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Title: The magic casket

Author: R. Austin Freeman

Release date: September 23, 2025 [eBook #76919]

Language: English

Original publication: London: Hodder and Stoughton Limited, 1927

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/76919

Credits: an anonymous Project Gutenberg volunteer

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MAGIC
CASKET ***

THE
MAGIC CASKET
BY
R. AUSTIN FREEMAN

HODDER AND STOUGHTON
LIMITED LONDON

CONTENTS
I. THE MAGIC CASKET
II. THE CONTENTS OF A MARE’S NEST
III. THE STALKING HORSE
IV. THE NATURALIST AT LAW
V. MR. PONTING’S ALIBI
VI. PANDORA’S BOX
VII. THE TRAIL OF BEHEMOTH
VIII. THE PATHOLOGIST TO THE RESCUE
IX. GLEANINGS FROM THE WRECKAGE

I.
THE MAGIC CASKET

It was in the near neighbourhood of King’s Road, Chelsea, that chance,
aided by Thorndyke’s sharp and observant eyes, introduced us to the
dramatic story of the Magic Casket. Not that there was anything strikingly
dramatic in the opening phase of the affair, nor even in the story of the
casket itself. It was Thorndyke who added the dramatic touch, and most of
the magic, too; and I record the affair principally as an illustration of his
extraordinary capacity for producing odd items of out-of-the-way
knowledge and instantly applying them in the most unexpected manner.
Eight o’clock had struck on a misty November night when we turned out
of the main road, and, leaving behind the glare of the shop windows,
plunged into the maze of dark and narrow streets to the north. The abrupt
change impressed us both, and Thorndyke proceeded to moralize on it in his
pleasant, reflective fashion.
“London is an inexhaustible place,” he mused. “Its variety is infinite. A
minute ago we walked in a glare of light, jostled by a multitude. And now
look at this little street. It is as dim as a tunnel, and we have got it
absolutely to ourselves. Anything might happen in a place like this.”
Suddenly he stopped. We were, at the moment, passing a small church or
chapel, the west door of which was enclosed in an open porch; and as my
observant friend stepped into the latter and stooped, I perceived, in the deep
shadow against the wall, the object which had evidently caught his eye.
“What is it?” I asked, following him in.
“It is a handbag,” he replied; “and the question is, what is it doing here?”
He tried the church door, which was obviously locked, and coming out,
looked at the windows.
“There are no lights in the church,” said he; “the place is locked up, and
there is nobody in sight. Apparently the bag is derelict. Shall we have a look

at it?”
Without waiting for an answer, he picked it up and brought it out into the
mitigated darkness of the street, where we proceeded to inspect it. But at the
first glance it told its own tale; for it had evidently been locked, and it bore
unmistakable traces of having been forced open.
“It isn’t empty,” said Thorndyke. “I think we had better see what is in it.
Just catch hold while I get a light.”
He handed me the bag while he felt in his pocket for the tiny electric
lamp which he made a habit of carrying—and an excellent habit it is. I held
the mouth of the bag open while he illuminated the interior, which we then
saw to be occupied by several objects neatly wrapped in brown paper. One
of these Thorndyke lifted out, and untying the string and removing the
paper, displayed a Chinese stoneware jar. Attached to it was a label, bearing
the stamp of the Victoria and Albert Museum, on which was written:

“Miss Mabel Bonney,
168 Willow Walk, Fulham Road, W.”

“That tells us all that we want to know,” said Thorndyke, re-wrapping the
jar and tenderly replacing it in the bag. “We can’t do wrong in delivering
the things to their owner, especially as the bag itself is evidently her
property, too,” and he pointed to the gilt initials, “M.B.”, stamped on the
morocco.
It took us but a few minutes to reach the Fulham Road, but we then had
to walk nearly a mile along that thoroughfare before we arrived at Willow
Walk—to which an obliging shopkeeper had directed us; and, naturally, No.
168 was at the farther end.
As we turned into the quiet street we almost collided with two men, who
were walking at a rapid pace, but both looking back over their shoulders. I
noticed that they were both Japanese—well-dressed, gentlemanly-looking
men—but I gave them little attention, being interested, rather, in what they
were looking at. This was a taxi-cab which was dimly visible by the light of
a street lamp at the farther end of the “Walk,” and from which four persons
had just alighted. Two of these had hurried ahead to knock at a door, while
the other two walked very slowly across the pavement and up the steps to
the threshold. Almost immediately the door was opened; two of the
shadowy figures entered, and the other two returned slowly to the cab; and

as we came nearer, I could see that these latter were policemen in uniform. I
had just time to note this fact when they both got into the cab and were
forthwith spirited away.
“Looks like a street accident of some kind,” I remarked; and then, as I
glanced at the number of the house we were passing, I added: “Now, I
wonder if that house happens to be—yes, by Jove! it is. It is 168! Things
have been happening, and this bag of ours is one of the dramatis personæ.”
The response to our knock was by no means prompt. I was, in fact, in the
act of raising my hand to the knocker to repeat the summons when the door
opened and revealed an elderly servant-maid, who regarded us inquiringly,
and, as I thought, with something approaching alarm.
“Does Miss Mabel Bonney live here?” Thorndyke asked.
“Yes, sir,” was the reply; “but I am afraid you can’t see her just now,
unless it is something urgent. She is rather upset, and particularly engaged
at present.”
“There is no occasion whatever to disturb her,” said Thorndyke. “We
have merely called to restore this bag, which seemed to have been lost;”
and with this he held it out towards her. She grasped it eagerly, with a cry of
surprise, and as the mouth fell open, she peered into it.
“Why,” she exclaimed, “they don’t seem to have taken anything, after all.
Where did you find it, sir?”
“In the porch of a church in Spelton Street,” Thorndyke replied, and was
turning away when the servant said earnestly:
“Would you kindly give me your name and address, sir? Miss Bonney
will wish to write and thank you.”
“There is really no need,” said he; but she interrupted anxiously:
“If you would be so kind, sir. Miss Bonney will be so vexed if she is
unable to thank you; and besides, she may want to ask you some questions
about it.”
“That is true,” said Thorndyke (who was restrained only by good
manners from asking one or two questions, himself). He produced his card-
case, and having handed one of his cards to the maid, wished her “good
evening” and retired.
“That bag had evidently been pinched,” I remarked, as we walked back
towards the Fulham Road.
“Evidently,” he agreed, and was about to enlarge on the matter when our
attention was attracted to a taxi, which was approaching from the direction

of the main road. A man’s head was thrust out of the window, and as the
vehicle passed a street lamp, I observed that the head appertained to an
elderly gentleman with very white hair and a very fresh-coloured face.
“Did you see who that was?” Thorndyke asked.
“It looked like old Brodribb,” I replied.
“It did; very much. I wonder where he is off to.”
He turned and followed, with a speculative eye, the receding taxi, which
presently swept alongside the kerb and stopped, apparently opposite the
house from which we had just come. As the vehicle came to rest, the door
flew open and the passenger shot out like an elderly, but agile, Jack-in-the-
box, and bounced up the steps.
“That is Brodribb’s knock, sure enough,” said I, as the old-fashioned
flourish reverberated up the quiet street. “I have heard it too often on our
own knocker to mistake it. But we had better not let him see us watching
him.”
As we went once more on our way, I took a sly glance, now and again, at
my friend, noting with a certain malicious enjoyment his profoundly
cogitative air. I knew quite well what was happening in his mind; for his
mind reacted to observed facts in an invariable manner. And here was a
group of related facts: the bag, stolen, but deposited intact; the museum
label; the injured or sick person—probably Miss Bonney, herself—brought
home under police escort; and the arrival, post-haste, of the old lawyer; a
significant group of facts. And there was Thorndyke, under my amused and
attentive observation, fitting them together in various combinations to see
what general conclusion emerged. Apparently my own mental state was
equally clear to him, for he remarked, presently, as if replying to an
unspoken comment:
“Well, I expect we shall know all about it before many days have passed
if Brodribb sees my card, as he most probably will. Here comes an omnibus
that will suit us. Shall we hop on?”
He stood at the kerb and raised his stick; and as the accommodation on
the omnibus was such that our seats were separated, there was no
opportunity to pursue the subject further, even if there had been anything to
discuss.
But Thorndyke’s prediction was justified sooner than I had expected. For
we had not long finished our supper, and had not yet closed the “oak,” when
there was heard a mighty flourish on the knocker of our inner door.

“Brodribb, by Jingo!” I exclaimed, and hurried across the room to let him
in.
“No, Jervis,” he said as I invited him to enter, “I am not coming in. Don’t
want to disturb you at this time of night. I’ve just called to make an
appointment for to-morrow with a client.”
“Is the client’s name Bonney?” I asked.
He started and gazed at me in astonishment. “Gad, Jervis!” he exclaimed,
“you are getting as bad as Thorndyke. How the deuce did you know that she
was my client?”
“Never mind how I know. It is our business to know everything in these
chambers. But if your appointment concerns Miss Mabel Bonney, for the
Lord’s sake come in and give Thorndyke a chance of a night’s rest. At
present, he is on broken bottles, as Mr. Bumble would express it.”
On this persuasion, Mr. Brodribb entered, nothing loath—very much the
reverse, in fact—and having bestowed a jovial greeting on Thorndyke,
glanced approvingly round the room.
“Ha!” said he, “you look very cosy. If you are really sure I am not——”
I cut him short by propelling him gently towards the fire, beside which I
deposited him in an easy chair, while Thorndyke pressed the electric bell
which rang up in the laboratory.
“Well,” said Brodribb, spreading himself out comfortably before the fire
like a handsome old Tom-cat, “if you are going to let me give you a few
particulars—but perhaps you would rather that I should not talk shop.”
“Now you know perfectly well, Brodribb,” said Thorndyke, “that ‘shop’
is the breath of life to us all. Let us have those particulars.”
Brodribb sighed contentedly and placed his toes on the fender (and at this
moment the door opened softly and Polton looked into the room. He took a
single, understanding glance at our visitor and withdrew, shutting the door
without a sound.)
“I am glad,” pursued Brodribb, “to have this opportunity of a preliminary
chat, because there are certain things that one can say better when the client
is not present; and I am deeply interested in Miss Bonney’s affairs. The
crisis in those affairs which has brought me here is of quite recent date—in
fact, it dates from this evening. But I know your partiality for having events
related in their proper sequence, so I will leave to-day’s happenings for the
moment and tell you the story—the whole of which is material to the case
—from the beginning.”

