose above the smooth sea as solitary as a slaver be-
calmed in the “middle passage.”
On the gallery outside the lantern were two men, the
entire staff of the building, of whom one sat huddled in
a chair with his left leg propped up with pillows on another,
while his companion rested a telescope on the rail and peered
at the faint grey line of the distant land and the two tiny
points that marked the twin spires of Reculver.
“I don’t see any signs of the boat, Harry,” said he.
The other man groaned. “I shall lose the tide,” he com-
plained, “and then there's another day gone.”
“They can pull you down to Birchington and put you in
the train,” said the first man.
“I don’t want no trains,” growled the invalid. “The
boat 'll be bad enough. I suppose there's nothing coming
our way, Tom?”
Tom turned his face eastward and shaded his eyes.
“There's a brig coming across the tide from the north,”
he said. “Looks like a collier.” He pointed his telescope
95


at the approaching vessel, and added: “She's got two new
cloths in her upper fore top-sail, one on each leech.”
The other man sat up eagerly. “What's her trysail like,
Tom?” he asked. -
“Can't see it,” replied Tom. “Yes, I can, now: it's tanned.
Why, that'll be the old Utopia, Harry; she's the only brig
I know that's got a tanned trysail.”
“Look here, Tom,” exclaimed the other, “If that's the
Utopia, she's going to my home and I’m going aboard of
her. Captain Mockett 'll give me a passage, I know.”
“You oughtn't to go until you’re relieved, you know,
Barnett,” said Tom doubtfully; “it’s against regulations to
leave your station.”
“Regulations be blowed!” exclaimed Barnett. “My leg's
more to me than the regulations. I don't want to be a
cripple all my life. Besides, I’m no good here, and this new
chap, Brown, will be coming out presently. You run up the
signal, Tom, like a good comrade, and hail the brig.”
“Well, it's your look-out,” said Tom, “and I don’t mind
saying that if I was in your place I should cut off home and
See a doctor, if I got the chance.” He sauntered off to the
flag-locker, and, selecting the two code-flags, deliberately
toggled them onto the halyards. Then, as the brig swept
up within range, he hoisted the little balls of bunting to the
flagstaff-head and jerked the halyards, when the two flags
blew out making the signal “Need assistance.”
Promptly a coal-soiled answering pennant soared to the
brig's main-truck; less promptly the collier went about, and,
turning her nose down stream, slowly drifted stern-forwards
towards the lighthouse. Then a boat slid out through her
gangway, and a couple of men plied the oars vigorously.
“Lighthouse ahoy!” roared one of them, as the boat came
within hail. “What’s amiss?”
“Harry Barnett has broke his leg,” shouted the light-
house keeper, “and he wants to know if Captain Mockett
will give him a passage to Whitstable.”
The boat turned back to the brig, and after a brief and
bellowed consultation, once more pulled towards the light-
house.
“Skipper says yus,” roared the sailor, when he was within
96


ear-shot, “and he says look alive, 'cause he don't want to
miss his tide.”
The injured man heaved a sigh of relief. “That's good
news,” said he, “though, how the blazes I’m going to get
down the ladder is more than I can tell. What do you say,
Jeffreys?”
“I say you'd better let me lower you with the tackle,”
replied Jeffreys. “You can sit in the bight of a rope and
I’ll give you a line to steady yourself with.”
“Ah, that'll do, Tom,” said Barnett; “but, for the Lord's
sake, pay out the fall-rope gently.”
The arrangements were made so quickly that by the time
the boat was fast alongside everything was in readiness, and
a minute later the injured man, dangling like a gigantic
spider from the end of the tackle, slowly descended, cursing
volubly to the accompaniment of the creaking of the blocks.
His chest and kit-bag followed, and, as soon as these were
unhooked from the tackle, the boat pulled off to the brig,
which was now slowly creeping stern-foremost past the
lighthouse. The sick man was hoisted up the side, his chest
handed up after him, and then the brig was put on her course
due South across the Kentish Flats.
Jeffreys stood on the gallery watching the receding vessel
and listening to the voices of her crew as they grew small
and weak in the increasing distance. Now that his gruff
companion was gone, a strange loneliness had fallen on the
lighthouse. The last of the homeward-bound ships had long
since passed up the Princes Channel and left the calm sea
desolate and blank. The distant buoys, showing as tiny
black dots on the glassy surface, and the spindly shapes of
the beacons which stood up from invisible shoals, but em-
phasized the solitude of the empty sea, and the tolling of the
bell buoy on the Shivering Sand, stealing faintly down the
wind, Sounded weird and mournful. The day's work was
already done. The lenses were polished, the lamps had
been trimmed, and the little motor that worked the fog-
horn had been cleaned and oiled. There were several odd
jobs, it is true, waiting to be done, as there always are in
a lighthouse; but, just now, Jeffreys was not in a working
humour. A new comrade was coming into his life to-day,
97


The breeze was dying away. As he watched the boat,
he saw the man lower the sail and take to his oars; and
something of hurry in the way the man pulled over the
gathering tide, caused Jeffreys to look round the horizon.
And then, for the first time, he noticed a bank of fog creep-
ing up from the east and already so near that the beacon
on the East Girdler had faded out of sight. He hastened
in to start the little motor that compressed the air for the
fog-horn and waited awhile to see that the mechanism was
running properly. Then, as the deck vibrated to the roar
of the horn, he went out once more into the gallery.
The fog was now all round the lighthouse and the boat
was hidden from view. He listened intently. The enclosing
wall of vapour seemed to have shut out sound as well as
vision. At intervals the horn bellowed its note of warning,
and then all was still save the murmur of the water among
the piles below, and, infinitely faint and far away, the
mournful tolling of the bell on the Shivering Sand.
At length there came to his ear the muffled sound of
oars working in the tholes; then, at the very edge of the
circle of grey water that was visible, the boat appeared
through the fog, pale and spectral, with a shadowy figure
pulling furiously. The horn emitted a hoarse growl; the
man looked round, perceived the lighthouse and altered his
course towards it.
Jeffreys descended the iron stairway, and, walking along
the lower gallery, stood at the head of the ladder earnestly
watching the approaching stranger. Already he was tired of
being alone. The yearning for human companionship had
been growing ever since Barnett left. But what sort of
comrade was this stranger who was coming into his life?
And coming to occupy so dominant a place in it. ,
The boat swept down swiftly athwart the hurrying tide.
Nearer it came and yet nearer: and still Jeffreys could
catch no glimpse of his new comrade's face. At length it
came fairly alongside and bumped against the fender-posts;
the stranger whisked in an oar and grabbed a rung of the
ladder, and Jeffreys dropped a coil of rope into the boat.
And still the man's face was hidden.
Jeffreys, leaned out over the ladder and watched him
100


“Sit down,” said Rorke, pointing to a shabby rep-covered
arm-chair; “sit down and tell me what you've done with all
that money. You've blued it all, I suppose, or you wouldn't
be here.”
“Robbed, Jeff,” answered Todd; “robbed of every penny.
Ah! that was an unfortunate affair, that job on board the
old Sea-flower. But it's over and done with and we'd best
forget it. They're all dead but us, Jeff, so we're safe enough
so long as we keep our mouths shut; all at the bottom of the
sea—and the best place for 'em too.”
“Yes,” Rorke replied fiercely, “that's the best place for
your shipmates when they know too much; at the bottom
of the sea or swinging at the end of a rope.” He paced up
and down the little room with rapid strides, and each time
that he approached Todd's chair the latter shrank back
with an expression of alarm. º
“Don’t sit there staring at me,” said Rorke. “Why don't
you smoke or do something?”
Todd hastily produced a pipe from his pocket, and
having filled it from a moleskin pouch, stuck it in his mouth
while he searched for a match. Apparently he carried his
matches loose in his pocket, for he presently brought one
forth—a red-headed match, which, when he struck it on
the wall, lighted with a pale-blue flame. He applied it to
his pipe, sucking in his cheeks while he kept his eyes fixed
on his companion. Rorke, meanwhile, halted in his walk
to cut some shavings from a cake of hard tobacco with a
large clasp-knife; and, as he stood, he gazed with frowning
abstraction at Todd.
“This pipe's stopped,” said the latter, sucking ineffectu-
ally at the mouthpiece. “Have you got such a thing as a
piece of wire, Jeff?”
“No, I haven't,” replied Rorke; “not up here. I’ll get
a bit from the store presently. Here, take this pipe till you
can clean your own: I’ve got another in the rack there.”
The sailor's natural hospitality overcoming for the mo-
ment his animosity, he thrust the pipe that he had just
filled towards Todd, who took it with a mumbled “Thank
you” and an anxious eye on the open knife. On the wall
beside the chair was a roughly-carved pipe-rack containing
102


several pipes, one of which Rorke lifted out; and, as he
leaned over the chair to reach it, Todd's face went several
shades paler.
“Well, Jeff,” he said, after a pause, while Rorke cut a
fresh “fill” of tobacco, “are we going to be pals same as
what we used to be?”
Rorke's animosity lighted up afresh. “Am I going to be
pals with the man that tried to swear away my life?” he
said sternly; and after a pause he added: “That wants
thinking about, that does; and meantime I must go and
look at the engine.”
When Rorke had gone the new hand sat, with the two
pipes in his hands, reflecting deeply. Abstractedly he stuck
the fresh pipe into his mouth, and, dropping the stopped
one into the rack, felt for a match. Still with an air of
abstraction he lit the pipe, and having smoked for a minute
or two, rose from the chair and began softly to creep across
the room, looking about him and listening intently. At
the door he paused to look out into the fog, and then,
having again listened attentively, he stepped on tip-toe out
onto the gallery and along towards the stairway. Of a
sudden the voice of Rorke brought him up with a start.
“Hallo, Todd! where are you off to?”
“I’m just going down to make the boat secure,” was the
reply.
“Never you mind about the boat,” said Rorke. “I’ll see
to her.”
“Right-o, Jeff,” said Todd, still edging towards the stair-
way. “But, I say, mate, where's the other man—the man
that I’m to relieve?” .
“There ain't any other man,” replied Rorke; “he went
off aboard a collier.”
Todd's face suddenly became grey and haggard. “Then
there's no one here but us two!” he gasped; and then, with
an effort to conceal his fear, he asked: “But who's going
to take the boat back?”
“We'll see about that presently,” replied Rorke; “you
get along in and unpack your chest.”
He came out on the gallery as he spoke, with a lowering
frown on his face. Todd cast a terrified glance at him, and
103


then turned and ran for his life towards the stairway.
“Come back!” roared Rorke, springing forward along
the gallery; but Todd's feet were already clattering down
the iron steps. By the time Rorke reached the head of the
stairs, the fugitive was near the bottom; but here, in his
haste, he stumbled, barely saving himself by the handrail,
and when he recovered his balance Rorke was upon him.
Todd darted to the head of the ladder, but, as he grasped the
stanchion, his pursuer seized him by the collar. In a mo-
ment he had turned with his hand under his coat. There
was a quick blow, a loud curse from Rorke, an answering
yell from Todd, and a knife fell spinning through the air
and dropped into the fore-peak of the boat below.
“You murderous little devil!” said Rorke in an omi-
nously quiet voice, with his bleeding hand gripping his
captive by the throat. “Handy with your knife as ever,
eh? So you were off to give information, were you?”
“No, I wasn't Jeff,” replied Todd in a choking voice;
“I wasn’t, s'elp me, God. Let go, Jeff. I didn't mean no
harm. I was only ” With a sudden wrench he freed
one hand and struck out frantically at his captor's face.
But Rorke warded off the blow, and, grasping the other
wrist, gave a violent push and let go. Todd staggered
backward a few paces along the staging, bringing up at
the extreme edge; and here, for a sensible time, he stood
with wide-open mouth and starting eye-balls, swaying and
clutching wildly at the air. Then, with a shrill scream, he
toppled backwards and fell, striking a pile in his descent
and rebounding into the water. * -
In spite of the audible thump of his head on the pile,
he was not stunned, for when he rose to the surface, he
struck out vigorously, uttering short, stifled cries for help.
Rorke watched him with set teeth and quickened breath,
but made no move. Smaller and still smaller grew the
head with its little circle of ripples, swept away on the swift
ebb-tide, and fainter the bubbling cries that came across the
Smooth water. At length as the small black spot began
to fade in the fog, the drowning man, with a final effort,
raised his head clear of the surface and sent a last, des-
pairing shriek towards the lighthouse. The fog-horn sent
104


back an answering bellow; the head sank below the sur-
face and was seen no more; and in the dreadful stillness
that settled down upon the sea there sounded faint and far
away the muffled tolling of a bell.
Rorke stood for some minutes immovable, wrapped in
thought. Presently the distant hoot of a steamer's whistle
aroused him. The ebb-tide shipping was beginning to come
down and the fog might lift at any moment; and there was
the boat still alongside. She must be disposed of at once.
No one had seen her arrive and no one must see her made
fast to the lighthouse. Once get rid of the boat and all
traces of Todd's visit would be destroyed. He ran down the
ladder and stepped into the boat. It was simple. She was
heavily ballasted, and would go down if she filled.
He shifted some of the bags of shingle, and, lifting the
bottom boards, pulled out the plug. Instantly a large jet
of water spouted up into the bottom. Rorke looked at it
critically, and, deciding that it would fill her in a few
minutes, replaced the bottom boards; and having secured
the mast and sail with a few turns of the sheet round a
thwart, to prevent them from floating away, he cast off
the mooring-rope and stepped on the ladder.
As the released boat began to move away on the tide,
he ran up and mounted to the upper gallery to watch her
disappearance. Suddenly he remembered Todd's chest.
It was still in the room below. With a hurried glance around
into the fog, he ran down to the room, and snatching up
the chest, carried it out on the lower gallery. After another
nervous glance around to assure himself that no craft was
in sight, he heaved the chest over the handrail, and, when
it fell with a loud splash into the sea, he waited to watch
it float away after its owner and the sunken boat. But it
never rose; and presently he returned to the upper gallery.
The fog was thinning perceptibly now, and the boat re-
mained plainly visible as she drifted away. But she sank
more slowly than he had expected, and presently as she
drifted farther away, he fetched the telescope and peered
at her with growing anxiety. It would be unfortunate if any
one saw her; if she should be picked up here, with her plug
out, it would be disastrous.
105


He was beginning to be really alarmed. Through the glass
he could see that the boat was now rolling in a sluggish,
water-logged fashion, but she still showed some inches of
free-board, and the fog was thinning every moment.
Presently the blast of a steamer's whistle sounded close
at hand. He looked round hurriedly and, seeing nothing,
again pointed the telescope eagerly at the dwindling boat.
Suddenly he gave a gasp of relief. The boat had rolled gun-
wale under; had staggered back for a moment and then
rolled again, slowly, finally, with the water pouring in over
the submerged gunwale.
In a few more seconds she had vanished. Rorke lowered
the telescope and took a deep breath. Now he was safe.
The boat had sunk unseen. But he was better than safe:
he was free. His evil spirit, the standing menace of his life,
was gone, and the wide world, the world of life, of action,
of pleasure, called to him.
In a few minutes the fog lifted. The sun shone brightly
on the red-funnelled cattle-boat whose whistle had startled
him just now, the summer blue came back to sky and sea,
and the land peeped once more over the edge of the horizon.
He went in, whistling cheerfully, and stopped the motor;
returned to coil away the rope that he had thrown to Todd;
and, when he had hoisted a signal for assistance, he went in
once more to eat his solitary meal in peace and gladness.
PART ||
"THE SING|NG BONE"
(Related by Christopher Jervis, M.D.)
T. every kind of scientific work a certain amount of manual
labour naturally appertains, labour that cannot be per-
formed by the scientist himself, since art is long but life is
short. A chemical analysis involves a laborious “clean up”
of apparatus and laboratory, for which the chemist has no
time; the preparation of a skeleton—the maceration, bleach-
ing, “assembling,” and riveting together of bones—must
be carried out by some one whose time is not too precious.
And so with other Scientific activities. Behind the man of
x
106


science with his outfit of knowledge is the indispensable
mechanic with his outfit of manual skill.
Thorndyke's laboratory assistant, Polton, was a fine ex-
ample of the latter type, deft, resourceful, ingenious and
untiring. He was somewhat of an inventive genius, too;
and it was one of his inventions that connected us with the
singular case that I am about to record.
Though by trade a watchmaker, Polton was, by choice,
an optician. Optical apparatus was the passion of his life;
and when, one day, he produced for our inspection an
improved prism for increasing the efficiency of gas-buoys,
Thorndyke at once brought the invention to the notice of a
friend at the Trinity House.
As a consequence, we three—Thorndyke, Polton and I
—found ourselves early on a fine July morning making
our way down Middle Temple Lane bound for the Temple
Pier. A small oil-launch lay alongside the pontoon, and,
as we made our appearance, a red-faced, white-whiskered
gentleman stood up in the cockpit.
“Here's a delightful morning, doctor,” he sang out in a
fine, brassy, resonant, sea-faring voice; “sort of day for a
trip to the lower river, hey? Hallo, Polton! Coming down
to take the bread out of our mouths, are you? Ha, ha!” The
cheery laugh rang out over the river and mingled with the
throb of the engine as the launch moved off from the pier.
Captain Grumpass was one of the Elder Brethren of
the Trinity House. Formerly a client of Thorndyke's he
had subsided, as Thorndyke's clients were apt to do, into
the position of a personal friend, and his hearty regard in-
cluded our invaluable assistant.
“Nice state of things,” continued the captain, with a
chuckle, “when a body of nautical experts have got to be
taught their business by a parcel of lawyers or doctors,
what? I suppose trade's slack and “Satan findeth mischief
still,’ hey, Polton?” -
“There isn't much doing on the civil side, sir,” replied
Polton, with a quaint, crinkly smile, “but the criminals are
still going strong.”
“Ha! mystery department still flourishing, what? And,
by Jovel talking of mysteries, doctor, our people have got
- 107


a queer problem to work out; something quite in your line
—quite. Yes, and, by the Lord Moses, since I’ve got you
here, why shouldn't I suck your brains?”
“Exactly,” said Thorndyke. “Why shouldn't you?”
“Well, then, I will,” said the captain, “so here goes.
All hands to the pump!” He lit a cigar, and, after a few
preliminary puffs, began: “The mystery, shortly stated,
is this: one of our lighthousemen has disappeared—vanished
off the face of the earth and left no trace. He may have
bolted, he may have been drowned accidentally or he may
have been murdered. But I'd rather give you the particulars
in order. At the end of last week a barge brought into
Ramsgate a letter from the screw-pile lighthouse on the
Girdler. There are only two men there, and it seems that
one of them, a man named Barnett, had broken his leg, and
he asked that the tender should be sent to bring him ashore.
Well, it happened that the local tender, the Warden, was up
on the slip in Ramsgate Harbour, having a scrape down,
and wouldn't be available for a day or two, so, as the case
was urgent, the officer at Ramsgate sent a letter to the
lighthouse by one of the pleasure steamers saying that the
man should be relieved by boat on the following morning,
which was Saturday. He also wrote to a new hand who
had just been taken on, a man named James Brown, who
was lodging near Reculver, waiting his turn, telling him
to go out on Saturday morning in the coast-guard's boat;
and he sent a third letter to the coast-guard at Reculver
asking him to take Brown out to the lighthouse and bring
Barnett ashore. Well, between them, they made a fine
muddle of it. The coast-guard couldn't spare either a boat
or a man, so they borrowed a fisherman's boat, and in this
the man Brown started off alone, like an idiot, on the chance
that Barnett would be able to sail the boat back in spite
of his broken leg.
“Meanwhile Barnett, who is a Whitstable man, had
signalled a collier bound for his native town, and got taken
off; so that the other keeper, Thomas Jeffreys, was left
alone until Brown should turn up.
“But Brown never did turn up. The coast-guard helped
him to put off and saw him well out to sea, and the keeper,
108


Jeffreys, saw a sailing-boat with one man in her making
for the lighthouse. Then a bank of fog came up and hit
the boat, and when the fog cleared she was nowhere to be
seen. Man and boat had vanished and left no sign.”
“He may have been run down,” Thorndyke suggested.
“He may,” agreed the captain, “but no accident has been
reported. The coast-guards think he may have capsized in
a squall—they saw him make the sheet fast. But there
weren't any squalls; the weather was quite calm.”
“Was he all right and well when he put off?” inquired
Thorndyke.
“Yes,” replied the captain, “the coast-guards' report is
highly circumstantial; in fact, it's full of silly details that
have no bearing on anything. This is what they say.” He
pulled out an official letter and read: “‘When last seen, the
missing man was seated in the boat's stern to windward of
the helm. He had belayed the sheet. He was holding a pipe
and tobacco-pouch in his hands and steering with his
elbow. He was filling the pipe from the tobacco-pouch.”
There! “He was holding the pipe in his hand,” mark you!
not with his toes; and he was filling it from a tobacco-pouch,
whereas you'd have expected him to fill it from a coal-
scuttle or a feeding-bottle. Bah!” The captain rammed
the letter back in his pocket and puffed scornfully at his
Cigar.
“You are hardly fair to the coast-guard,” said Thorndyke,
laughing at the captain's vehemence. “The duty of a witness
is to give all the facts, not a judicious selection.”
“But, my dear sir,” said Captain Grumpass, “what the
deuce can it matter what the poor devil filled his pipe from?”
“Who can say?” answered Thorndyke. “It may turn
out to be a highly material fact. One never knows before-
hand. The value of a particular fact depends on its relation
to the rest of the evidence.”
“I suppose it does,” grunted the captain; and he con-
tinued to smoke in reflective silence until we opened Black-
wall Point, when he suddenly stood up.
“There's a steam trawler alongside our wharf,” he an-
nounced. “Now what the deuce can she be doing there?”
He scanned the little steamer attentively, and continued:
109


was led away, carrying the black bag that contained his
precious model, we entered the shed and commenced our
investigation.
The deceased was a small, elderly man, decently dressed
in a somewhat nautical fashion. He appeared to have been
dead only two or three days, and the body, unlike the ma-
jority of sea-borne corpses, was uninjured by fish or crabs.
There were no fractured bones or other gross injuries, and
no wounds, excepting a rugged tear in the scalp at the back
of the head.
“The general appearance of the body,” said Thorndyke,
when he had noted these particulars, “suggests death by
drowning, though, of course, we can’t give a definite opinion
until a post mortem has been made.”
“You don't attach any significance to that scalp-wound,
then?” I asked. -
“As a cause of death? No. It was obviously inflicted
during life, but it seems to have been an oblique blow that
spent its force on the scalp, leaving the skull uninjured. But
it is very significant in another way.”
“In what way?” I asked.
Thorndyke took out his pocket-case and extracted a pair
of forceps. “Consider the circumstances,” said he. “This
man put off from the shore to go to the lighthouse, but never
arrived there. The question is, where did he arrive?” As
he spoke he stooped over the corpse and turned back the
hair round the wound with the beak of the forceps. “Look
at those white objects among the hair, Jervis, and inside the
wound. They tell us something, I think.”
I examined, through my lens, the chalky fragments to
which he pointed. “These seem to be bits of shells and the
tubes of some marine worm,” I said.
“Yes,” he answered; “the broken shells are evidently those
of the acorn barnacle, and the other fragments are mostly
pieces of the tubes of the common serpula. The inference
that these objects suggest is an important one. It is that this
wound was produced by some body encrusted by acorn barn-
acles and Serpulate; that is to say, by a body that is peri-
odically submerged. Now, what can that body be, and how
can the deceased have knocked his head against it?”
- 111