Here there was a slight interruption, due to Polton’s noiseless entry with a
tray on which was a decanter, a biscuit box, and three port glasses. This he
deposited on a small table, which he placed within convenient reach of our
guest. Then, with a glance of altruistic satisfaction at our old friend, he stole
out like a benevolent ghost.
“Dear, dear!” exclaimed Brodribb, beaming on the decanter, “this is
really too bad. You ought not to indulge me in this way.”
“My dear Brodribb,” replied Thorndyke, “you are a benefactor to us. You
give us a pretext for taking a glass of port. We can’t drink alone, you know.”
“I should, if I had a cellar like yours,” chuckled Brodribb, sniffing
ecstatically at his glass. He took a sip, with his eyes closed, savoured it
solemnly, shook his head, and set the glass down on the table.
“To return to our case,” he resumed; “Miss Bonney is the daughter of a
solicitor, Harold Bonney—you may remember him. He had offices in
Bedford Row; and there, one morning, a client came to him and asked him
to take care of some property while he, the said client, ran over to Paris,
where he had some urgent business. The property in question was a
collection of pearls of most unusual size and value, forming a great
necklace, which had been unstrung for the sake of portability. It is not clear
where they came from, but as the transaction occurred soon after the
Russian Revolution, we may make a guess. At any rate, there they were,
packed loosely in a leather bag, the string of which was sealed with the
owner’s seal.
“Bonney seems to have been rather casual about the affair. He gave the
client a receipt for the bag, stating the nature of the contents, which he had
not seen, and deposited it, in the client’s presence, in the safe in his private
office. Perhaps he intended to take it to the bank or transfer it to his strong-
room, but it is evident that he did neither; for his managing clerk, who kept
the second key of the strong-room—without which the room could not be
opened—knew nothing of the transaction. When he went home at about
seven o’clock, he left Bonney hard at work in his office, and there is no
doubt that the pearls were still in the safe.
“That night, at about a quarter to nine, it happened that a couple of C.I.D.
officers were walking up Bedford Row when they saw three men come out
of one of the houses. Two of them turned up towards Theobald’s Road, but
the third came south, towards them. As he passed them, they both
recognized him as a Japanese named Uyenishi, who was believed to be a

member of a cosmopolitan gang and whom the police were keeping under
observation. Naturally, their suspicions were aroused. The first two men had
hurried round the corner and were out of sight; and when they turned to
look after Uyenishi, he had mended his pace considerably and was looking
back at them. Thereupon one of the officers, named Barker, decided to
follow the Jap, while the other, Holt, reconnoitred the premises.
“Now, as soon as Barker turned, the Japanese broke into a run. It was just
such a night as this: dark and slightly foggy. In order to keep his man in
sight, Barker had to run, too; and he found that he had a sprinter to deal
with. From the bottom of Bedford Row, Uyenishi darted across and shot
down Hand Court like a lamplighter. Barker followed, but at the Holborn
end his man was nowhere to be seen. However, he presently learned from a
man at a shop door that the fugitive had run past and turned up Brownlow
Street, so off he went again in pursuit. But when he got to the top of the
street, back in Bedford Row, he was done. There was no sign of the man,
and no one about from whom he could make inquiries. All he could do was
to cross the road and walk up Bedford Row to see if Holt had made any
discoveries.
“As he was trying to identify the house, his colleague came out on to the
doorstep and beckoned him in; and this was the story that he told. He had
recognized the house by the big lamp-standard; and as the place was all
dark, he had gone into the entry and tried the office door. Finding it
unlocked, he had entered the clerks’ office, lit the gas, and tried the door of
the private office, but found it locked. He knocked at it, but getting no
answer, had a good look round the clerks’ office; and there, presently, on the
floor in a dark corner, he found a key. This he tried in the door of the private
office, and finding that it fitted, turned it and opened the door. As he did so,
the light from the outer office fell on the body of a man lying on the floor
just inside.
“A moment’s inspection showed that the man had been murdered—first
knocked on the head and then finished with a knife. Examination of the
pockets showed that the dead man was Harold Bonney, and also that no
robbery from the person seemed to have been committed. Nor was there
any sign of any other kind of robbery. Nothing seemed to have been
disturbed, and the safe had not been broken into, though that was not very
conclusive, as the safe key was in the dead man’s pocket. However, a
murder had been committed, and obviously Uyenishi was either the

murderer or an accessory; so Holt had, at once, rung up Scotland Yard on
the office telephone, giving all the particulars.
“I may say at once that Uyenishi disappeared completely and at once. He
never went to his lodgings at Limehouse, for the police were there before he
could have arrived. A lively hue and cry was kept up. Photographs of the
wanted man were posted outside every police-station, and a watch was set
at all the ports. But he was never found. He must have got away at once on
some outward-bound tramp from the Thames. And there we will leave him
for the moment.
“At first it was thought that nothing had been stolen, since the managing
clerk could not discover that anything was missing. But a few days later the
client returned from Paris, and presenting his receipt, asked for his pearls.
But the pearls had vanished. Clearly they had been the object of the crime.
The robbers must have known about them and traced them to the office. Of
course the safe had been opened with its own key, which was then replaced
in the dead man’s pocket.
“Now, I was poor Bonney’s executor, and in that capacity I denied his
liability in respect of the pearls on the ground that he was a gratuitous
bailee—there being no evidence that any consideration had been demanded
—and that being murdered cannot be construed as negligence. But Miss
Mabel, who was practically the sole legatee, insisted on accepting liability.
She said that the pearls could have been secured in the bank or the strong-
room, and that she was morally, if not legally, liable for their loss; and she
insisted on handing to the owner the full amount at which he valued them. It
was a wildly foolish proceeding, for he would certainly have accepted half
the sum. But still, I take my hat off to a person—man or woman—who can
accept poverty in preference to a broken covenant”; and here Brodribb,
being in fact, that sort of person himself, had to be consoled with a
replenished glass.
“And mind you,” he resumed, “when I speak of poverty, I wish to be
taken literally. The estimated value of those pearls was fifty thousand
pounds—if you can imagine anyone out of Bedlam giving such a sum for a
parcel of trash like that; and when poor Mabel Bonney had paid it, she was
left with the prospect of having to spread her butter mighty thin for the rest
of her life. As a matter of fact, she has had to sell one after another of her
little treasures to pay just her current expenses, and I’m hanged if I can see
how she is going to carry on when she has sold the last of them. But there, I

mustn’t take up your time with her private troubles. Let us return to our
muttons.
“First, as to the pearls. They were never traced, and it seems probable
that they were never disposed of. For, you see, pearls are different from any
other kind of gems. You can cut up a big diamond, but you can’t cut up a
big pearl. And the great value of this necklace was due not only to the size,
the perfect shape and ‘orient’ of the separate pearls, but to the fact that the
whole set was perfectly matched. To break up the necklace was to destroy a
good part of its value.
“And now as to our friend Uyenishi. He disappeared, as I have said; but
he reappeared at Los Angeles, in custody of the police, charged with
robbery and murder. He was taken red-handed and was duly convicted and
sentenced to death; but for some reason—or more probably, for no reason,
as we should think—the sentence was commuted to imprisonment for life.
Under these circumstances, the English police naturally took no action,
especially as they really had no evidence against him.
“Now Uyenishi was, by trade, a metal-worker; a maker of those pretty
trifles that are so dear to the artistic Japanese, and when he was in prison he
was allowed to set up a little workshop and practise his trade on a small
scale. Among other things that he made was a little casket in the form of a
seated figure, which he said he wanted to give to his brother as a keepsake.
I don’t know whether any permission was granted for him to make this gift,
but that is of no consequence; for Uyenishi got influenza and was carried
off in a few days by pneumonia; and the prison authorities learned that his
brother had been killed, a week or two previously, in a shooting affair at
San Francisco. So the casket remained on their hands.
“About this time, Miss Bonney was invited to accompany an American
lady on a visit to California, and accepted gratefully. While she was there
she paid a visit to the prison to inquire whether Uyenishi had ever made any
kind of statement concerning the missing pearls. Here she heard of
Uyenishi’s recent death; and the governor of the prison, as he could not give
her any information, handed over to her the casket as a sort of memento.
This transaction came to the knowledge of the press, and—well, you know
what the Californian press is like. There were ‘some comments,’ as they
would say, and quite an assortment of Japanese, of shady antecedents,
applied at the prison to have the casket ‘restored’ to them as Uyenishi’s
heirs. Then Miss Bonney’s rooms at the hotel were raided by burglars—but

the casket was in the hotel strong-room—and Miss Bonney and her hostess
were shadowed by various undesirables in such a disturbing fashion that the
two ladies became alarmed and secretly made their way to New York. But
there another burglary occurred, with the same unsuccessful result, and the
shadowing began again. Finally, Miss Bonney, feeling that her presence was
a danger to her friend, decided to return to England, and managed to get on
board the ship without letting her departure be known in advance.
“But even in England she has not been left in peace. She has had an
uncomfortable feeling of being watched and attended, and has seemed to be
constantly meeting Japanese men in the streets, especially in the vicinity of
her house. Of course, all the fuss is about this infernal casket; and when she
told me what was happening, I promptly popped the thing in my pocket and
took it to my office, where I stowed it in the strong-room. And there, of
course, it ought to have remained. But it didn’t. One day Miss Bonney told
me that she was sending some small things to a loan exhibition of oriental
works of art at the South Kensington Museum, and she wished to include
the casket. I urged her strongly to do nothing of the kind, but she persisted;
and the end of it was that we went to the museum together, with her pottery
and stuff in a handbag and the casket in my pocket.
“It was a most imprudent thing to do, for there the beastly casket was, for
several months, exposed in a glass case for anyone to see, with her name on
the label; and what was worse, full particulars of the origin of the thing.
However, nothing happened while it was there—the museum is not an easy
place to steal from—and all went well until it was time to remove the things
after the close of the exhibition. Now, to-day was the appointed day, and, as
on the previous occasion, she and I went to the museum together. But the
unfortunate thing is that we didn’t come away together. Her other exhibits
were all pottery, and these were dealt with first, so that she had her handbag
packed and was ready to go before they had begun on the metal-work cases.
As we were not going the same way, it didn’t seem necessary for her to
wait; so she went off with her bag and I stayed behind until the casket was
released, when I put it in my pocket and went home, where I locked the
thing up again in the strong-room.
“It was about seven when I got home. A little after eight I heard the
telephone ring down in the office, and down I went, cursing the untimely
ringer, who turned out to be a policeman at St. George’s Hospital. He said
he had found Miss Bonney lying unconscious in the street and had taken her

to the hospital, where she had been detained for a while, but she was now
recovered and he was taking her home. She would like me, if possible, to go
and see her at once. Well, of course, I set off forthwith and got to her house
a few minutes after her arrival, and just after you had left.
“She was a good deal upset, so I didn’t worry her with many questions,
but she gave me a short account of her misadventure, which amounted to
this: She had started to walk home from the museum along the Brompton
Road, and she was passing down a quiet street between that and Fulham
Road when she heard soft footsteps behind her. The next moment, a scarf or
shawl was thrown over her head and drawn tightly round her neck. At the
same moment, the bag was snatched from her hand. That is all that she
remembers, for she was half-suffocated and so terrified that she fainted, and
knew no more until she found herself in a cab with two policemen, who
were taking her to the hospital.
“Now it is obvious that her assailants were in search of that damned
casket, for the bag had been broken open and searched, but nothing taken or
damaged; which suggests the Japanese again, for a British thief would have
smashed the crockery. I found your card there, and I put it to Miss Bonney
that we had better ask you to help us—I told her all about you—and she
agreed emphatically. So that is why I am here, drinking your port and
robbing you of your night’s rest.”
“And what do you want me to do?” Thorndyke asked.
“Whatever you think best,” was the cheerful reply. “In the first place, this
nuisance must be put a stop to—this shadowing and hanging about. But
apart from that, you must see that there is something queer about this
accursed casket. The beastly thing is of no intrinsic value. The museum man
turned up his nose at it. But it evidently has some extrinsic value, and no
small value either. If it is good enough for these devils to follow it all the
way from the States, as they seem to have done, it is good enough for us to
try to find out what its value is. That is where you come in. I propose to
bring Miss Bonney to see you to-morrow, and I will bring the infernal
casket, too. Then you will ask her a few questions, take a look at the casket
—through the microscope, if necessary—and tell us all about it in your
usual necromantic way.”
Thorndyke laughed as he refilled our friend’s glass. “If faith will move
mountains, Brodribb,” said he, “you ought to have been a civil engineer.
But it is certainly a rather intriguing problem.”

“Ha!” exclaimed the old solicitor; “then it’s all right. I’ve known you a
good many years, but I’ve never known you to be stumped; and you are not
going to be stumped now. What time shall I bring her? Afternoon or
evening would suit her best.”
“Very well,” replied Thorndyke; “bring her to tea—say, five o’clock.
How will that do?”
“Excellently; and here’s good luck to the adventure.” He drained his
glass, and the decanter being now empty, he rose, shook our hands warmly,
and took his departure in high spirits.
It was with a very lively interest that I looked forward to the prospective
visit. Like Thorndyke, I found the case rather intriguing. For it was quite
clear, as our shrewd old friend had said, that there was something more than
met the eye in the matter of this casket. Hence, on the following afternoon,
when, on the stroke of five, footsteps became audible on our stairs, I
awaited the arrival of our new client with keen curiosity, both as to herself
and her mysterious property.
To tell the truth, the lady was better worth looking at than the casket. At
the first glance, I was strongly prepossessed in her favour, and so, I think,
was Thorndyke. Not that she was a beauty, though comely enough. But she
was an example of a type that seems to be growing rarer; quiet, gentle, soft-
spoken, and a lady to her finger-tips; a little sad-faced and care-worn, with a
streak or two of white in her prettily-disposed black hair, though she could
not have been much over thirty-five. Altogether a very gracious and
winning personality.
When we had been presented to her by Brodribb—who treated her as if
she had been a royal personage—and had enthroned her in the most
comfortable easy-chair, we inquired as to her health, and were duly thanked
for the salvage of the bag. Then Polton brought in the tray, with an air that
seemed to demand an escort of choristers; the tea was poured out, and the
informal proceedings began.
She had not, however, much to tell; for she had not seen her assailants,
and the essential facts of the case had been fully presented in Brodribb’s
excellent summary. After a very few questions, therefore, we came to the
next stage; which was introduced by Brodribb’s taking from his pocket a
small parcel which he proceeded to open.
“There,” said he, “that is the fons et origo mali. Not much to look at, I
think you will agree.” He set the object down on the table and glared at it

malevolently, while Thorndyke and I regarded it with a more impersonal
interest. It was not much to look at. Just an ordinary Japanese casket in the
form of a squat, shapeless figure with a silly little grinning face, of which
the head and shoulders opened on a hinge; a pleasant enough object, with
its quiet, warm colouring, but certainly not a masterpiece of art.
Thorndyke picked it up and turned it over slowly for a preliminary
inspection; then he went on to examine it detail by detail, watched closely,
in his turn, by Brodribb and me. Slowly and methodically, his eye—
fortified by a watchmaker’s eyeglass—travelled over every part of the
exterior. Then he opened it, and having examined the inside of the lid,
scrutinized the bottom from within, long and attentively. Finally, he turned
the casket upside down and examined the bottom from without, giving to it
the longest and most rigorous inspection of all—which puzzled me
somewhat, for the bottom was absolutely plain. At length, he passed the
casket and the eyeglass to me without comment.
“Well,” said Brodribb, “what is the verdict?”
“It is of no value as a work of art,” replied Thorndyke. “The body and lid
are just castings of common white metal—an antimony alloy, I should say.
The bronze colour is lacquer.”
“So the museum man remarked,” said Brodribb.
“But,” continued Thorndyke, “there is one very odd thing about it. The
only piece of fine metal in it is in the part which matters least. The bottom
is a separate plate of the alloy known to the Japanese as Shakudo—an alloy
of copper and gold.”
“Yes,” said Brodribb, “the museum man noted that, too, and couldn’t
make out why it had been put there.”
“Then,” Thorndyke continued, “there is another anomalous feature; the
inside of the bottom is covered with elaborate decoration—just the place
where decoration is most inappropriate, since it would be covered up by the
contents of the casket. And, again, this decoration is etched; not engraved or
chased. But etching is a very unusual process for this purpose, if it is ever
used at all by Japanese metal-workers. My impression is that it is not; for it
is most unsuitable for decorative purposes. That is all that I observe, so far.”
“And what do you infer from your observations?” Brodribb asked.
“I should like to think the matter over,” was the reply. “There is an
obvious anomaly, which must have some significance. But I won’t embark
on speculative opinions at this stage. I should like, however, to take one or

two photographs of the casket, for reference; but that will occupy some
time. You will hardly want to wait so long.”
“No,” said Brodribb. “But Miss Bonney is coming with me to my office
to go over some documents and discuss a little business. When we have
finished, I will come back and fetch the confounded thing.”
“There is no need for that,” replied Thorndyke. “As soon as I have done
what is necessary, I will bring it up to your place.”
To this arrangement Brodribb agreed readily, and he and his client
prepared to depart. I rose, too, and as I happened to have a call to make in
Old Square, Lincoln’s Inn, I asked permission to walk with them.
As we came out into King’s Bench Walk I noticed a smallish,
gentlemanly-looking man who had just passed our entry and now turned in
at the one next door; and by the light of the lamp in the entry he looked to
me like a Japanese. I thought Miss Bonney had observed him, too, but she
made no remark, and neither did I. But, passing up Inner Temple Lane, we
nearly overtook two other men, who—though I got but a back view of them
and the light was feeble enough—aroused my suspicions by their neat,
small figures. As we approached, they quickened their pace, and one of
them looked back over his shoulder; and then my suspicions were
confirmed, for it was an unmistakable Japanese face that looked round at
us. Miss Bonney saw that I had observed the men, for she remarked, as they
turned sharply at the Cloisters and entered Pump Court:
“You see, I am still haunted by Japanese.”
“I noticed them,” said Brodribb. “They are probably law students. But we
may as well be companionable;” and with this, he, too, headed for Pump
Court.
We followed our oriental friends across the Lane into Fountain Court,
and through that and Devereux Court out to Temple Bar, where we parted
from them; they turning westward and we crossing to Bell Yard, up which
we walked, entering New Square by the Carey Street gate. At Brodribb’s
doorway we halted and looked back, but no one was in sight. I accordingly
went my way, promising to return anon to hear Thorndyke’s report, and the
lawyer and his client disappeared through the portal.
My business occupied me longer than I had expected, but nevertheless,
when I arrived at Brodribb’s premises—where he lived in chambers over
his office—Thorndyke had not yet made his appearance. A quarter of an