“It might be the stem of a ship that ran him down,” I
suggested. -
“I don’t think you would find many serpulat on the stem
of a ship,” said Thorndyke. “The combination rather sug-
gests some stationary object between tidemarks, such as a
beacon. But one doesn't see how a man could knock his
head against a beacon, while, on the other hand, there are
no other stationary objects out in the estuary to knock
against except buoys, and a buoy presents a flat surface that
could hardly have produced this wound. By the way, we
may as well see what there is in his pockets, though it is not
likely that robbery had anything to do with his death.”
“No,” I agreed, “and I see his watch is in his pocket;
quite a good silver one,” I added, taking it out. “It has
stopped at 12.13.”
“That may be important,” said Thorndyke, making a note
of the fact; “but we had better examine the pockets one at
a time, and put the things back when we have looked at
them.”
The first pocket that we turned out was the left hip-pocket
of the monkey jacket. This was apparently the one that the
skipper had rifled, for we found in it two letters, both bearing
the crest of the Trinity House. These, of course, we returned
without reading, and then passed on to the right pocket. The
contents of this were common-place enough, consisting of a
briar pipe, a moleskin pouch and a number of loose matches.
“Rather a casual proceeding, this,” I remarked, “to carry
matches loose in the pocket, and a pipe with them, too.”
“Yes,” agreed Thorndyke; “especially with these very in-
flammable matches. You notice that the sticks had been
coated at the upper end with sulphur before the red phos-
phorous heads were put on. They would light with a touch,
and would be very difficult to extinguish; which, no doubt,
is the reason that this type of match is so popular among
seamen, who have to light their pipes in all sorts of weather.”
As he spoke he picked up the pipe and looked at it reflec-
tively, turning it over in his hand and peering into the bowl.
Suddenly he glanced from the pipe to the dead man's face
and then, with the forceps, turned back the lips to look into
the mouth.
112


“Let us see what tobacco he smokes,” said he.
I opened the sodden pouch and displayed a mass of dark,
fine-cut tobacco. “It looks like shag,” I said.
“Yes, it is shag,” he replied; “and now we will see what
is in the pipe. It has been only half-smoked out.” He dug
out the “dottle” with his pocket-knife onto a sheet of paper,
and we both inspected it. Clearly it was not shag, for it
consisted of coarsely-cut shreds and was nearly black.
“Shavings from a cake of ‘hard,’” was my verdict, and
Thorndyke agreed as he shot the fragments back into the
pipe.
The other pockets yielded nothing of interest, except a
pocket-knife, which Thorndyke opened and examined
closely. There was not much money, though as much as one
would expect, and enough to exclude the idea of robbery.
“Is there a sheath-knife on that strap?” Thorndyke asked,
pointing to a narrow leather belt. I turned back the jacket
and looked.
“There is a sheath,” I said, “but no knife. It must have
dropped out.”
“That is rather odd,” said Thorndyke. “A sailor's sheath-
knife takes a deal of shaking out as a rule. It is intended to
be used in working on the rigging when the man is aloft, so
that he can get it out with one hand while he is holding on
with the other. It has to be and usually is very secure, for
the sheath holds half the handle as well as the blade. What
makes one notice the matter in this case is that the man, as
you See, carried a pocket-knife; and, as this would serve all
the ordinary purposes of a knife, it seems to suggest that the
sheath-knife was carried for defensive purposes: as a weapon,
in fact. However, we can’t get much further in the case with-
out a post mortem, and here comes the captain.”
Captain Grumpass entered the shed and looked down
commiseratingly at the dead seaman. -
“Is there anything, doctor, that throws any light on the
man's disappearance?” he asked.
“There are one or two curious features in the case,”
Thorndyke replied; “but, oddly enough, the only really im-
portant point arises out of that statement of the coastguard's,
concerning which you were so scornful.”
113


“You don't say so!” exclaimed the captain.
“Yes,” said Thorndyke; “the coast-guard states that when
last seen deceased was filling his pipe from his tobacco-
pouch. Now his pouch contains shag; but the pipe in his
pocket contains hard cut.”
“Is there no cake tobacco in any of the pockets?”
“Not a fragment. Of course, it is possible that he might
have had a piece and used it up to fill the pipe; but there is
no trace of any on the blade of his pocket-knife, and you
know how this juicy black cake stains a knife-blade. His
sheath-knife is missing, but he would hardly have used that
to shred tobacco when he had a pocket-knife.”
“No,” assented the captain; “but are you sure he hadn't
a second pipe?”
“There was only one pipe,” replied Thorndyke, “and that
was not his own.”
“Not his own!” exclaimed the captain, halting by a huge,
chequered buoy to stare at my colleague. “How do you know
it was not his own?”
“By the appearance of the vulcanite mouthpiece,” said
Thorndyke. “It showed deep tooth-marks; in fact, it was
nearly bitten through. Now a man who bites through his
pipe usually presents certain definite physical peculiarities,
among which is, necessarily, a fairly good set of teeth. But
the dead man had not a tooth in his head.”
The captain cogitated a while, and then remarked: “I
don’t quite see the bearing of this.”
“Don’t you?” said Thorndyke. “It seems to me highly
Suggestive. Here is a man who, when last seen, was filling
his pipe with a particular kind of tobacco. He is picked up
dead, and his pipe contains a totally different kind of to-
bacco. Where did that tobacco come from? The obvious
Suggestion is that he had met some one.”
“Yes, it does look like it,” agreed the captain.
“Then,” continued Thorndyke, “there is the fact that his
sheath-knife is missing. That may mean hothing, but we
have to bear it in mind. And there is another curious cir-
cumstance: there is a wound on the back of the head caused
by a heavy bump against some body that was covered with
acorn barnacles and marine worms. Now there are no piers
114


or stages out in the open estuary. The question is, what
could he have struck?”
“Oh, there is nothing in that,” said the captain. “When
a body has been washing about in a tide-way for close on
three days—”
“But this is not a question of a body,” Thorndyke inter-
rupted. “The wound was made during life.”
“The deuce it was!” exclaimed the captain. “Well, all I
can suggest is that he must have fouled one of the beacons
in the fog, stove in his boat and bumped his head, though,
I must admit, that's rather a lame explanation.” He stood
for a minute gazing at his toes with a cogitative frown and
then looked up at Thorndyke.
“I have an idea,” he said. “From what you say, this mat-
ter wants looking into pretty carefully. Now, I am going
down on the tender to-day to make inquiries on the spot.
What do you say to coming with me as adviser—as a matter
of business, of course—you and Dr. Jervis? I shall start
about eleven; we shall be at the lighthouse by three o'clock,
and you can get back to town to-night, if you want to. What
do you say?”
“There's nothing to hinder us,” I put in eagerly, for even
at Bugsby's Hole the river looked very alluring on this sum-
mer morning.
“Very well,” said Thorndyke, “we will come. Jervis is
evidently hankering for a sea-trip, and so am I, for that
matter.”
“It’s a business engagement, you know,” the captain
stipulated.
“Nothing of the kind,” said Thorndyke; “it’s unmitigated
pleasure; the pleasure of the voyage and your high well-born
society.”
“I didn’t mean that,” grumbled the captain, “but, if you
are coming as guests, send your man for your nightgear and
let us bring you back to-morrow evening.”
“We won't disturb Polton,” said my colleague; “we can
take the train from Blackwall and fetch our things ourselves.
Eleven o'clock, you said?”
“Thereabouts,” said Captain Grumpass; “but don't put
yourselves out.”
115


The means of communication in London have reached an
almost undesirable state of perfection. With the aid of the
snorting train and the tinkling, two-wheeled “gondola,” we
crossed and re-crossed the town with such celerity that it was
barely eleven when we re-appeared on Trinity Wharf with
a joint Gladstone and Thorndyke's little green case.
The tender had hauled out of Bow Creek, and now lay
alongside the wharf with a great striped can buoy dangling
from her derrick, and Captain Grumpass stood at the gang-
way, his jolly, red face beaming with pleasure. The buoy
was safely stowed forward, the derrick hauled up to the mast,
the loose shrouds rehooked to the screw-lanyards, and the
steamer, with four jubilant hoots, swung round and shoved
her sharp nose against the incoming tide.
For near upon four hours the ever-widening stream of the
“London River” unfolded its moving panorama. The smoke
and smell of Woolwich Reach gave place to lucid air made
soft by the summer haze; the grey huddle of factories fell
away and green levels of cattle-spotted marsh stretched away
to the high land bordering the river valley. Venerable train-
ing ships displayed their chequered hulls by the wooded
shore, and whispered of the days of oak and hemp, when the
tall three-decker, comely and majestic, with her soaring
heights of canvas, like towers of ivory, had not yet given
place to the mud-coloured saucepans that fly the white en-
sign now-a-days and devour the substance of the British
taxpayer: when a sailor was a sailor and not a mere seafaring
mechanic. Sturdily breasting the flood tide, the tender
threaded her way through the endless procession of shipping;
barges, billy-boys, schooners, brigs; lumpish Black-seamen,
blue-funnelled China tramps, rickety Baltic barques with
twirling windmills, gigantic liners, staggering under a moun-
tain of top-hamper. Erith, Purfleet, Greenhithe, Grays
greeted us and passed astern. The chimneys of Northfleet,
the clustering roofs of Gravesend, the populous anchorage
and the lurking batteries, were left behind, and, as we swung
out of the Lower Hope, the wide expanse of sea reach spread
out before us like a great sheet of blue-shot satin.
About half-past twelve the ebb overtook us and helped us
on our way, as we could see by the speed with which the dis-
116


!"
º
tant land slid past, and the freshening of the air as we passed
through it.
But sky and sea were hushed in a summer calm. Balls of
fleecy cloud hung aloft, motionless in the soft blue; the
barges drifted on the tide with drooping sails, and a big,
striped bell buoy—surmounted by a staff and cage and
labelled “Shivering Sand”—sat dreaming in the sun above
its motionless reflection, to rouse for a moment as it met our
wash, nod its cage drowsily, utter a Solemn ding-dong, and
fall asleep again.
It was shortly after passing the buoy that the gaunt shape
of a screw-pile lighthouse began to loom up ahead, its dull-
red paint turned to vermilion by the early afternoon sun. As
we drew nearer, the name Girdler, painted in huge, white let-
ters, became visible, and two men could be seen in the gallery
around the lantern, inspecting us through a telescope.
“Shall you be long at the lighthouse, sir?” the master of
the tender inquired of Captain Grumpass; “because we're
going down to the North-East Pan Sand to fix this new buoy
and take up the old one.”
“Then you'd better put us off at the lighthouse and come
back for us when you've finished the job,” was the reply.
“I don't know how long we shall be.” -
The tender was brought to, a boat lowered, and a couple
of hands pulled us across the intervening space of water.
“It will be a dirty climb for you in your shore-going
clothes,” the captain remarked—he was as spruce as a new
pin himself, “but the stuff will all wipe off.” We looked up
at the skeleton shape. The falling tide had exposed some
fifteen feet of the piles, and piles and ladder alike were
swathed in sea-grass and encrusted with barnacles and worm-
tubes. But we were not such town-sparrows as the captain
seemed to think, for we both followed his lead without diffi-
culty up the slippery ladder, Thorndyke clinging tenaciously
to his little green case, from which he refused to be separated
even for an instant.
“These gentlemen and I,” said the captain, as we stepped
on the stage at the head of the ladder, “have come to make
inquiries about the missing man, James Brown. Which of
you is Jeffreys?”
117


“I am, sir,” replied a tall, powerful, square-jawed, beetle-
browed man, whose left hand was tied up in a rough
bandage.
“What have you been doing to your hand?” asked the
captain.
“I cut it while I was peeling some potatoes,” was the
reply. “It isn't much of a cut, sir.”
“Well, Jeffreys,” said the captain, “Brown's body has been
picked up and I want particulars for the inquest. You'll be
summoned as a witness, I suppose, so come in and tell us all
you know.”
We entered the living-room and seated ourselves at the
table. The captain opened a massive pocket-book, while
Thorndyke, in his attentive, inquisitive fashion, looked about
the odd, cabin-like room as if making a mental inventory of
its contents.
Jeffreys' statement added nothing to what we already
knew. He had seen a boat with one man in it making for the
lighthouse. Then the fog had drifted up and he had lost
sight of the boat. He started the fog-horn and kept a bright
look-out, but the boat never arrived. And that was all he
knew. He supposed that the man must have missed the
lighthouse and been carried away on the ebb-tide, which was
running strongly at the time.
“What time was it when you last saw the boat?” Thorn-
dyke asked.
“About half-past eleven,” replied Jeffreys.
“What was the man like?” asked the captain.
“I don't know, sir; he was rowing, and his back was
towards me.”
“Had he any kit-bag or chest with him?” asked Thorn-
dyke.
“He’d got his chest with him,” said Jeffreys. ,
“What sort of chest was it?” inquired Thorndyke.
“A small chest, painted green, with rope beckets.”
“Was it corded?”
“It had a single cord round, to hold the lid down.”
“Where was it stowed?”
“In the stern-sheets, sir.”
“How far off was the boat when you last saw it?”
118