hour later, however, we heard his brisk steps on the stairs, and as Brodribb
threw the door open, he entered and produced the casket from his pocket.
“Well,” said Brodribb, taking it from him and locking it, for the time
being, in a drawer, “has the oracle spoken; and if so, what did he say?”
“Oracles,” replied Thorndyke, “have a way of being more concise than
explicit. Before I attempt to interpret the message, I should like to view the
scene of the escape; to see if there was any intelligible reason why this man,
Uyenishi, should have returned up Brownlow Street into what must have
been the danger zone. I think that is a material question.”
“Then,” said Brodribb, with evident eagerness, “let us all walk up and
have a look at the confounded place. It is quite close by.”
We all agreed instantly, two of us, at least, being on the tip-toe of
expectation. For Thorndyke, who habitually understated his results, had
virtually admitted that the casket had told him something; and as we walked
up the Square to the gate in Lincoln’s Inn Fields, I watched him furtively,
trying to gather from his impassive face a hint as to what the something
amounted to, and wondering how the movements of the fugitive bore on the
solution of the mystery. Brodribb was similarly occupied, and as we crossed
from Great Turnstile and took our way up Brownlow Street, I could see that
his excitement was approaching bursting-point.
At the top of the street Thorndyke paused and looked up and down the
rather dismal thoroughfare which forms a continuation of Bedford Row and
bears its name. Then he crossed to the paved island surrounding the pump
which stands in the middle of the road, and from thence surveyed the
entrances to Brownlow Street and Hand Court; and then he turned and
looked thoughtfully at the pump.
“A quaint old survivor, this,” he remarked, tapping the iron shell with his
knuckles. “There is a similar one, you may remember, in Queen Square, and
another at Aldgate. But that is still in use.”
“Yes,” Brodribb assented, almost dancing with impatience and inwardly
damning the pump, as I could see, “I’ve noticed it.”
“I suppose,” Thorndyke proceeded, in a reflective tone, “they had to
remove the handle. But it was rather a pity.”
“Perhaps it was,” growled Brodribb, whose complexion was rapidly
developing affinities to that of a pickled cabbage, “but what the d——”
Here he broke off short and glared silently at Thorndyke, who had raised
his arm and squeezed his hand into the opening once occupied by the

handle. He groped in the interior with an expression of placid interest, and
presently reported: “The barrel is still there, and so, apparently, is the
plunger—” (Here I heard Brodribb mutter huskily, “Damn the barrel and
the plunger too!”) “but my hand is rather large for the exploration. Would
you, Miss Bonney, mind slipping your hand in and telling me if I am right?”
We all gazed at Thorndyke in dismay, but in a moment Miss Bonney
recovered from her astonishment, and with a deprecating smile, half shy,
half amused, she slipped off her glove, and reaching up—it was rather high
for her—inserted her hand into the narrow slit. Brodribb glared at her and
gobbled like a turkey-cock, and I watched her with a sudden suspicion that
something was going to happen. Nor was I mistaken. For, as I looked, the
shy, puzzled smile faded from her face and was succeeded by an expression
of incredulous astonishment. Slowly she withdrew her hand, and as it came
out of the slit it dragged something after it. I started forward, and by the
light of the lamp above the pump I could see that the object was a leather
bag secured by a string from which hung a broken seal.
“It can’t be!” she gasped as, with trembling fingers, she untied the string.
Then, as she peered into the open mouth, she uttered a little cry.
“It is! It is! It is the necklace!”
Brodribb was speechless with amazement. So was I; and I was still
gazing open-mouthed at the bag in Miss Bonney’s hands when I felt
Thorndyke touch my arm. I turned quickly and found him offering me an
automatic pistol.
“Stand by, Jervis,” he said quietly, looking towards Gray’s Inn.
I looked in the same direction, and then perceived three men stealing
round the corner from Jockey’s Fields. Brodribb saw them, too, and
snatching the bag of pearls from his client’s hands, buttoned it into his
breast pocket and placed himself before its owner, grasping his stick with a
war-like air. The three men filed along the pavement until they were
opposite us, when they turned simultaneously and bore down on the pump,
each man, as I noticed, holding his right hand behind him. In a moment,
Thorndyke’s hand, grasping a pistol, flew up—as did mine, also—and he
called out sharply:
“Stop! If any man moves a hand, I fire.”
The challenge brought them up short, evidently unprepared for this kind
of reception. What would have happened next it is impossible to guess. But
at this moment a police whistle sounded and two constables ran out from

Hand Court. The whistle was instantly echoed from the direction of
Warwick Court, whence two more constabulary figures appeared through
the postern gate of Gray’s Inn. Our three attendants hesitated but for an
instant. Then, with one accord, they turned tail and flew like the wind round
into Jockey’s Fields, with the whole posse of constables close on their
heels.
“Remarkable coincidence,” said Brodribb, “that those policemen should
happen to be on the look-out. Or isn’t it a coincidence?”
“I telephoned to the station superintendent before I started,” replied
Thorndyke, “warning him of a possible breach of the peace at this spot.”
Brodribb chuckled. “You’re a wonderful man, Thorndyke. You think of
everything. I wonder if the police will catch those fellows.”
“It is no concern of ours,” replied Thorndyke. “We’ve got the pearls, and
that finishes the business. There will be no more shadowing, in any case.”
Miss Bonney heaved a comfortable little sigh and glanced gratefully at
Thorndyke. “You can have no idea what a relief that is!” she exclaimed; “to
say nothing of the treasure-trove.”
We waited some time, but as neither the fugitives nor the constables
reappeared, we presently made our way back down Brownlow Street. And
there it was that Brodribb had an inspiration.
“I’ll tell you what,” said he. “I will just pop these things in my strong-
room—they will be perfectly safe there until the bank opens to-morrow—
and then we’ll go and have a nice little dinner. I’ll pay the piper.”
“Indeed you won’t!” exclaimed Miss Bonney. “This is my thanksgiving
festival, and the benevolent wizard shall be the guest of the evening.”
“Very well, my dear,” agreed Brodribb. “I will pay and charge it to the
estate. But I stipulate that the benevolent wizard shall tell us exactly what
the oracle said. That is essential to the preservation of my sanity.”
“You shall have his ipsissima verba,” Thorndyke promised; and the
resolution was carried, nem. con.
An hour and a half later we were seated around a table in a private room
of a café to which Mr. Brodribb had conducted us. I may not divulge its
whereabouts, though I may, perhaps, hint that we approached it by way of
Wardour Street. At any rate, we had dined, even to the fulfilment of
Brodribb’s ideal, and coffee and liqueurs furnished a sort of gastronomic
doxology. Brodribb had lighted a cigar and Thorndyke had produced a

vicious-looking little black cheroot, which he regarded fondly and then
returned to its abiding-place as unsuited to the present company.
“Now,” said Brodribb, watching Thorndyke fill his pipe (as understudy of
the cheroot aforesaid), “we are waiting to hear the words of the oracle.”
“You shall hear them,” Thorndyke replied. “There were only five of
them. But first, there are certain introductory matters to be disposed of. The
solution of this problem is based on two well-known physical facts, one
metallurgical and the other optical.”
“Ha!” said Brodribb. “But you must temper the wind to the shorn lamb,
you know, Thorndyke. Miss Bonney and I are not scientists.”
“I will put the matter quite simply, but you must have the facts. The first
relates to the properties of malleable metals—excepting iron and steel—and
especially of copper and its alloys. If a plate of such metal or alloy—say,
bronze, for instance—is made red-hot and quenched in water, it becomes
quite soft and flexible—the reverse of what happens in the case of iron.
Now, if such a plate of softened metal be placed on a steel anvil and
hammered, it becomes extremely hard and brittle.”
“I follow that,” said Brodribb.
“Then see what follows. If, instead of hammering the soft plate, you put
on it the edge of a blunt chisel and strike on that chisel a sharp blow, you
produce an indented line. Now the plate remains soft; but the metal forming
the indented line has been hammered and has become hard. There is now a
line of hard metal on the soft plate. Is that clear?”
“Perfectly,” replied Brodribb; and Thorndyke accordingly continued:
“The second fact is this: If a beam of light falls on a polished surface
which reflects it, and if that surface is turned through a given angle, the
beam of light is deflected through double that angle.”
“H’m!” grunted Brodribb. “Yes. No doubt. I hope we are not going to get
into any deeper waters, Thorndyke.”
“We are not,” replied the latter, smiling urbanely. “We are now going to
consider the application of these facts. Have you ever seen a Japanese
magic mirror?”
“Never; nor even heard of such a thing.”
“They are bronze mirrors, just like the ancient Greek or Etruscan mirrors
—which are probably ‘magic’ mirrors, too. A typical specimen consists of a
circular or oval plate of bronze, highly polished on the face and decorated
on the back with chased ornament—commonly a dragon or some such

device—and furnished with a handle. The ornament is, as I have said,
chased; that is to say, it is executed in indented lines made with chasing
tools, which are, in effect, small chisels, more or less blunt, which are
struck with a chasing-hammer.
“Now these mirrors have a very singular property. Although the face is
perfectly plain, as a mirror should be, yet, if a beam of sunlight is caught on
it and reflected, say, on to a white wall, the round or oval patch of light on
the wall is not a plain light patch. It shows quite clearly the ornament on the
back of the mirror.”
“But how extraordinary!” exclaimed Miss Bonney. “It sounds quite
incredible.”
“It does,” Thorndyke agreed. “And yet the explanation is quite simple.
Professor Sylvanus Thompson pointed it out years ago. It is based on the
facts which I have just stated to you. The artist who makes one of these
mirrors begins, naturally, by annealing the metal until it is quite soft. Then
he chases the design on the back, and this design then shows slightly on the
face. But he now grinds the face perfectly flat with fine emery and water so
that the traces of the design are completely obliterated. Finally, he polishes
the face with rouge on a soft buff.
“But now observe that wherever the chasing-tool has made a line, the
metal is hardened right through, so that the design is in hard metal on a soft
matrix. But the hardened metal resists the wear of the polishing buff more
than the soft metal does. The result is that the act of polishing causes the
design to appear in faint relief on the face. Its projection is infinitesimal—
less than the hundred-thousandth of an inch—and totally invisible to the
eye. But, minute as it is, owing to the optical law which I mentioned—
which, in effect, doubles the projection—it is enough to influence the
reflection of light. As a consequence, every chased line appears on the patch
of light as a dark line with a bright border, and so the whole design is
visible. I think that is quite clear.”
“Perfectly clear,” Miss Bonney and Brodribb agreed.
“But now,” pursued Thorndyke, “before we come to the casket, there is a
very curious corollary which I must mention. Supposing our artist, having
finished the mirror, should proceed with a scraper to erase the design from
the back; and on the blank, scraped surface to etch a new design. The
process of etching does not harden the metal, so the new design does not
appear on the reflection. But the old design would. For although it was

invisible on the face and had been erased from the back, it would still exist
in the substance of the metal and continue to influence the reflection. The
odd result would be that the design which would be visible in the patch of
light on the wall would be a different one from that on the back of the
mirror.
“No doubt, you see what I am leading up to. But I will take the
investigation of the casket as it actually occurred. It was obvious, at once,
that the value of the thing was extrinsic. It had no intrinsic value, either in
material or workmanship. What could that value be? The clear suggestion
was that the casket was the vehicle of some secret message or information.
It had been made by Uyenishi, who had almost certainly had possession of
the missing pearls, and who had been so closely pursued that he never had
an opportunity to communicate with his confederates. It was to be given to
a man who was almost certainly one of those confederates; and, since the
pearls had never been traced, there was a distinct probability that the
(presumed) message referred to some hiding-place in which Uyenishi had
concealed them during his flight, and where they were probably still hidden.
“With these considerations in my mind, I examined the casket, and this
was what I found. The thing, itself, was a common white-metal casting,
made presentable by means of lacquer. But the white metal bottom had been
cut out and replaced by a plate of fine bronze—Shakudo. The inside of this
was covered with an etched design, which immediately aroused my
suspicions. Turning it over, I saw that the outside of the bottom was not
only smooth and polished; it was a true mirror. It gave a perfectly
undistorted reflection of my face. At once, I suspected that the mirror held
the secret; that the message, whatever it was, had been chased on the back,
had then been scraped away and an etched design worked on it to hide the
traces of the scraper.
“As soon as you were gone, I took the casket up to the laboratory and
threw a strong beam of parallel light from a condenser on the bottom,
catching the reflection on a sheet of white paper. The result was just what I
had expected. On the bright oval patch on the paper could be seen the
shadowy, but quite distinct, forms of five words in the Japanese character.
“I was in somewhat of a dilemma, for I have no knowledge of Japanese,
whereas the circumstances were such as to make it rather unsafe to employ
a translator. However, as I do just know the Japanese characters and possess

a Japanese dictionary, I determined to make an attempt to fudge out the
words myself. If I failed, I could then look for a discreet translator.
“However, it proved to be easier than I had expected, for the words were
detached; they did not form a sentence, and so involved no questions of
grammar. I spelt out the first word and then looked it up in the dictionary.
The translation was ‘pearls.’ This looked hopeful, and I went on to the next,
of which the translation was ‘pump.’ The third word floored me. It seemed
to be ‘jokkis,’ or ‘jokkish,’ but there was no such word in the dictionary; so
I turned to the next word, hoping that it would explain its predecessor. And
it did. The fourth word was ‘fields,’ and the last word was evidently
‘London.’ So the entire group read: ‘Pearls, Pump, Jokkis, Fields, London.’
“Now, there is no pump, so far as I know, in Jockey’s Fields, but there is
one in Bedford Row close to the corner of the Fields, and exactly opposite
the end of Brownlow Street. And by Mr. Brodribb’s account, Uyenishi, in
his flight, ran down Hand Court and returned up Brownlow Street, as if he
were making for the pump. As the latter is disused and the handle-hole is
high up, well out of the way of children, it offers quite a good temporary
hiding-place, and I had no doubt that the bag of pearls had been poked into
it and was probably there still. I was tempted to go at once and explore; but
I was anxious that the discovery should be made by Miss Bonney, herself,
and I did not dare to make a preliminary exploration for fear of being
shadowed. If I had found the treasure I should have had to take it and give it
to her; which would have been a flat ending to the adventure. So I had to
dissemble and be the occasion of much smothered objurgation on the part of
my friend, Brodribb. And that is the whole story of my interview with the
oracle.”

Our mantelpiece is becoming a veritable museum of trophies of victory,
the gifts of grateful clients. Among them is a squat, shapeless figure of a
Japanese gentleman of the old school, with a silly, grinning little face—The
Magic Casket. But its possession is no longer a menace. Its sting has been
drawn; its magic is exploded; its secret is exposed, and its glory departed.

II.
THE CONTENTS OF A MARE’S NEST

“It is very unsatisfactory,” said Mr. Stalker, of the ‘Griffin’ Life Assurance
Company, at the close of a consultation on a doubtful claim. “I suppose we
shall have to pay up.”
“I am sure you will,” said Thorndyke. “The death was properly certified,
the deceased is buried, and you have not a single fact with which to support
an application for further inquiry.”
“No,” Stalker agreed. “But I am not satisfied. I don’t believe that doctor
really knew what she died from. I wish cremation were more usual.”
“So, I have no doubt, has many a poisoner,” Thorndyke remarked dryly.
Stalker laughed, but stuck to his point. “I know you don’t agree,” said he,
“but from our point of view it is much more satisfactory to know that the
extra precautions have been taken. In a cremation case, you have not to
depend on the mere death certificate; you have the cause of death verified
by an independent authority, and it is difficult to see how any miscarriage
can occur.”
Thorndyke shook his head. “It is a delusion, Stalker. You can’t provide in
advance for unknown contingencies. In practice, your special precautions
degenerate into mere formalities. If the circumstances of a death appear
normal, the independent authority will certify; if they appear abnormal, you
won’t get a certificate at all. And if suspicion arises only after the cremation
has taken place, it can neither be confirmed nor rebutted.”
“My point is,” said Stalker, “that the searching examination would lead
to discovery of a crime before cremation.”
“That is the intention,” Thorndyke admitted. “But no examination, short
of an exhaustive post-mortem, would make it safe to destroy a body so that
no reconsideration of the cause of death would be possible.”

Stalker smiled as he picked up his hat. “Well,” he said, “to a cobbler
there is nothing like leather, and I suppose that to a toxicologist there is
nothing like an exhumation,” and with this parting shot he took his leave.
We had not seen the last of him, however. In the course of the same week
he looked in to consult us on a fresh matter.
“A rather queer case has turned up,” said he. “I don’t know that we are
deeply concerned in it, but we should like to have your opinion as to how
we stand. The position is this: Eighteen months ago, a man named Ingle
insured with us for fifteen hundred pounds, and he was then accepted as a
first-class life. He has recently died—apparently from heart failure, the
heart being described as fatty and dilated—and his wife, Sibyl, who is the
sole legatee and executrix, has claimed payment. But just as we were
making arrangements to pay, a caveat has been entered by a certain
Margaret Ingle, who declares that she is the wife of the deceased and claims
the estate as next-of-kin. She states that the alleged wife, Sibyl, is a widow
named Huggard who contracted a bigamous marriage with the deceased,
knowing that he had a wife living.”
“An interesting situation,” commented Thorndyke, “but, as you say, it
doesn’t particularly concern you. It is a matter for the Probate Court.”
“Yes,” agreed Stalker. “But that is not all. Margaret Ingle not only
charges the other woman with bigamy; she accuses her of having made
away with the deceased.”
“On what grounds?”
“Well, the reasons she gives are rather shadowy. She states that Sibyl’s
husband, James Huggard, died under suspicious circumstances—there
seems to have been some suspicion that he had been poisoned—and she
asserts that Ingle was a healthy, sound man and could not have died from
the causes alleged.”
“There is some reason in that,” said Thorndyke, “if he was really a first-
class life only eighteen months ago. As to the first husband, Huggard, we
should want some particulars: as to whether there was an inquest, what was
the alleged cause of death, and what grounds there were for suspecting that
he had been poisoned. If there really were any suspicious circumstances, it
would be advisable to apply to the Home Office for an order to exhume the
body of Ingle and verify the cause of death.”
Stalker smiled somewhat sheepishly. “Unfortunately,” said he, “that is
not possible. Ingle was cremated.”

“Ah!” said Thorndyke, “that is, as you say, unfortunate. It clearly
increases the suspicion of poisoning, but destroys the means of verifying
that suspicion.”
“I should tell you,” said Stalker, “that the cremation was in accordance
with the provisions of the will.”
“That is not very material,” replied Thorndyke. “In fact, it rather
accentuates the suspicious aspect of the case; for the knowledge that the
death of the deceased would be followed by cremation might act as a
further inducement to get rid of him by poison. There were two death
certificates, of course?”
“Yes. The confirmatory certificate was given by Dr. Halbury, of Wimpole
Street. The medical attendant was a Dr. Barber, of Howland Street. The
deceased lived in Stock-Orchard Crescent, Holloway.”
“A good distance from Howland Street,” Thorndyke remarked. “Do you
know if Halbury made a post-mortem? I don’t suppose he did.”
“No, he didn’t,” replied Stalker.
“Then,” said Thorndyke, “his certificate is worthless. You can’t tell
whether a man has died from heart failure by looking at his dead body. He
must have just accepted the opinion of the medical attendant. Do I
understand that you want me to look into this case?”
“If you will. It is not really our concern whether or not the man was
poisoned, though I suppose we should have a claim on the estate of the
murderer. But we should like you to investigate the case; though how the
deuce you are going to do it I don’t quite see.”
“Neither do I,” said Thorndyke. “However, we must get into touch with
the doctors who signed the certificates, and possibly they may be able to
clear the whole matter up.”
“Of course,” said I, “there is the other body—that of Huggard—which
might be exhumed—unless he was cremated, too.”
“Yes,” agreed Thorndyke; “and for the purposes of the criminal law,
evidence of poisoning in that case would be sufficient. But it would hardly
help the Griffin Company, which is concerned exclusively with Ingle
deceased. Can you let us have a précis of the facts relating to this case,
Stalker?”
“I have brought one with me,” was the reply; “a short statement, giving
names, addresses, dates, and other particulars. Here it is”; and he handed
Thorndyke a sheet of paper bearing a tabulated statement.