“About half-a-mile.”
“Half-a-mile!” exclaimed the captain. “Why, how the
deuce could you see that chest half-a-mile away?”
The man reddened and cast a look of angry suspicion at
Thorndyke. “I was watching the boat through the glass, sir,”
he replied sulkily.
“I see,” said Captain Grumpass. “Well, that will do, Jef-
freys. We shall have to arrange for you to attend the inquest.
Tell Smith I want to see him.”
The examination concluded, Thorndyke and I moved our
chairs to the window, which looked out over the sea to the
east. But it was not the sea or the passing ships that engaged
my colleague's attention. On the wall, beside the window,
hung a rudely-carved pipe-rack containing five pipes. Thorn-
dyke had noted it when we entered the room, and now, as we
talked, I observed him regarding it from time to time with
speculative interest.
“You men seem to be inveterate smokers,” he remarked
to the keeper, Smith, when the captain had concluded the
arrangements for the “shift.”
“Well, we do like our bit of 'baccy, sir, and that’s a fact,”
answered Smith. “You see, sir,” he continued, “it’s a lonely
life, and tobacco's cheap out here.”
“How is that?” asked Thorndyke.
“Why, we get it given to us. The small craft from foreign,
especially the Dutchmen, generally heave us a cake or two
when they pass close. We're not ashore, you see, so there's
no duty to pay.”
“So you don’t trouble the tobacconists much? Don't go
in for cut tobaccop.”
“No, sir; we'd have to buy it, and then the cut stuff
wouldn't keep. No, it's hard-tack to eat out here and hard
tobacco to smoke.”
“I see you’ve got a pipe-rack, too, quite a stylish affair.”
“Yes,” said Smith, “I made it in my off-time. Keeps the
place tidy and looks more ship-shape than letting the pipes
lay about anywhere.”
“Some one seems to have neglected his pipe,” said Thorn-
dyke, pointing to one at the end of the rack which was coated
with green mildew.
119


“Yes; that's Parsons, my mate. He must have left it when
he went off near a month ago. Pipes do go mouldy in the
damp air out here.” -
“How soon does a pipe go mouldy if it is left untouched?”
Thorndyke asked.
“It’s according to the weather,” said Smith. “When it's
warm and damp they’ll begin to go in about a week. Now
here's Barnett's pipe that he's left behind—the man that
broke his leg, you know, sir—it's just beginning to spot a
little. He couldn't have used it for a day or two before he
went.” -
“And are all these other pipes yours?”
“No, sir. This here one is mine. The end one is Jeffreys',
and I suppose the middle one is his too, but I don’t know it.”
“You’re a demon for pipes, doctor,” said the captain,
strolling up at this moment; “you seem to make a special
study of them.”
“‘The proper study of mankind is man,’” replied Thorn-
dyke, as the keeper retired, “and “man’ includes those objects
on which his personality is impressed. Now a pipe is a very
personal thing. Look at that row in the rack. Each has its
own physiognomy which, in a measure, reflects the peculiari-
ties of the owner. There is Jeffreys’ pipe at the end, for in-
stance. The mouth-piece is nearly bitten through, the bowl
scraped to a shell and scored inside and the brim battered
and chipped. The whole thing speaks of rude strength and
rough handling. He chews the stem as he smokes, he scrapes
the bowl violently, and he bangs the ashes out with unneces-
sary force. And the man fits the pipe exactly: powerful,
square-jawed and, I should say, violent on occasion.”
“Yes, he looks a tough customer, does Jeffreys,” agreed the
captain.
“Then,” continued Thorndyke, “there is Smith's pipe, next
to it; ‘coked' up until the cavity is nearly filled and burnt all
round the edge; a talker's pipe, constantly going out and
being relit. But the one that interests me most is the middle
one.” -
“Didn't Smith say that was Jeffreys’ too?” I said.
“Yes,” replied Thorndyke, “but he must be mistaken. It
is the very opposite of Jeffreys’ pipe in every respect. To
120


begin with, although it is an old pipe, there is not a sign of
any tooth-mark on the mouth-piece. It is the only one in the
rack that is quite unmarked. Then the brim is quite un-
injured: it has been handled gently, and the silver band is
jet-black, whereas the band on Jeffreys’ pipe is quite bright.”
“I hadn't noticed that it had a band,” said the captain.
“What has made it so black?”
Thorndyke lifted the pipe out of the rack and looked at it
closely. “Silver sulphide,” said he, “the sulphur no doubt
derived from something carried in the pocket.”
“I see,” said Captain Grumpass, smothering a yawn and
gazing out of the window at the distant tender. “Incidentally
it’s full of tobacco. What moral do you draw from that?”
Thorndyke turned the pipe over and looked closely at the
mouth-piece. “The moral is,” he replied, “that you should
see that your pipe is clear before you fill it.” He pointed to
the mouth-piece, the bore of which was completely stopped
up with fine fluff.
“An excellent moral too,” said the captain, rising with an-
other yawn. “If you’ll excuse me a minute I'll just go and
see what the tender is up to. She seems to be crossing to the
East Girdler.” He reached the telescope down from its
brackets and went out onto the gallery.
As the captain retreated, Thorndyke opened his pocket-
knife, and, sticking the blade into the bowl of the pipe, turned
the tobacco out into his hand.
“Shag, by Jove!” I exclaimed.
“Yes,” he answered, poking it back into the bowl. “Didn't
you expect it to be shag?”
“I don't know that I expected anything,” I admitted. “The
silver band was occupying my attention.”
“Yes, that is an interesting point,” said Thorndyke, “but
let us see what the obstruction consists of.” He opened the
green case, and, taking out a dissecting needle, neatly ex-
tracted a little ball of fluff from the bore of the pipe. Laying
this on a glass slide, he teased it out in a drop of glycerine
and put on a cover-glass while I set up the microscope.
“Better put the pipe back in the rack,” he said, as he laid
the slide on the stage of the instrument. I did so and then
turned, with no little excitement, to watch him as he ex-
121


“What items are they?” I asked.
“First there is the fact that the dead man had knocked his
head heavily against some periodically submerged body cov-
ered with acorn barnacles and serpulaº. Now the piles of this
lighthouse answer to the description exactly, and there are
no other bodies in the neighbourhood that do: for even the
beacons are too large to have produced that kind of wound.
Then the dead man's sheath-knife is missing, and Jeffreys
has a knife-wound on his hand. You must admit that the
circumstantial evidence is overwhelming.”
At this moment the captain bustled into the room with
the telescope in his hand. “The tender is coming up towing
a strange boat,” he said. “I expect it's the missing one, and,
if it is, we may learn something. You'd better pack up your
traps and get ready to go on board.” º
We packed the green case and went out into the gallery,
where the two keepers were watching the approaching ten-
der; Smith frankly curious and interested, Jeffreys restless,
fidgety and noticeably pale. As the steamer came opposite
the lighthouse, three men dropped into the boat and pulled
across, and one of them—the mate of the tender—came
climbing up the ladder.
“Is that the missing boat?” the captain sang out.
“Yes, sir,” answered the officer, stepping onto the staging
and wiping his hands on the reverse aspect of his trousers,
“we saw her lying on the dry patch of the East Girdler.
There's been some hanky-panky in this job, sir.”
“Foul play, you think, hey?”
“Not a doubt of it, sir. The plug was out and lying loose
in the bottom, and we found a sheath-knife sticking into the
kelson forward among the coils of the painter. It was stuck
in hard as if it had dropped from a height.”
“That's odd,” said the captain. “As to the plug, it might
have got out by accident.”
“But it hadn't sir,” said the mate. “The ballast-bags had
been shifted along to get the bottom boards up. Besides, sir,
a seaman wouldn’t let the boat fill; he'd have put the plug
back and baled out.” -
“That's true,” replied Captain Grumpass; “and certainly
the presence of the knife looks fishy. But where the deuce
- 123


for an empty house to look at it, would you?”
“I have hardly seen it,” said Bailey; “only just come, you
know.”
“We'll have a look round, if you like,” said the genial
stranger, “when we've finished our smoke, that is. Have a
drink too; may cool us a bit. Know many people here?”
“Not a soul,” replied Bailey. “My hostess doesn’t seem
to have turned up.”
“Well, that’s easily remedied,” said the stranger. “My
daughter's one of the spinsters—Granby, my name; when
we've had a drink, I'll make her find you a partner—that is,
if you care for the light fantastic.”
“I should like a dance or two,” said Bailey, “though I’m
getting a bit past it now, I suppose. Still, it doesn’t do to
chuck up the sponge prematurely.”
“Certainly not,” Granby agreed jovially; “a man's as
young as he feels. Well, come and have a drink and then
we'll hunt up my little girl.” The two men flung away the
stumps of their cigarettes and headed for the refreshments.
The spinsters' champagne was light, but it was well enough
if taken in sufficient quantity; a point to which Augustus—
and Granby too—paid judicious attention; and when he had
supplemented the wine with a few sandwiches, Mr. Bailey
felt in notably better spirits. For, to tell the truth, his diet,
of late, had been somewhat meagre. Miss Granby, when
found, proved to be a blonde and guileless “flapper” of some
Seventeen summers, childishly eager to play her part of
hostess with due dignity; and presently Bailey found himself
gyrating through the eddying crowd in company with a
comely matron of thirty or thereabouts.
The sensations that this novel experience aroused rather
took him by surprise. For years past he had been living a
precarious life of mean and sordid shifts that oscillated be-
tween mere shabby trickery and downright crime; now con-
ducting a paltry swindle just inside the pale of the law, and
now, when hard pressed, descending to actual theft; consort-
ing with shady characters, swindlers and knaves and scurvy
rogues like himself; gambling, borrowing, cadging and, if
need be, stealing, and always slinking abroad with an appre-
hensive eye upon “the man in blue.”
130


And now, amidst the half-forgotten surroundings, once so
familiar; the gaily-decorated rooms, the rhythmic music, the
twinkle of jewels, the murmur of gliding feet and the rustle
of costly gowns, the moving vision of honest gentlemen and
fair ladies; the shameful years seemed to drop away and
leave him to take up the thread of his life where it had
snapped so disastrously. After all, these were his own people.
The seedy knaves in whose steps he had walked of late were
but aliens met by the way.
He surrendered his partner, in due course, with regret—
which was mutual—to an inarticulate subaltern, and was
meditating another pilgrimage to the refreshment-room, when
he felt a light touch upon his arm. He turned swiftly. A
touch on the arm meant more to him than to some men. But
it was no wooden-faced plain-clothes man that he con-
fronted; it was only a lady. In short, it was Mrs. Chater,
smiling nervously and a little abashed by her own boldness.
“I expect you’ve forgotten me,” she began apologetically,
but Augustus interrupted her with an eager disclaimer.
“Of course I haven’t,” he said; “though I have forgotten
your name, but I remember that Portsmouth dance as well
as if it were yesterday; at least one incident in it—the only
one that was worth remembering. I’ve often hoped that I
might meet you again, and now, at last, it has happened.”
“It’s nice of you to remember,” she rejoined. “I’ve often
and often thought of that evening and all the wonderful
things that we talked about. You were a nice boy then; I
wonder what you are like now. What a long time ago it is!”
“Yes,” Augustus agreed gravely, “it is a long time. I know
it myself; but when I look at you, it seems as if it could
only have been last season.”
“Oh, fiel” she exclaimed. “You are not simple as you used
to be. You didn't flatter then; but perhaps there wasn’t the
need.” She spoke with gentle reproach, but her pretty face
flushed with pleasure nevertheless, and there was a certain
wistfulness in the tone of her concluding sentence.
“I wasn't flattering,” Augustus replied, quite sincerely; “I
knew you directly you entered the room and marvelled that
Time had been so gentle with you. He hasn't been as kind
to me.”
131


“No. You have gotten a few grey hairs, I see, but after all,
what are grey hairs to a man? Just the badges of rank, like
the crown on your collar or the lace on your cuffs, to mark
the steps of your promotion—for I guess you'll be a colonel
by now.”
“No,” Augustus answered quickly, with a faint flush, “I
left the army some years ago.”
“My! what a pity!” exclaimed Mrs. Chater. “You must
tell me all about it—but not now. My partner will be looking
for me. We will sit out a dance and have a real gossip. But
I've forgotten your name—never could recall it, in fact,
though that didn't prevent me from remembering you; but,
as our dear W. S. remarks, ‘What’s in a name?’”
“Ah, indeed,” said Mr. Harrington-Baillie; and apropos of
that sentiment, he added: “Mine is Rowland—Captain Row-
land. You may remember it now.”
Mrs. Chater did not, however, and said so. “Will number
six do?” she asked, opening her programme; and, when
Augustus had assented, she entered his provisional name, re-
marking complacently: “We’ll sit out and have a right-down
good talk, and you shall tell me all about yourself and if you.
still think the same about free-will and personal responsi-
bility. You had very lofty ideals, I remember, in those days,
and I hope you have still. But one's ideals get rubbed down
rather faint in the friction of life. Don't you think so?”
“Yes, I am afraid you're right,” Augustus assented gloom-
ily. “The wear and tear of life soon fetches the gilt off the
gingerbread. Middle age is apt to find us a bit patchy, not
to say naked.”
“Oh, don’t be pessimistic,” said Mrs. Chater; “that is the
attitude of the disappointed idealist, and I am sure you have
no reason, really, to be disappointed in yourself. But I must
run away now. Think over all the things you have to tell me,
and don’t forget that it is number six.” With a bright smile
and a friendly nod she sailed away, a vision of glittering
splendour, compared with which Solomon in all his glory was
a mere matter of commonplace bullion.
The interview, evidently friendly and familiar, between the
unknown guest and the famous American widow had by no
means passed unnoticed; and in other circumstances, Bailey
132


might have endeavoured to profit by the reflected glory that
enveloped him. But he was not in search of notoriety; and
the same evasive instinct that had led him to sink Mr. Har-
rington-Baillie in Captain Rowland, now advised him to
withdraw his dual personality from the vulgar gaze. He had
come here on very definite business. For the hundredth time
he was “stony-broke,” and it was the hope of picking up
some “unconsidered trifles” that had brought him. But,
somehow, the atmosphere of the place had proved unfavour-
able. Either opportunities were lacking or he failed to seize
them. In any case, the game pocket that formed an uncon-
ventional feature of his dress-coat was still empty, and it
looked as if a pleasant evening and a good supper were all
that he was likely to get. Nevertheless, be his conduct never
so blameless, the fact remained that he was an uninvited
guest, liable at any moment to be ejected as an impostor,
and his recognition by the widow had not rendered this pos-
sibility any the more remote.
He strayed out onto the lawn, whence the grounds fell
away on all sides. But there were other guests there, cooling
themselves after the last dance, and the light from the rooms
streamed through the windows, illuminating their figures, and
among them, that of the too-companionable Granby. Augus-
tus quickly drew away from the lighted area, and, chancing
upon a narrow path, strolled away along it in the direction
of a copse or shrubbery that he saw ahead. Presently he
came to an ivy-covered arch, lighted by one or two fairy
lamps, and, passing through this, he entered a winding path,
bordered by trees and shrubs and but faintly lighted by ap
occasional coloured lamp suspended from a branch.
Already he was quite clear of the crowd; indeed, the de-
serted condition of the pleasant retreat rather surprised him,
until he reflected that to couples desiring seclusion there were
whole ranges of untenanted rooms and galleries available in
the empty house.
The path sloped gently downwards for some distance; then
came a long flight of rustic steps and, at the bottom, a seat
between two trees. In front of the seat the path extended in
a straight line, forming a narrow terrace; on the right the
ground sloped up steeply towards the lawn; on the left it
133


fell away still more steeply towards the encompassing wall of
the grounds; and on both sides it was covered with trees
and shrubs.
Bailey sat down on the seat to think over the account of
himself that he should present to Mrs. Chater. It was a com-
fortable seat, built into the trunk of an elm, which formed
one end and part of the back. He leaned against the tree,
and, taking out his silver case, selected a cigarette. But it
remained unlighted between his fingers as he sat and medi-
tated upon his unsatisfactory past and the melancholy tale
of what might have been. Fresh from the atmosphere of re-
fined opulence that pervaded the dancing-rooms, the throng
of well-groomed men and dainty women, his mind travelled
back to his sordid little flat in Bermondsey, encompassed by
poverty and squalor, jostled by lofty factories, grimy with
the smoke of the river and the reek from the great chimneys.
It was a hideous contrast. Verily the way of the transgressor
was not strewn with flowers.
At that point in his meditations he caught the sound of
voices and footsteps on the path above and rose to walk on
along the path. He did not wish to be seen wandering alone
in the shrubbery. But now a woman's laugh sounded from
somewhere down the path. There were people approaching
that way too. He put the cigarette back in the case and
stepped round behind the seat, intending to retreat in that
direction, but here the path ended, and beyond was nothing
but a rugged slope down to the wall thickly covered with
bushes. And while he was hesitating, the sound of feet de-
scending the steps and the rustle of a woman's dress left him
to choose between staying where he was or coming out to
confront the new-comers. He chose the former, drawing up
close behind the tree to wait until they should have passed on.
But they were not going to pass on. One of them—a
woman—sat down on the seat, and then a familiar voice
smote on his ear.
“I guess I’ll rest here quietly for a while; this tooth of
mine is aching terribly; and, see here, I want you to go and
fetch me something. Take this ticket to the cloak-room and
tell the woman to give you my little velvet bag. You'll find
in it a bottle of chloroform and a packet of cotton-wool.”
134


“But I can't leave you here all alone, Mrs. Chater,” her
partner expostulated.
“I’m not hankering for society just now,” said Mrs.
Chater. “I want that chloroform. Just you hustle off and
fetch it, like a good boy. Here's the ticket.”
The young officer's footsteps retreated rapidly, and the
voices of the couple advancing along the path grew louder.
Bailey, cursing the chance that had placed him in his ridicu-
lous and uncomfortable position, heard them approach and
pass on up the steps; and then all was silent, save for an
Occasional moan from Mrs. Chater and the measured creak-
ing of the seat as she rocked uneasily to and fro. But the
young man was uncommonly prompt in the discharge of his
mission, and in a very few minutes Bailey heard him ap-
proaching at a run along the path above and then bounding
down the steps.
“Now I call that real good of you,” said the widow grate-
fully. “You must have run like the wind. Cut the string of
the packet and then leave me to wrestle with this tooth.”
“But I can't leave you here all 55
“Yes, you can,” interrupted Mrs. Chater. “There won’t
be any one about—the next dance is a waltz. Besides, you
must go and find your partner.”
“Well, if you’d really rather be alone,” the subaltern
began; but Mrs. Chater interrupted him.
“Of course I would, when I’m fixing up my teeth. Now
go along, and a thousand thanks for your kindness.”
With mumbled protestations the young officer slowly re-
tired, and Bailey heard his reluctant feet ascending the steps.
Then a deep silence fell on the place in which the rustle of
paper and the squeak of a withdrawn cork seemed loud and
palpable. Bailey had turned with his face towards the tree,
against which he leaned with his lips parted scarcely daring
to breathe. He cursed himself again and again for having
thus entrapped himself for no tangible reason, and longed to
get away. But there was no escape now without betraying
himself. He must wait for the woman to go.
Suddenly, beyond the edge of the tree, a hand appeared
holding an open packet of cotton-wool. It laid the wool down
on the seat, and, pinching off a fragment, rolled it into a tiny
135


ball. The fingers of the hand were encircled by rings, its
wrist enclosed by a broad bracelet; and from rings and brace-
let the light of the solitary fairy-lamp, that hung from a
branch of the tree, was reflected in prismatic sparks. The
hand was withdrawn and Bailey stared dreamily at the
square pad of cotton-wool. Then the hand came again into
view. This time it held a small phial which it laid softly on
the seat, setting the cork beside it. And again the light
flashed in many-coloured scintillations from the encrusting
gems.
Bailey's knees began to tremble, and a chilly moisture
broke out upon his forehead.
The hand drew back, but, as it vanished, Bailey moved his
head silently until his face emerged from behind the tree.
The woman was leaning back, her head resting against the
trunk only a few inches away from his face. The great stones
of the tiara flashed in his very eyes. Over her shoulder, he
could even see the gorgeous pendant, rising and falling on
her bosom with ever-changing fires; and both her raised
hands were a mass of glitter and sparkle, only the deeper and
richer for the subdued light. ^.
His heart throbbed with palpable blows that drummed
aloud in his ears. The sweat trickled clammily down his face,
and he clenched his teeth to keep them from chattering. An
agony of horror—of deadly fear—was creeping over him—
a terror of the dreadful impulse that was stealing away his
reason and his will.
The silence was profound. The woman's soft breathing,
the creak of her bodice, were plainly—grossly—audible; and
he checked his own breath until he seemed on the verge of
suffocation.
Of a sudden through the night air was borne faintly the
dreamy music of a waltz. The dance had begun. The distant
sound but deepened the sense of solitude in this deserted spot.
Bailey listened intently. He yearned to escape from the
invisible force that seemed to be clutching at his wrists, and
dragging him forward inexorably to his doom.
He gazed down at the woman with a horrid fascination.
He struggled to draw back out of sight—and struggled in
Valn.
136


Then, at last, with a horrible, stealthy deliberation, a
clammy, shaking hand crept forward towards the seat. With-
out a Sound it grasped the wool, and noiselessly, slowly drew
back. Again it stole forth. The fingers twined snakily around
the phial, lifted it from the seat and carried it back into the
shadow.
After a few seconds it reappeared and softly replaced the
bottle—now half empty. There was a brief pause. The
measured cadences of the waltz stole softly through the quiet
night and seemed to keep time with the woman's breathing.
Other sound there was none. The place was wrapped in the
silence of the grave. -
Suddenly, from the hiding-place, Bailey leaned forward
over the back of the seat. The pad of cotton-wool was in
his hand.
The woman was now leaning back as if dozing, and her
hands rested in her lap. There was a swift movement. The
pad was pressed against her face and her head dragged back
against the chest of the invisible assailant. A smothered gasp
burst from her hidden lips as her hands flew up to clutch at
the murderous arm; and then came a frightful struggle, made
even more frightful by the gay and costly trappings of the
writhing victim. And still there was hardly a sound; only
muffled gasps, the rustle of silk, the creaking of the seat, the
clink of the falling bottle and, afar off, with dreadful irony,
the dreamy murmur of the waltz.
The struggle was but brief. Quite suddenly the jewelled
hands dropped, the head lay resistless on the crumpled shirt-
front, and the body, now limp and inert, began to slip for-
ward off the seat. Bailey, still grasping the passive head,
climbed over the back of the seat and, as the woman slid
gently to the ground, he drew away the pad and stooped over
her. The struggle was over now; the mad fury of the mo-
ment was passing swiftly into the chill of mortal fear.
He stared with incredulous horror into the swollen face,
but now so comely, the sightless eyes that but a little while
since had smiled into his with such kindly recognition.
He had done this! He, the sneaking wastrel, discarded of
all the world, to whom this sweet woman had held out the
hand of friendship. She had cherished his memory, when to
137