When Stalker had gone Thorndyke glanced rapidly through the précis
and then looked at his watch. “If we make our way to Wimpole Street at
once,” said he, “we ought to catch Halbury. That is obviously the first thing
to do. He signed the ‘C’ certificate, and we shall be able to judge from what
he tells us whether there is any possibility of foul play. Shall we start now?”
As I assented, he slipped the précis in his pocket and we set forth. At the
top of Middle Temple Lane we chartered a taxi by which we were shortly
deposited at Dr. Halbury’s door, and a few minutes later were ushered into
his consulting room, and found him shovelling a pile of letters into the
waste-paper basket.
“How d’ye do?” he said briskly, holding out his hand. “I’m up to my eyes
in arrears, you see. Just back from my holiday. What can I do for you?”
“We have called,” said Thorndyke, “about a man named Ingle.”
“Ingle—Ingle,” repeated Halbury. “Now, let me see——”
“Stock-Orchard Crescent, Holloway,” Thorndyke explained.
“Oh, yes. I remember him. Well, how is he?”
“He’s dead,” replied Thorndyke.
“Is he really?” exclaimed Halbury. “Now that shows how careful one
should be in one’s judgments. I half suspected that fellow of malingering.
He was supposed to have a dilated heart, but I couldn’t make out any
appreciable dilatation. There was excited, irregular action. That was all. I
had a suspicion that he had been dosing himself with trinitrine. Reminded
me of the cases of cordite chewing that I used to meet with in South Africa.
So he’s dead, after all. Well, it’s queer. Do you know what the exact cause
of death was?”
“Failure of a dilated heart is the cause stated on the certificates—the
body was cremated; and the ‘C’ Certificate was signed by you.”
“By me!” exclaimed the physician. “Nonsense! It’s a mistake. I signed a
certificate for a Friendly Society—Mrs. Ingle brought it here for me to sign
—but I didn’t even know he was dead. Besides, I went away for my holiday
a few days after I saw the man, and only came back yesterday. What makes
you think I signed the death certificate?”
Thorndyke produced Stalker’s précis and handed it to Halbury, who read
out his own name and address with a puzzled frown. “This is an
extraordinary affair,” said he. “It will have to be looked into.”
“It will, indeed,” assented Thorndyke; “especially as a suspicion of
poisoning has been raised.”

“Ha!” exclaimed Halbury. “Then it was trinitrine, you may depend. But I
suspected him unjustly. It was somebody else who was dosing him; perhaps
that sly-looking baggage of a wife of his. Is anyone in particular
suspected?”
“Yes. The accusation, such as it is, is against the wife.”
“H’m. Probably a true bill. But she’s done us. Artful devil. You can’t get
much evidence out of an urnful of ashes. Still, somebody has forged my
signature. I suppose that is what the hussy wanted that certificate for—to
get a specimen of my handwriting. I see the ‘B’ certificate was signed by a
man named Meeking. Who’s he? It was Barber who called me in for an
opinion.”
“I must find out who he is,” replied Thorndyke. “Possibly Dr. Barber will
know. I shall go and call on him now.”
“Yes,” said Dr. Halbury, shaking hands as we rose to depart, “you ought
to see Barber. He knows the history of the case, at any rate.”
From Wimpole Street we steered a course for Howland Street, and here
we had the good fortune to arrive just as Dr. Barber’s car drew up at the
door. Thorndyke introduced himself and me, and then introduced the
subject of his visit, but said nothing, at first, about our call on Dr. Halbury.
“Ingle,” repeated Dr. Barber. “Oh, yes, I remember him. And you say he
is dead. Well, I’m rather surprised. I didn’t regard his condition as serious.”
“Was his heart dilated?” Thorndyke asked.
“Not appreciably. I found nothing organic; no valvular disease. It was
more like a tobacco heart. But it’s odd that Meeking didn’t mention the
matter to me—he was my locum, you know. I handed the case over to him
when I went on my holiday. And you say he signed the death certificate?”
“Yes; and the ‘B’ certificate for cremation, too.”
“Very odd,” said Dr. Barber. “Just come in and let us have a look at the
day book.”
We followed him into the consulting room, and there, while he was
turning over the leaves of the day book, I ran my eye along the shelf over
the writing-table from which he had taken it; on which I observed the usual
collection of case books and books of certificates and notification forms,
including the book of death certificates.
“Yes,” said Dr. Barber, “here we are; ‘Ingle, Mr., Stock-Orchard
Crescent.’ The last visit was on the 4th of September, and Meeking seems to

have given some sort of certificate. Wonder if he used a printed form.” He
took down two of the books and turned over the counterfoils.
“Here we are,” he said presently; “ ‘Ingle, Jonathan, 4th September. Now
recovered and able to resume duties.’ That doesn’t look like dying, does it?
Still, we may as well make sure.”
He reached down the book of death certificates and began to glance
through the most recent entries.
“No,” he said, turning over the leaves, “there doesn’t seem to be——
Hullo! What’s this? Two blank counterfoils; and about the date, too;
between the 2nd and 13th of September. Extraordinary! Meeking is such a
careful, reliable man.”
He turned back to the day book and read through the fortnight’s entries.
Then he looked up with an anxious frown.
“I can’t make this out,” he said. “There is no record of any patient having
died in that period.”
“Where is Dr. Meeking at present?” I asked.
“Somewhere in the South Atlantic,” replied Barber. “He left here three
weeks ago to take up a post on a Royal Mail Boat. So he couldn’t have
signed the certificate in any case.”
That was all that Dr. Barber had to tell us, and a few minutes later we
took our departure.
“This case looks pretty fishy,” I remarked, as we turned down Tottenham
Court Road.
“Yes,” Thorndyke agreed. “There is evidently something radically wrong.
And what strikes me especially is the cleverness of the fraud; the
knowledge and judgment and foresight that are displayed.”
“She took pretty considerable risks,” I observed.
“Yes, but only the risks that were unavoidable. Everything that could be
foreseen has been provided for. All the formalities have been complied with
—in appearance. And you must notice, Jervis, that the scheme did actually
succeed. The cremation has taken place. Nothing but the incalculable
accident of the appearance of the real Mrs. Ingle and her vague and
apparently groundless suspicions, prevented the success from being final. If
she had not come on the scene, no questions would ever have been asked.”
“No,” I agreed. “The discovery of the plot is a matter of sheer bad luck.
But what do you suppose has really happened?”
Thorndyke shook his head.

“It is very difficult to say. The mechanism of the affair is obvious
enough, but the motives and purpose are rather incomprehensible. The
illness was apparently a sham, the symptoms being produced by nitro-
glycerine or some similar heart poison. The doctors were called in, partly
for the sake of appearances and partly to get specimens of their
handwriting. The fact that both the doctors happened to be away from home
and one of them at sea at the time when verbal questions might have been
asked—by the undertaker, for instance—suggests that this had been
ascertained in advance. The death certificate forms were pretty certainly
stolen by the woman when she was left alone in Barber’s consulting room,
and, of course, the cremation certificates could be obtained on application
to the crematorium authorities. That is all plain sailing. The mystery is,
what is it all about? Barber or Meeking would almost certainly have given a
death certificate, although the death was unexpected, and I don’t suppose
Halbury would have refused to confirm it. They would have assumed that
their diagnosis had been at fault.”
“Do you think it could have been suicide, or an inadvertent overdose of
trinitrine?”
“Hardly. If it was suicide, it was deliberate, for the purpose of getting the
insurance money for the woman, unless there was some further motive
behind. And the cremation, with all its fuss and formalities, is against
suicide; while the careful preparation seems to exclude inadvertent
poisoning. Then, what was the motive for the sham illness except as a
preparation for an abnormal death?”
“That is true,” said I. “But if you reject suicide, isn’t it rather remarkable
that the victim should have provided for his own cremation?”
“We don’t know that he did,” replied Thorndyke. “There is a suggestion
of a capable forger in this business. It is quite possible that the will itself is
a forgery.”
“So it is!” I exclaimed. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
“You see,” continued Thorndyke, “the appearances suggest that
cremation was a necessary part of the programme; otherwise these
extraordinary risks would not have been taken. The woman was sole
executrix and could have ignored the cremation clause. But if the cremation
was necessary, why was it necessary? The suggestion is that there was
something suspicious in the appearance of the body; something that the

doctors would certainly have observed or that would have been discovered
if an exhumation had taken place.”
“You mean some injury or visible signs of poisoning?”
“I mean something discoverable by examination even after burial.”
“But what about the undertaker? Wouldn’t he have noticed anything
palpably abnormal?”
“An excellent suggestion, Jervis. We must see the undertaker. We have
his address: Kentish Town Road—a long way from deceased’s house, by
the way. We had better get on a bus and go there now.”
A yellow omnibus was approaching as he spoke. We hailed it and sprang
on, continuing our discussion as we were borne northward.
Mr. Burrell, the undertaker, was a pensive-looking, profoundly civil man
who was evidently in a small way, for he combined with his funereal
functions general carpentry and cabinet making. He was perfectly willing to
give any required information, but he seemed to have very little to give.
“I never really saw the deceased gentleman,” he said in reply to
Thorndyke’s cautious inquiries. “When I took the measurements, the corpse
was covered with a sheet; and as Mrs. Ingle was in the room, I made the
business as short as possible.”
“You didn’t put the body in the coffin, then?”
“No. I left the coffin at the house, but Mrs. Ingle said that she and the
deceased gentleman’s brother would lay the body in it.”
“But didn’t you see the corpse when you screwed the coffin-lid down?”
“I didn’t screw it down. When I got there it was screwed down already.
Mrs. Ingle said they had to close up the coffin, and I dare say it was
necessary. The weather was rather warm; and I noticed a strong smell of
formalin.”
“Well,” I said, as we walked back down the Kentish Town Road, “we
haven’t got much more forward.”
“I wouldn’t say that,” replied Thorndyke. “We have a further instance of
the extraordinary adroitness with which this scheme was carried out; and
we have confirmation of our suspicion that there was something unusual in
the appearance of the body. It is evident that this woman did not dare to let
even the undertaker see it. But one can hardly help admiring the
combination of daring and caution, the boldness with which these risks
were taken, and the care and judgment with which they were provided