“No,” said Bailey. “So beastly hot in there.”
“You ought to have a glass of champagne, sir, before you
start,” said the man.
“No time,” replied Bailey, holding out a shaky hand for
his coat. “Shall lose my train if I’m not sharp.”
At this hint the attendant reached down the coat and hat,
holding up the former for its owner to slip his arms into the
sleeves. But Bailey snatched it from him, and, flinging it
over his arm, put on his hat and hurried away to the coach-
house. Here, again, the attendant stared at him in astonish-
ment, which was not lessened when Bailey, declining his offer
to help him on with his coat, bundled the latter under his
arm, clicked the lever of the “variable” on to the ninety gear,
sprang onto the machine and whirled away down the steep
drive, a grotesque vision of flying coat-tails.
“You haven’t lit your lamp, sir,” roared the attendant;
but Bailey's ears were deaf to all save the clamour of the
expected pursuit.
Fortunately the drive entered the road obliquely, or Bailey
must have been flung into the opposite hedge. As it was, the
machine, rushing down the slope, flew out into the road with
terrific velocity; nor did its speed diminish then, for its rider,
impelled by mortal terror, trod the pedals with the fury of
a madman. And still, as the machine whizzed along the dark
and silent road, his ears were strained to catch the clatter of
hoofs or the throb of a motor from behind.
He knew the country well, in fact, as a precaution, he had
cycled over the district only the day before; and he was
ready, at any suspicious sound, to slip down any of the lanes
or byways, secure of finding his way. But still he sped on,
and still no sound from the rear came to tell him of the
dread discovery. -
When he had ridden about three miles, he came to the foot
of a steep hill. Here he had to dismount and push his ma-
chine up the incline, which he did at such speed that he
arrived at the top quite breathless. Before mounting again
he determined to put on his coat, for his appearance was cal-
culated to attract attention, if nothing more. It was only
half-past eleven, and presently he would pass through the
streets of a small town. Also he would light his lamp. It
139


would be fatal to be stopped by a patrol or rural constable.
Having lit his lamp and hastily put on his coat he once
more listened intently, looking back over the country that
was darkly visible from the summit of the hill. No moving
lights were to be seen, no ringing hoofs or throbbing engines
to be heard, and, turning to mount, he instinctively felt in
his overcoat pocket for his gloves.
A pair of gloves came out in his hand, but he was instantly
conscious that they were not his. A silk muffler was there
also; a white one. But his muffler was black.
With a sudden shock of terror he thrust his hand into the
ticket-pocket, where he had put his latch-key. There was no
key there; only an amber cigar-holder, which he had never
seen before. He stood for a few moments in utter consterna-
tion. He had taken the wrong coat. Then he had left his
own coat behind. A cold sweat of fear broke out afresh on
his face as he realized this. His Yale latch-key was in its
pocket; not that that mattered very much. He had a dupli-
cate at home, and, as to getting in, well, he knew his own
outside door and his tool-bag contained one or two trifles not
usually found in cyclists’ tool-bags. The question was whether
that coat contained anything that could disclose his identity.
And then suddenly he remembered, with a gasp of relief, that
he had carefully turned the pockets out before starting.
No; once let him attain the sanctuary of his grimy little
flat, wedged in as it was between the great factories by the
river-side, and he would be safe: safe from everything but
the horror of himself, and the haunting vision of a jewelled
figure huddled up in a silken heap beneath the bushes.
With a last look round he mounted his machine, and, driv-
ing it over the brow of the hill, swept away into the darkness.
PART ||
MUNERA PULVERIS
(Related by Christopher Jervis, M.D.)
| T is one of the drawbacks of medicine as a profession that
one is never rid of one's responsibilities. The merchant, the
lawyer, the civil servant, each at the appointed time locks up
140


his desk, puts on his hat and goes forth a free man with an
interval of uninterrupted leisure before him. Not so the doc-
tor. Whether at work or at play, awake or asleep, he is the
servant of humanity, at the instant disposal of friend or
stranger alike whose need may make the necessary claim.
When I agreed to accompany my wife to the spinsters'
dance at Raynesford, I imagined that, for that evening, at
least, I was definitely off duty; and in that belief I continued
until the conclusion of the eighth dance. To be quite truth-
ful, I was not sorry when the delusion was shattered. My
last partner was a young lady of a slanginess of speech that
verged on the inarticulate. Now it is not easy to exchange
ideas in “pidgin” English; and the conversation of a person
to whom all things are either “ripping” or “rotten” is apt to
lack subtlety. In fact, I was frankly bored; and, reflecting
on the utility of the humble sandwich as an aid to conversa-
tion, I was about to entice my partner to the refreshment-
room when I felt some one pluck at my sleeve. I turned
quickly and looked into the anxious and rather frightened
face of my wife. -
“Miss Halliwell is looking for you,” she said. “A lady has
been taken ill. Will you come and see what is the matter?”
She took my arm and, when I had made my apologies to my
partner, she hurried me on to the lawn.
“It’s a mysterious affair,” my wife continued. “The sick
lady is a Mrs. Chater, a very wealthy American widow.
Edith Halliwell and Major Podbury found her lying in the
shrubbery all alone and unable to give any account of her-
self. Poor Edith is dreadfuſly upset. She doesn’t know what
to think.”
“What do you mean?” I began; but at this moment Miss
Halliwell, who was waiting by an ivy-covered rustic arch,
espied us and ran forward.
“Oh, do hurry, please, Dr. Jervis,” she exclaimed; “such
a shocking thing has happened. Has Juliet told you?” With-
out waiting for an answer, she darted through the arch and
preceded us along a narrow path at the curious, flat-footed,
shambling trot common to most adult women. Presently we
descended a flight of rustic steps which brought us to a seat,
from whence extended a straight path cut like a miniature
- 141


terrace on a steep slope, with a high bank rising to the right
and declivity falling away to the left. Down in the hollow,
his head and shoulders appearing above the bushes, was a
man holding in his hand a fairy-lamp that he had apparently
taken down from a tree. I climbed down to him, and, as I
came round the bushes, I perceived a richly-dressed woman
lying huddled on the ground. She was not completely in-
sensible, for she moved slightly at my approach, muttering a
few words in thick, indistinct accents. I took the lamp from
the man, whom I assumed to be Major Podbury, and, as he
delivered it to me with a significant glance and a faint lift
of the eyebrows, I understood Miss Halliwell's agitation.
Indeed, for one horrible moment I thought that she was
right—that the prostrate woman was intoxicated. But when
I approached nearer, the flickering light of the lamp made
visible a square reddened patch on her face, like the im-
pression of a mustard plaster, covering the nose and mouth;
and then I scented mischief of a more serious kind.
“We had better carry her up to the seat,” I said, handing
the lamp to Miss Halliwell. “Then we can consider moving
her to the house.” The major and I lifted the helpless
woman and, having climbed cautiously up to the path, laid
her on the seat.
“What is it, Dr. Jervis?” Miss Halliwell whispered.
“I can’t say at the moment,” I replied; “but it's not what
you feared.”
“Thank God for that!” was her fervent rejoinder. “It
would have been a shocking scandal.”
I took the dim lamp and once more bent over the half-
Conscious woman.
Her appearance puzzled me not a little. She looked like
a person recovering from an anaesthetic, but the square red
patch on her face, recalling, as it did, the Burke murders,
rather suggested suffocation. As I was thus reflecting, the
light of the lamp fell on a white object lying on the ground
behind the seat, and holding the lamp forward, I saw that
it was a square pad of cotton-wool. The coincidence of its
shape and size with that of the red patch on the woman's face
instantly struck me, and I stooped down to pick it up; and
then I saw, lying under the seat, a small bottle. This also
142


mon, cassia and black pepper, with other fragments of
similar origin, such as resin-cells and ginger pigment—not
turmeric. In addition there are, on the right shoulder and
sleeve, traces of cocoa and hops, and on the back below the
shoulders a few fragments of graphite. Those are the data;
and now, what are the inferences? Remember this is not
mere surface dust, but the accumulation of months, beaten
into the cloth by repeated brushing—dust that nothing but a
vacuum apparatus could extract.”
“Evidently,” I said, “the particles that are all over the
coat represent dust that is floating in the air of the place
where the coat habitually hangs. The graphite has obviously
been picked up from a seat and the cocoa and hops from
some factories that the man passes frequently, though I don’t
see why they are on the right side only.”
“That is a question of time,” said Thorndyke, “and inci-
dentally throws some light on our friend's habits. Going
from home, he passes the factories on his right; returning
home, he passes them on his left, but they have then stopped
work. However, the first group of substances is the more
important as they indicate the locality of his dwelling—for
he is clearly not a workman or factory employee. Now rice-
starch, wheat-starch and a group of substances collectively
designated ‘spices' suggest a rice-mill, a flour-mill and a spice
factory. Polton, may I trouble you for the Post Office
Directory?”
He turned over the leaves of the “Trades” section and
resumed: “I see there are four rice-mills in London, of which
the largest is Carbutt's at Dockhead. Let us look at the
spice-factories.” He again turned over the leaves and read
down the list of names. “There are six spice-grinders in
London,” said he. “One of them, Thomas Williams & Co., is
at Dockhead. None of the others is near any rice-mill. The
next question is as to the flour-mill. Let us see. Here are the
names of several flour millers, but none of them is near either
a rice-mill or a spice-grinder, with one exception: Seth
Taylor's, St. Saviour's Flour Mills, Dockhead.”
“This is really becoming interesting,” said I.
“It has become interesting,” Thorndyke retorted. “You
observe that at Dockhead we find the peculiar combination
150


“Wouldn’t it be as well to look at the tram-ticket?” I
asked.
“Dear me!” he exclaimed. “I had forgotten the ticket.
Yes, by all means.” He opened the envelope and, turning its
contents out on the bench, picked up the dingy slip of paper.
After a glance at it he handed it to me. It was punched for
the journey from Tooley Street to Dockhead.
“Another coincidence,” he remarked; “and by yet an-
other, I think I hear Miller knocking at our door.”
It was the superintendent, and, as we let him into the
room, the hum of a motor-car entering from Tudor Street
announced the arrival of Mrs. Chater. We waited for her
at the open door, and, as she entered, she held out her hands
impulsively.
“Say, now, Dr. Thorndyke,” she exclaimed, “have you
gotten something to tell us?”
“I have a suggestion to make,” replied Thorndyke. “I
think that if the superintendent will take this key to Hanover
Buildings, Dockhead, Bermondsey, he may possibly find a
door that it will fit.”
“The deuce!” exclaimed Miller. “I beg your pardon, .
madam; but I thought I had gone through that coat pretty
completely. What was it that I had overlooked, sir? Was
there a letter hidden in it, after all?”
“You overlooked the dust on it, Miller; that is all,” said
Thorndyke. -
“Dust!” exclaimed the detective, staring round-eyed at
my colleague. Then he chuckled softly. “Well,” said he,
“as I said before, I’m not a sorcerer; I'm only a policeman.”
He picked up the key and asked: “Are you coming to see
the end of it, sir?”
“Of course he is coming,” said Mrs. Chater, “and Dr.
Jervis too, to identify the man. Now that we have gotten
the villain we must leave him no loophole for escape.”
Thorndyke smiled dryly. “We will come if you wish it,
Mrs. Chater,” he said, “but you mustn't look upon our quest
as a certainty. We may have made an entire miscalculation,
and I am, in fact, rather curious to see if the result works out
correctly. But even if we run the man to earth, I don’t see
that you have much evidence against him. The most that
152


depressing monotony. I began to grow uneasy, and when
the fourth floor had been explored with no better result, my
anxiety became acute. A mare's nest may be an interesting
curiosity, but it brings no kudos to its discoverer.
“I suppose you haven't made any mistake, sir?” said
Miller, stopping to wipe his brow.
“It’s quite likely that I have,” replied Thorndyke, with
unmoved composure. “I only proposed this search as a ten-
tative proceeding, you know.” "
The superintendent grunted. He was accustomed—as was
I too, for that matter—to regard Thorndyke’s “tentative
suggestions” as equal to another man's certainties.
“It will be an awful Suck-in for Mrs. Chater if we don’t
find him after all,” he growled as we climbed up the last
flight. “She’s counted her chickens to a feather.” He paused
at the head of the stairs and stood for a few moments looking
round the landing. Suddenly he turned eagerly, and, laying
his hand on Thorndyke's arm, pointed to a door in the
farthest corner.
“Yale lock!” he whispered impressively.
We followed him silently as he stole on tip-toe across the
landing, and watched him as he stood for an instant with the
key in his land looking gloatingly at the brass disc. We saw
him softly apply the nose of the fluted key-blade to the
crooked slit in the cylinder, and, as we watched, it slid noise-
lessly up to the shoulder. The detective looked round with
a grin of triumph, and, silently withdrawing the key, stepped
back to us.
“You’ve run him to earth, sir,” he whispered, “but I don't
think Mr. Fox is at home. He can’t have got back yet.”
“Why not?” asked Thorndyke.
Miller waved his hand towards the door. “Nothing has
been disturbed,” he replied. “There's not a mark on the
paint. Now he hadn't got the key, and you can’t pick a Yale
lock. He’d have had to break in, and he hasn’t broken in.”
Thorndyke stepped up to the door and softly pushed in the
flap of the letter-slit, through which he looked into the flat.
“There's no letter-box,” said he. “My dear Miller, I would
undertake to open that door in five minutes with a foot of
wire and a bit of resined string.”
154