against. And again I point out that the risks were justified by the result. The
secret of that man’s death appears to have been made secure for all time.”
It certainly looked as if the mystery with which we were concerned were
beyond the reach of investigation. Of course, the woman could be
prosecuted for having forged the death certificates, to say nothing of the
charge of bigamy. But that was no concern of ours or Stalker’s. Jonathan
Ingle was dead, and no one could say how he died.
On our arrival at our chambers we found a telegram that had just arrived,
announcing that Stalker would call on us in the evening; and as this seemed
to suggest that he had some fresh information we looked forward to his visit
with considerable interest. Punctually at six o’clock he made his appearance
and at once opened the subject.
“There are some new developments in this Ingle case,” said he. “In the
first place, the woman, Huggard, has bolted. I went to the house to make a
few inquiries and found the police in possession. They had come to arrest
her on the bigamy charge, but she had got wind of their intentions and
cleared out. They made a search of the premises, but I don’t think they
found anything of interest except a number of rifle cartridges; and I don’t
know that they are of much interest either, for she could hardly have shot
him with a rifle.”
“What kind of cartridges were they?” Thorndyke asked.
Stalker put his hand in his pocket.
“The inspector let me have one to show you,” said he; and he laid on the
table a military cartridge of the pattern of some twenty years ago.
Thorndyke picked it up, and taking from a drawer a pair of pliers drew the
bullet out of the case and inserted into the latter a pair of dissecting forceps.
When he withdrew the forceps, their points grasped one or two short strings
of what looked like cat-gut.
“Cordite!” said I. “So Halbury was probably right, and this is how she
got her supply.” Then, as Stalker looked at me inquiringly, I gave him a
short account of the results of our investigations.
“Ha!” he exclaimed, “the plot thickens. This juggling with the death
certificates seems to connect itself with another kind of juggling that I came
to tell you about. You know that Ingle was Secretary and Treasurer to a
company that bought and sold land for building estates. Well, I called at
their office after I left you and had a little talk with the chairman. From him
I learned that Ingle had practically complete control of the financial affairs

of the company, that he received and paid all moneys and kept the books.
Of late, however, some of the directors have had a suspicion that all was not
well with the finances, and at last it was decided to have the affairs of the
company thoroughly overhauled by a firm of chartered accountants. This
decision was communicated to Ingle, and a couple of days later a letter
arrived from his wife saying that he had had a severe heart attack and
asking that the audit of the books might be postponed until he recovered
and was able to attend at the office.”
“And was it postponed?” I asked.
“No,” replied Stalker. “The accountants were asked to get to work at
once, which they did; with the result that they discovered a number of
discrepancies in the books and a sum of about three thousand pounds
unaccounted for. It isn’t quite obvious how the frauds were carried out, but
it is suspected that some of the returned cheques are fakes with forged
endorsements.”
“Did the company communicate with Ingle on the subject?” asked
Thorndyke.
“No. They had a further letter from Mrs. Ingle—that is, Huggard—saying
that Ingle’s condition was very serious; so they decided to wait until he had
recovered. Then, of course, came the announcement of his death, on which
the matter was postponed pending the probate of the will. I suppose a claim
will be made on the estate, but as the executrix has absconded, the affair has
become rather complicated.”
“You were saying,” said Thorndyke, “that the fraudulent death
certificates seem to be connected with these frauds on the company. What
kind of connexion do you assume?”
“I assume—or, at least, suggest,” replied Stalker, “that this was a case of
suicide. The man, Ingle, saw that his frauds were discovered, or were going
to be, and that he was in for a long term of penal servitude, so he just made
away with himself. And I think that if the murder charge could be dropped,
Mrs. Huggard might be induced to come forward and give evidence as to
the suicide.”
Thorndyke shook his head.
“The murder charge couldn’t be dropped,” said he. “If it was suicide,
Huggard was certainly an accessory; and in law, an accessory to suicide is
an accessory to murder. But, in fact, no official charge of murder has been
made, and at present there are no means of sustaining such a charge. The

identity of the ashes might be assumed to be that stated in the cremation
order, but the difficulty is the cause of death. Ingle was admittedly ill. He
was attended for heart disease by three doctors. There is no evidence that he
did not die from that illness.”
“But the illness was due to cordite poisoning,” said I.
“That is what we believe. But no one could swear to it. And we certainly
could not swear that he died from cordite poisoning.”
“Then,” said Stalker, “apparently there is no means of finding out
whether his death was due to natural causes, suicide, or murder?”
“There is only one chance,” replied Thorndyke. “It is just barely possible
that the cause of death might be ascertainable by an examination of the
ashes.”
“That doesn’t seem very hopeful,” said I. “Cordite poisoning would
certainly leave no trace.”
“We mustn’t assume that he died from cordite poisoning,” said
Thorndyke. “Probably he did not. That may have masked the action of a
less obvious poison, or death might have been produced by some new
agent.”
“But,” I objected, “how many poisons are there that could be detected in
the ashes? No organic poison would leave any traces, nor would metallic
poisons such as mercury, antimony, or arsenic.”
“No,” Thorndyke agreed. “But there are other metallic poisons which
could be easily recovered from the ashes; lead, tin, gold, and silver, for
instance. But it is useless to discuss speculative probabilities. The only
chance that we have of obtaining any new facts is by an examination of the
ashes. It seems infinitely improbable that we shall learn anything from it,
but there is the bare possibility and we ought not to leave it untried.”
Neither Stalker nor I made any further remark, but I could see that the
same thought was in both our minds. It was not often that Thorndyke was
“gravelled”; but apparently the resourceful Mrs. Huggard had set him a
problem that was beyond even his powers. When an investigator of crime is
reduced to the necessity of examining a potful of ashes in the wild hope of
ascertaining from them how the deceased met his death, one may assume
that he is at the very end of his tether. It is a forlorn hope indeed.
Nevertheless, Thorndyke seemed to view the matter quite cheerfully, his
only anxiety being lest the Home Secretary should refuse to make the order
authorizing the examination. And this anxiety was dispelled a day or two

later by the arrival of a letter giving the necessary authority, and informing
him that a Dr. Hemming—known to us both as an expert pathologist—had
been deputed to be present at the examination and to confer with him as to
the necessity for a chemical analysis.
On the appointed day Dr. Hemming called at our chambers and we set
forth together for Liverpool Street; and as we drove thither it became
evident to me that his view of our mission was very similar to my own. For,
though he talked freely enough, and on professional topics, he maintained a
most discreet silence on the subject of the forthcoming inspection; indeed,
the first reference to the subject was made by Thorndyke himself just as the
train was approaching Corfield, where the crematorium was situated.
“I presume,” said he, “you have made all necessary arrangements,
Hemming?”
“Yes,” was the reply. “The superintendent will meet us and will conduct
us to the catacombs, and there, in our presence, will take the casket from its
niche in the columbarium, and have it conveyed to the office, where the
examination will be made. I thought it best to use these formalities, though,
as the casket is sealed and bears the name of the deceased, there is not much
point in them.”
“No,” said Thorndyke, “but I think you were right. It would be easy to
challenge the identity of a mass of ashes if all precautions were not taken,
seeing that the ashes themselves are unidentifiable.”
“That was what I felt,” said Hemming; and then, as the train slowed
down, he added: “This is our station, and that gentleman on the platform, I
suspect, is the superintendent.”
The surmise turned out to be correct; but the cemetery official was not
the only one present bearing that title; for as we were mutually introducing
ourselves, a familiar tall figure approached up the platform from the rear of
the train—our old friend Superintendent Miller of the Criminal
Investigation Department.
“I don’t wish to intrude,” said he, as he joined the group and was
presented by Thorndyke to the strangers, “but we were notified by the
Home Office that an investigation was to be made, so I thought I would be
on the spot to pick up any crumbs of information that you may drop. Of
course, I am not asking to be present at the examination.”
“You may as well be present as an additional witness to the removal of
the urn,” said Thorndyke; and Miller accordingly joined the party, which

now made its way from the station to the cemetery.
The catacombs were in a long, low arcaded building at the end of the
pleasantly-wooded grounds, and on our way thither we passed the
crematorium, a smallish, church-like edifice with a perforated chimney-
shaft partly concealed by the low spire. Entering the catacombs, we were
conducted to the “columbarium,” the walls of which were occupied by a
multitude of niches or pigeon-holes, each niche accommodating a terra-
cotta urn or casket. The superintendent proceeded to near the end of the
gallery, where he halted, and opening the register, which he had brought
with him, read out a number and the name “Jonathan Ingle,” and then led us
to a niche bearing that number and name, in which reposed a square casket,
on which was inscribed the name and date of death. When we had verified
these particulars, the casket was tenderly lifted from its place by two
attendants, who carried it to a well-lighted room at the end of the building,
where a large table by a window had been covered with white paper.
Having placed the casket on the table, the attendants retired, and the
superintendent then broke the seals and removed the cover.
For a while we all stood looking in at the contents of the casket without
speaking; and I found myself contrasting them with what would have been
revealed by the lifting of a coffin-lid. Truly corruption had put on
incorruption. The mass of snow-white, coral-like fragments, delicate,
fragile, and lace-like in texture, so far from being repulsive in aspect, were
almost attractive. I ran my eye, with an anatomist’s curiosity, over these
dazzling remnants of what had lately been a man, half-unconsciously
seeking to identify and give a name to particular fragments, and a little
surprised at the difficulty of determining that this or that irregularly-shaped
white object was a part of any one of the bones with which I had thought
myself so familiar.
Presently Hemming looked up at Thorndyke and asked: “Do you observe
anything abnormal in the appearance of these ashes? I don’t.”
“Perhaps,” replied Thorndyke, “we had better turn them out on to the
table, so that we can see the whole of them.”
This was done very gently, and then Thorndyke proceeded to spread out
the heap, touching the fragments with the utmost delicacy—for they were
extremely fragile and brittle—until the whole collection was visible.
“Well,” said Hemming, when we had once more looked them over
critically, “what do you say? I can see no trace of any foreign substance.