“Clue!” exclaimed the superintendent contemptuously.
“We have spotted our man all right, if we could only lay
hands on him; but he has given us the slip for the moment.”
“Who is the man?” asked Thorndyke.
The detective looked doubtfully at Thorndyke for some
seconds and then said, with evident reluctance: “I suppose
there is no harm in telling you—especially as you probably
know already”—this with a sly grin; “it’s an old crook
named Belfield.”
“And what is the evidence against him?”
Again the superintendent looked doubtful and again re-
lented.
“Why, the case is as clear as-as cold Scotch,” he said
(here Thorndyke in illustration of this figure of speech pro-
duced a decanter, a syphon and a tumbler, which he pushed
towards the officer). “You see, sir, the silly fool went and
stuck his sweaty hand on the window; and there we found
the marks—four fingers and a thumb, as beautiful prints as
you could wish to see. Of course we cut out the piece of glass
and took it up to the Finger-print Department; they turned
up their files and out came Mr. Belfield's record, with his
finger-prints and photograph all complete.” -
“And the finger-prints on the window-pane were identical
with those on the prison form?”
“Identical.”
“H’m!” Thorndyke reflected for a while, and the super-
intendent watched him foxily over the edge of his tumbler.
“I guess you are retained to defend Belfield,” the latter
observed presently.
“To look into the case generally,” replied Thorndyke.
“And I expect you know where the beggar is hiding,”
continued the detective.
“Belfield's address has not yet been communicated to me,”
Said Thorndyke. “I am merely to investigate the case—and
there is no reason, Miller, why you and I should be at cross
purposes. We are both working at the case; you want to get
a conviction and you want to convict the right man.”
“That's so—and Belfield's the right man—but what do
you want of us, doctor?”
“I should like to see the piece of glass with the finger-
164


prints on it, and the prison form, and take a photograph of
each. And I should like to examine the room in which the
murder took place—you have it locked up, I suppose?”
“Yes, we have the keys. Well, it’s all rather irregular, let-
ting you see the things. Still, you've always played the game
fairly with us, so we might stretch a point. Yes, I will. I’ll
come back in an hour for your report and bring the glass
and the form. I can’t let them go out of my custody, you
know. I’ll be off now—no, thank you, not another drop.”
The Superintendent caught up his hat and strode away,
the personification of mental alertness and bodily vigour.
No sooner had the door closed behind him than Thorn-
dyke's stolid calm changed instantaneously into feverish
energy. Darting to the electric bell that rang into the labora-
tories above, he pressed the button while he gave me my
directions.
“Have a look at that blood-stain, Jervis, while I am finish-
ing with Belfield. Don’t wet it; scrape it into a drop of warm
normal saline solution.”
I hastened to reach down the microscope and set out on
the table the necessary apparatus and reagents, and, as I was
thus occupied, a latch-key turned in the outer door and our
invaluable helpmate, Polton, entered the room in his habitual
silent, unobtrusive fashion.
“Let me have the finger-print apparatus, please, Polton,”
said Thorndyke; “and have the copying camera ready by
nine o'clock. I am expecting Mr. Miller with some docu-
ments.”
As his laboratory assistant departed, Thorndyke rapped
at the office door.
“It’s all clear, Belfield,” he called; “you can come out.”
The key turned and the prisoner emerged, looking ludi-
crously woebegone in his ridiculous wig and beard.
“I am going to take your finger-prints, to compare with
some that the police found on the window.”
“Finger-prints!” exclaimed Belfield, in a tone of dismay.
“They don’t say they’re my finger-prints, do they, sir?”
“They do indeed,” replied Thorndyke, eyeing the man
narrowly. “They have compared them with those taken when
you were at Holloway, and they say that they are identical.”
165


prints, doctor,” said the superintendent, “they are as clear
as if he made them on purpose.”
“They are indeed,” replied Thorndyke, with an inscrut-
able smile, “exactly as if he had made them on purpose. And
how beautifully clean the glass is—as if he had polished it
before making the impression.”
The superintendent glanced at Thorndyke with quick sus-
picion; but the smile had faded and given place to a wooden
immobility from which nothing could be gleaned.
When he had examined the glass exhaustively, Thorndyke
drew the finger-print form from its envelope and scanned it
quickly, glancing repeatedly from the paper to the glass and
from the glass to the paper. At length he laid them both on
the table, and turning to the detective looked him steadily
in the face.
“I think, Miller,” said he, “that I can give you a hint.”
“Indeed, sir? And what might that be?”
“It is this: you are after the wrong man.”
The Superintendent snorted—not a loud snort, for that
would have been rude, and no officer could be more polite
than Superintendent Miller. But it conveyed a protest which
he speedily followed up in words.
“You don't mean to say that the prints on that glass are
not the finger-prints of Frank Belfield?”
“I say that those prints were not made by Frank Belfield,”
Thorndyke replied firmly.
“Do you admit, sir, that the finger-prints on the official
form were made by him?”
“I have no doubt that they were.” -
“Well, sir, Mr. Singleton, of the Finger-print Department,
has compared the prints on the glass with those on the form
and he says they are identical; and I have examined them
and I say they are identical.”
“Exactly,” said Thorndyke; “and I have examined them
and I say they are identical—and that therefore those on the
glass cannot have been made by Belfield.”
The Superintendent Snorted again—somewhat louder this
time—and gazed at Thorndyke with wrinkled brows.
“You are not pulling my leg, I suppose, sir?” he asked,
a little sourly.
169


glass with his finger—“the prints show the palmar surfaces
of all the five digits in contact at once, which is an impossi-
bility. Just try to put your own thumb in that position and
you will see that it is so.”
The detective spread out his hand on the table and imme-
diately perceived the truth of my colleague's statement.
“And what does that prove?” he asked.
“It proves that the thumb-print on the window-pane was
not made at the same time as the finger-prints—that it was
added separately; and that fact seems to prove that the
prints were not made accidentally, but—as you ingeniously
Suggested just now—were put there for a purpose.”
“I don't quite see the drift of all this,” said the super-
intendent, rubbing the back of his head perplexedly; “and
you said a while back that the prints on the glass can't be
Belfield's because they are identical with the prints on the
form. Now that seems to me sheer nonsense, if you will
excuse my saying so.”
“And yet,” replied Thorndyke, “it is the actual fact.
Listen: these prints”—here he took up the official sheet—
“were taken at Holloway six years ago. These”—pointing
to the framed glass—“were made within the present week.
The one is, as regards the ridge-pattern, a perfect duplicate
of the other. Is that not so?”
“That is so, doctor,” agreed the superintendent.
“Very well. Now suppose I were to tell you that within
the last twelve months something had happened to Belfield
that made an appreciable change in the ridge-pattern on one
of his fingers?”
“But is such a thing possible?”
“It is not only possible but it has happened. I will show
you.”
He brought forth from the drawer the cards on which
Belfield had made his finger-prints, and laid them before
the detective.
“Observe the prints of the forefinger,” he said, indicating
them; “there are a dozen, in all, and you will notice in each
a white line crossing the ridges and dividing them. That line
is caused by a scar, which has destroyed a portion of the
ridges, and is now an integral part of Belfield's finger-print.
171
º


And since no such blank line is to be seen in this print on the
glass—in which the ridges appear perfect, as they were be-
fore the injury—it follows that that print could not have
been made by Belfield's finger.”
“There is no doubt about the injury, I suppose?”
“None whatever. There is the scar to prove it, and I can
produce the surgeon who attended Belfield at the time.”
The officer rubbed his head harder than before, and re-
garded Thorndyke with puckered brows.
“This is a teaser,” he growled, “it is indeed. What you
say, sir, seems perfectly sound, and yet—there are those
finger-prints on the window-glass. Now you can’t get finger-
prints without fingers, can you?”
“Undoubtedly you can,” said Thorndyke.
“I should want to see that done before I could believe
even you, sir,” said Miller.
“You shall see it done now,” was the calm rejoinder. “You
have evidently forgotten the Hornby case—the case of the
Red Thumb-mark, as the newspapers called it.”
“I only heard part of it,” replied Miller, “and I didn't
really follow the evidence in that.” -
“Well, I will show you a relic of that case,” said Thorn-
dyke. He unlocked a cabinet and took from one of the
shelves a small box labelled “Hornby,” which, being opened,
was seen to contain a folded paper, a little red-covered ob-
long book and what looked like a large boxwood pawn.
“This little book,” Thorndyke continued, “is a ‘thumb-
ograph’—a sort of finger-print album—I dare say you know
the kind of thing.”
The Superintendent nodded contemptuously at the little
volume.
“Now while Dr. Jervis is finding us the print we want,
I will run up to the laboratory for an inked slab.”
He handed me the little book and, as he left the room,
I began to turn over the leaves—not without emotion, for
it was this very “thumbograph” that first introduced me to
my wife, as is related elsewhere—glancing at the various
prints above the familiar names and marvelling afresh at the
endless variations of pattern that they displayed. At length
I came upon two thumb-prints of which one—the left—was
172


marked by a longitudinal white line—evidently the trace of
a scar; and underneath them was written the signature
“Reuben Hornby.”
At this moment Thorndyke re-entered the room carrying
the inked slab, which he laid on the table, and seating him-
self between the superintendent and me, addressed the
former.
“Now, Miller, here are two thumb-prints made by a gen-
tleman named Reuben Hornby. Just glance at the left one;
it is a highly characteristic print.”
“Yes,” agreed Miller, “one could swear to that from mem-
ory, I should think.”
“Then look at this.” Thorndyke took the paper from the
box and, unfolding it, handed it to the detective. It bore
a pencilled inscription, and on it were two blood-smears and
a very distinct thumb-print in blood. “What do you say to
that thumb-print?”
“Why,” answered Miller, “it’s this one, of course; Reuben
Hornby's left thumb.”
“Wrong, my friend,” said Thorndyke. “It was made by
an ingenious gentleman named Walter Hornby (whom you
followed from the Old Bailey and lost on Ludgate Hill);
but not with his thumb.”
“How, then?” demanded the superintendent incredulously.
“In this way.” Thorndyke took the boxwood “pawn” from
its receptacle and pressed its flat base onto the inked slab;
then lifted it and pressed it onto the back of a visiting-card,
and again raised it; and now the card was marked by a very
distinct thumb-print.
“My God!” exclaimed the detective, picking up the card
and viewing it with a stare of dismay, “this is the very devil,
sir. This fairly knocks the bottom out of finger-print identi-
fication. May I ask, sir, how you made that stamp—for
I suppose you did make it?”
“Yes, we made it here, and the process we used was prac-
tically that used by photo-engravers in making line blocks;
that is to say, we photographed one of Mr. Hornby's thumb-
prints, printed it on a plate of chrome-gelatine, developed
the plate with hot water and this”—here he touched the
embossed surface of the stamp—“is what remained. But we
173


could have done it in various other ways; for instance, with
common transfer paper and lithographic stone; indeed, 1
assure you, Miller, that there is nothing easier to forge than
a finger-print, and it can be done with such perfection that
the forger himself cannot tell his own forgery from a genuine
original, even when they are placed side by side.”
“Well, I’m hanged,” grunted the superintendent, “you've
fairly knocked me, this time, doctor.” He rose gloomily and
prepared to depart. “I suppose,” he added, “your interest
in this case has lapsed, now Belfield's out of it?”
“Professionally, yes; but I am disposed to finish the case
for my own satisfaction. I am quite curious as to who our
too-ingenious friend may be.”
Miller's face brightened. “We shall give you every facil-
ity, you know—and that reminds me that Singleton gave me
these two photographs for you, one of the official paper and
one of the prints on the glass. Is there anything more that
we can do for you?”
“I should like to have a look at the room in which the
murder took place.”
“You shall, doctor; to-morrow, if you like; I’ll meet you
there in the morning at ten, if that will do.”
It would do excellently, Thorndyke assured him, and with
this the superintendent took his departure in renewed spirits.
We had only just closed the door when there came a hur-
ried and urgent tapping upon it, whereupon I once more
threw it open, and a quietly-dressed woman in a thick veil,
who was standing on the threshold, stepped quickly past me
into the room.
“Where is my husband?” she demanded, as I closed the
door; and then, catching sight of Thorndyke, she strode up
to him with a threatening air and a terrified but angry face.
“What have you done with my husband, sir?” she re-
peated. “Have you betrayed him, after giving your word?
I met a man who looked like a police officer on the stairs.”
“Your husband, Mrs. Belfield, is here and quite safe,” re-
plied Thorndyke. “He has locked himself in that room,”
indicating the office.
Mrs. Belfield darted across and rapped smartly at the
door. “Are you there, Frank?” she called.
174


putting the last touches to the breakfast-table, while Thorn-
dyke himself was poring over two photographs of finger-
prints, of which he seemed to be taking elaborate measure-
ments with a pair of hair-dividers. He greeted me with his
quiet, genial smile and, laying down the dividers, took his
seat at the breakfast-table.
“You are coming with me this morning, I suppose,
he; “the Camberwell murder case, you know.”
“Of course I am if you will have me, but I know practically
nothing of the case. Could you give me an outline of the
facts that are known?”
Thorndyke looked at me solemnly, but with a mischievous
twinkle. “This,” he said, “is the old story of the fox and the
crow; you ‘bid me discourse,” and while I “enchant thine ear,’
you claw to windward with the broiled ham. A deep-laid
plot, my learned brother.”
“And such,” I exclaimed, “is the result of contact with the
criminal classes!”
“I am sorry that you regard yourself in that light,” he re-
torted, with a malicious smile. “However, with regard to this
case. The facts are briefly these: The murdered man, Cald-
well, who seems to have been formerly a receiver of stolen
goods and probably a police spy as well, lived a solitary life
in a small house with only an elderly woman to attend him.
“A week ago this woman went to visit a married daughter
and stayed the night with her, leaving Caldwell alone in the
house. When she returned on the following morning she
found her master lying dead on the floor of his office, or
study, in a small pool of blood.
“The police surgeon found that he had been dead about
twelve hours. He had been killed by a single blow, struck
from behind, with some heavy implement, and a jemmy
which lay on the floor beside him fitted the wound exactly.
The deceased wore a dressing-gown and no collar, and a bed-
room candlestick lay upside down on the floor, although gas
was laid on in the room; and as the window of the office ap-
pears to have been forced with the jemmy that was found,
and there were distinct footprints on the flower-bed outside
the window, the police think that the deceased was undressing
to go to bed when he was disturbed by the noise of the open-
x 2.
said
176


and Thorndyke moralized as we went.
“It is interesting,” he remarked, “to note the way in which
these specialized animals, such as the horse, the reindeer and
the camel, have been appropriated by man, and their Special
character made to subserve human needs. Think, for in-
stance, of the part the camel has played in history, in ancient
commerce—and modern too, for that matter—and in the
diffusion of culture; and of the rôle he has enacted in war
and conquest from the Egyptian campaign of Cambyses down
to that of Kitchener. Yes, the camel is a very remarkable
animal, though it must be admitted that this particular
specimen is a scurvy-looking beast.”
The camel seemed to be sensible of these disparaging re-
marks, for as it approached it saluted Thorndyke with a
supercilious grin and then turned away its head.
“Your charge is not as young as he used to be,” Thorndyke
observed to the man who was leading the animal.
“No, sir, he isn't; he's getting old, and that's the fact. He
shows it too.”
“I suppose,” said Thorndyke, strolling towards the house
by the man's side, “these beasts require a deal of attenion?”
“You’re right, sir; and nasty-tempered brutes they are.”
“So I have heard; but they are interesting creatures, the
camels and lamas. Do you happen to know if complete sets
of photographs of them are to be had here?”
“You can get a good many at the lodge, sir,” the man
replied, “but not all, I think. If you want a complete set,
there's one of our men in the camel-house that could let you
have them; he takes the photos himself, and very clever he
is at it, too. But he isn’t here just now.”
“Perhaps you could give me his name so that I could write
to him,” said Thorndyke.
“Yes, sir. His name is Woodthorpe—Joseph Woodthorpe.
He'll do anything for you to order. Thank you, sir; good-
afternoon, sir;” and pocketing an unexpected tip, the man
led his charge towards its lair.
Thorndyke’s absorbing interest in the camelidae seemed
now Suddenly to become extinct, and he suffered me to lead
him to any part of the gardens that attracted me, showing
an imperial interest in all the inmates from the insects to
182


and small feathers were to be mounted as microscopic objects,
while the larger feathers were to be placed, each in its sep-
arate labelled envelope, in its appropriate box. While these
directions were being given, I stood by the window absently
gazing out as I listened, gathering many a useful hint in the
technique of preparation and preservation, and filled with
admiration alike at my colleague's exhaustive knowledge of
practical detail and the perfect manner in which he had
trained his assistant. Suddenly I started, for a well-known
figure was crossing from Crown Office Row and evidently
bearing down on our chambers.
“My word, Thorndyke,” I exclaimed, “here's a pretty
mess!”
“What is the matter?” he asked, looking up anxiously.
“Superintendent Miller heading straight for our doorway.
And it is now twenty minutes past eight.”
Thorndyke laughed. “It will be a quaint position,” he
remarked, “and somewhat of a shock for Belfield. But it
really doesn’t matter; in fact, I think, on the whole, I am
rather pleased that he should have come.”
The superintendent's brisk knock was heard a few mo-
ments later, and when he was admitted by Polton, he entered
and looked round the room a little sheepishly.
“I am ashamed to come worrying you like this, sir,” he
began apologetically.
“Not at all,” replied Thorndyke, serenely slipping the
cassowary’s feather into an envelope, and writing the name,
date and locality on the outside. “I am your servant in this
case, you know. Polton, whisky and soda for the super-
intendent.”
“You see, sir,” continued Miller, “our people are beginning
to fuss about this case, and they don't approve of my having
handed that handkerchief and the paper over to you as they
will have to be put in evidence.”
“I thought they might object,” remarked Thorndyke.
“So did I, sir; and they do. And, in short, they say that
I have got to get them back at once. I hope it won’t put you
out, sir.”
“Not in the least,” said Thorndyke. “I have asked Belfield
to come here to-night—I expect him in a few minutes—and
184


addressing Thorndyke, “I bought him half-a-dozen new ones
about six months ago, and I got a rubber stamp made and
marked them all. Well, one day when I was looking over his
things I noticed that one of his handkerchiefs had got no
mark on it. I spoke to the laundress about it, but she couldn't
explain it, so as the right one never came back, I marked the
one that we got in exchange.”
“How long ago was that?” asked Thorndyke.
“About two months ago I noticed it.”
“And you know nothing more about it.”
“Nothing whatever, sir. Nor you, Frank, do you?”
Her husband shook his head gloomily, and Thorndyke
replaced the handkerchief in the drawer.
“And now,” said he, “I am going to ask you a question on
another subject. When you were at Holloway there was a
warder—or assistant warder—there, named Woodthorpe. Do
you remember him?”
“Yes, sir, very well indeed; in fact, it was him that y)
“I know,” interrupted Thorndyke. “Have you seen him
since you left Holloway?”
“Yes, sir, once. It was last Easter Monday. I met him at
the Zoo; he is a keeper there now in the camel-house” (here
a sudden light dawned upon me and I chuckled aloud, to
Belfield’s great astonishment). “He gave my little boy a ride
on one of the camels and made himself very pleasant.”
“Do you remember anything else happening?” Thorndyke
inquired.
“Yes, sir. The camel had a little accident; he kicked out—
he was an ill-tempered beast—and his leg hit a post; there
happened to be a nail sticking out from that post, and it tore
up a little flap of skin. Then Woodthorpe got out his hand-
kerchief to tie up the wound, but as it was none of the clean-
est, I said to him: ‘Don’t use that, Woodthorpe; have mine,’
which was quite a clean one. So he took it and bound up the
camel's leg, and he said to me: “I’ll have it washed and send
it to you if you give me your address.’ But I told him there
was no need for that; I should be passing the camel-house
on my way out and I would look in for the handkerchief.
And I did: I looked in about an hour later, and Woodthorpe
gave me my handkerchief, folded up but not washed.”
186


again, and then, suddenly, “By Jove!” I exclaimed, “I have
it; of course! It's the blood of a camel!”
“Is that so, doctor?” demanded the detective, leaning
forward in his excitement.
“That is so,” replied Thorndyke. “I discovered it after
I came home this morning. You see,” he explained, “it is
quite unmistakable. The rule is that the blood corpuscles of
mammals are circular; the one exception is the camel family,
in which the corpuscles are elliptical.”
“Why,” exclaimed Miller, “that seems to connect Wood-
thorpe with this Camberwell job.”
“It connects him with it very conclusively,” said Thorn-
dyke. “You are forgetting the finger-prints.”
The detective looked puzzled. “What about them?” he
asked.
“They were made with stamps—two stamps, as a matter
of fact—and those stamps were made by-photographic
process from the official finger-print form. I can prove that
beyond all doubt.”
“Well, suppose they were. What then?”
Thorndyke opened a drawer and took out a photograph,
which he handed to Miller. “Here,” he said, “is the photo-
graph of the official finger-print form which you were kind
enough to bring me. What does it say at the bottom there?”
and he pointed with his finger.
The superintendent read aloud: “Impressions taken by
Joseph Woodthorpe. Rank, Warder; Prison, Holloway.” He
stared at the photograph for a moment, and then exclaimed—
“Well, I’m hanged! You have worked this out neatly,
doctor! and so quick too. We'll have Mr. Woodthorpe under
lock and key the first thing to-morrow morning. But how
did he do it, do you think?”
“He might have taken duplicate finger-prints and kept one
form; the prisoners would not know there was anything
wrong; but he did not in this case. He must have contrived
to take a photograph of the form before sending it in—it
would take a skilful photographer only a minute or two with
a suitable hand-camera placed on a table at the proper dis-
tance from the wall; and I have ascertained that he is a skil-
ful photographer. You will probably find the apparatus, and
188


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No. 123: A QUESTION OF PROOF, by Nicholas Blake.
Just out! The strangling of the most unpopular boy in an
English school—followed by the stabbing of the head-
master—forces Nigel Strangeways, private investigator,
to take desperate steps in pursuit of an elusive killer.
No. 121: A LOSING GAME, by Freeman Wills Crofts.
Inspector French, unrivalled expert in cracking alibis,
tackles the baffling murder of a blackmailer and breaks
through a screen of evidence against one of the dead man's
victims. A memorable experience in crime detection!
No. 120: THE SPIRAL STAIRCASE, by Ethel Lina
White. Helen Capel takes the position as maid in Pro-
fessor Warren's home and immediately finds herself the
target of a mysterious strangler of girls. This is the breath-
taking novel from which the RKO Radio screen success
was filmed, starring Dorothy McGuire and George Brent.
No. 119: FIREBRAND, by Tom Gill. When a forest fire
destroyed Dane Avery's redwood trees and his mill, he
doggedly set about rebuilding from blackened ruins, only
to find himself bucking Oliver Leighton, his powerful
rival, and Beth Costaine—the girl he loved—who suddenly
announced her intention to marry Leighton. A vivid, color-
ful novel of the California timberland.
No. 118: THE FLYING U's LAST STAND, by B. M.
Bower. When an invasion of nesters threatens the Flying
U Ranch the Happy Family files homestead claims and
takes up farming—with unexpected results! An exciting
novel of the Old West featuring Chip Bennett and all his
Flying U pards.
No. 116: THE RED HOUSE, by George Agnew Cham-
berlain. When Meg Yarrow and her friend, Nathan,
started through the Oxhead woods to search for the vanish-
ing red house that had brought terror to the Jersey Barrens
they encountered violence and danger—whether due to
natural or supernatural causes, they didn't know. A spine-
tingling mystery novel.
No. 115; POPULAR BOOK OF CARTOONS. Laughs
and fun for everyone in a collection of outstanding car-
toons, featuring such well-known artists as Sydney Hoff,
Lawrence Lariar, Jefferson Machamer, Louis Priscilla,
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(Continued on next page)





P. C. P. U. L. A. R.
| R Y. Books of p r oven m e º
THE ADVENTURES OF DR. THORNDYKE
By R. Austin Freeman
In this unusual collection of cases
the creator of world-famous Dr. Thorndyke
conducts a daring experiment in crime fiction
with amazing results.
Freeman has long believed that the
conventional crime story, with the identity
of the criminal a jealously-guarded secret
until the very end, is often ineffectual.
And so in the first part of each of these
stories Freeman makes the reader an actual
witness to the crime, furnishing him with
all the necessary clues. In the second
ºrf, the reader watches Dr. Thorndyke,