Can you?”
“No,” replied Thorndyke. “And there are some other things that I can’t
see. For instance, the medical referee reported that the proposer had a good
set of sound teeth. Where are they? I have not seen a single fragment of a
tooth. Yet teeth are far more resistant to fire than bones, especially the
enamel caps.”
Hemming ran a searching glance over the mass of fragments and looked
up with a perplexed frown.
“I certainly can’t see any sign of teeth,” he admitted; “and it is rather
curious, as you say. Does the fact suggest any particular significance to
you?”
By way of reply, Thorndyke delicately picked up a flat fragment and
silently held it out towards us. I looked at it and said nothing; for a very
strange suspicion was beginning to creep into my mind.
“A piece of a rib,” said Hemming. “Very odd that it should have broken
across so cleanly. It might have been cut with a saw.”
Thorndyke laid it down and picked up another, larger fragment, which I
had already noticed.
“Here is another example,” said he, handing it to our colleague.
“Yes,” agreed Hemming. “It is really rather extraordinary. It looks
exactly as if it had been sawn across.”
“It does,” agreed Thorndyke. “What bone should you say it is?”
“That is what I was just asking myself,” replied Hemming, looking at the
fragment with a sort of half-vexed smile. “It seems ridiculous that a
competent anatomist should be in any doubt with as large a portion as this,
but really I can’t confidently give it a name. The shape seems to me to
suggest a tibia, but of course it is much too small. Is it the upper end of the
ulna?”
“I should say no,” answered Thorndyke. Then he picked out another of
the larger fragments, and handing it to Hemming, asked him to name it.
Our friend began to look somewhat worried.
“It is an extraordinary thing, you know,” said he, “but I can’t tell you
what bone it is part of. It is clearly the shaft of a long bone, but I’m hanged
if I can say which. It is too big for a metatarsal and too small for any of the
main limb bones. It reminds one of a diminutive thigh bone.”
“It does,” agreed Thorndyke; “very strongly.” While Hemming had been
speaking he had picked out four more large fragments, and these he now

laid in a row with the one that had seemed to resemble a tibia in shape.
Placed thus together, the five fragments bore an obvious resemblance.
“Now,” said he, “look at these. There are five of them. They are parts of
limb bones, and the bones of which they are parts were evidently exactly
alike, excepting that three were apparently from the left side and two from
the right. Now, you know, Hemming, a man has only four limbs, and of
those only two contain similar bones. Then two of them show distinct traces
of what looks like a saw-cut.”
Hemming gazed at the row of fragments with a frown of deep cogitation.
“It is very mysterious,” he said. “And looking at them in a row they
strike me as curiously like tibiæ—in shape; not in size.”
“The size,” said Thorndyke, “is about that of a sheep’s tibia.”
“A sheep’s!” exclaimed Hemming, staring in amazement, first at the
calcined bones and then at my colleague.
“Yes; the upper half, sawn across in the middle of the shank.”
Hemming was thunderstruck.
“It is an astounding affair!” he exclaimed. “You mean to suggest——”
“I suggest,” said Thorndyke, “that there is not a sign of a human bone in
the whole collection. But there are very evident traces of at least five legs of
mutton.”
For a few moments there was a profound silence, broken only by a
murmur of astonishment from the cemetery official and a low chuckle from
Superintendent Miller, who had been listening with absorbed interest. At
length Hemming spoke.
“Then, apparently, there was no corpse in the coffin at all?”
“No,” answered Thorndyke. “The weight was made up, and the ashes
furnished, by joints of butcher’s meat. I dare say, if we go over the ashes
carefully, we shall be able to judge what they were. But it is hardly
necessary. The presence of five legs of mutton and the absence of a single
recognizable fragment of a human skeleton, together with the forged
certificates, gives us a pretty conclusive case. The rest, I think we can leave
to Superintendent Miller.”

“I take it, Thorndyke,” said I, as the train moved out of the station, “that
you came here expecting to find what you did find?”
“Yes,” he replied. “It seemed to me the only possibility, having regard to
all the known facts.”

“When did it first occur to you?”
“It occurred to me as a possibility as soon as we discovered that the
cremation certificates had been forged; but it was the undertaker’s statement
that seemed to clench the matter.”
“But he distinctly stated that he measured the body.”
“True. But there was nothing to show that it was a dead body. What was
perfectly clear was that there was something that must on no account be
seen; and when Stalker told us of the embezzlement we had a body of
evidence that could point to only one conclusion. Just consider that
evidence.
“Here we had a death, preceded by an obviously sham illness and
followed by cremation with forged certificates. Now, what was it that had
happened? There were four possible hypotheses. Normal death, suicide,
murder, and fictitious death. Which of these hypotheses fitted the facts?
“Normal death was apparently excluded by the forged certificates.
“The theory of suicide did not account for the facts. It did not agree with
the careful, elaborate preparation. And why the forged certificates? If Ingle
had really died, Meeking would have certified the death. And why the
cremation? There was no purpose in taking those enormous risks.
“The theory of murder was unthinkable. These certificates were almost
certainly forged by Ingle himself, who we know was a practised forger. But
the idea of the victim arranging for his own cremation is an absurdity.
“There remained only the theory of fictitious death; and that theory fitted
all the facts perfectly. First, as to the motive. Ingle had committed a felony.
He had to disappear. But what kind of disappearance could be so effectual
as death and cremation? Both the prosecutors and the police would
forthwith write him off and forget him. Then there was the bigamy—a
criminal offence in itself. But death would not only wipe that off; after
‘death’ he could marry Huggard regularly under another name, and he
would have shaken off his deserted wife for ever. And he stood to gain
fifteen hundred pounds from the Insurance Company. Then see how this
theory explained the other facts. A fictitious death made necessary a
fictitious illness. It necessitated the forged certificates, since there was no
corpse. It made cremation highly desirable; for suspicion might easily have
arisen, and then the exhumation of a coffin containing a dummy would have
exploded the fraud. But successful cremation would cover up the fraud for

ever. It explained the concealment of the corpse from the undertaker, and it
even explained the smell of formalin which he noticed.”
“How did it?” I asked.
“Consider, Jervis,” he replied. “The dummy in this coffin had to be a
dummy of flesh and bone which would yield the correct kind of ash. Joints
of butcher’s meat would fulfil the conditions. But the quantity required
would be from a hundred and fifty to two hundred pounds. Now Ingle could
not go to the butcher and order a whole sheep to be sent the day before the
funeral. The joints would have to be bought gradually and stored. But the
storage of meat in warm weather calls for some kind of preservative; and
formalin is highly effective, as it leaves no trace after burning.
“So you see that the theory of fictitious death agreed with all the known
circumstances, whereas the alternative theories presented inexplicable
discrepancies and contradictions. Logically, it was the only possible theory,
and as you have seen, experiment proved it to be the true one.”
As Thorndyke concluded, Dr. Hemming took his pipe from his mouth
and laughed softly.
“When I came down to-day,” said he, “I had all the facts which you had
communicated to the Home Office, and I was absolutely convinced that we
were coming to examine a mare’s nest. And yet, now I have heard your
exposition, the whole thing looks perfectly obvious.”
“That is usually the case with Thorndyke’s conclusions,” said I. “They
are perfectly obvious—when you have heard the explanation.”
Within a week of our expedition, Ingle was in the hands of the police.
The apparent success of the cremation adventure had misled him to a sense
of such complete security that he had neglected to cover his tracks, and he
had accordingly fallen an easy prey to our friend Superintendent Miller. The
police were highly gratified, and so were the directors of the Griffin Life
Assurance Company.

III.
THE STALKING HORSE

As Thorndyke and I descended the stairs of the footbridge at Densford
Junction we became aware that something unusual had happened. The
platform was nearly deserted save at one point, where a small but dense
crowd had collected around the open door of a first-class compartment of
the down train; heads were thrust out of the windows of the other coaches,
and at intervals doors opened and inquisitive passengers ran along to join
the crowd, from which an excited porter detached himself just as we
reached the platform.
“You’d better go for Dr. Pooke first,” the station-master called after him.
On this, Thorndyke stepped forward.
“My friend and I,” said he, “are medical men. Can we be of any service
until the local doctor arrives?”
“I’m very much afraid not, sir,” was the reply, “but you’ll see.” He
cleared a way for us and we approached the open door.
At the first glance there appeared to be nothing to account for the awe-
stricken expression with which the bystanders peered into the carriage and
gazed at its solitary occupant. For the motionless figure that sat huddled in
the corner seat, chin on breast, might have been a sleeping man. But it was
not. The waxen pallor of the face and the strange, image-like immobility
forbade the hope of any awakening.
“It looks almost as if he had passed away in his sleep,” said the station-
master when we had concluded our brief examination and ascertained
certainly that the man was dead. “Do you think it was a heart attack, sir?”
Thorndyke shook his head and touched with his finger a depressed spot
on the dead man’s waistcoat. When he withdrew his finger it was smeared
with blood.

“Good God!” the official gasped, in a horrified whisper. “The man has
been murdered!” He stared incredulously at the corpse for a few moments
and then turned and sprang out of the compartment, shutting the door
behind him, and we heard him giving orders for the coach to be separated
and shunted into the siding.
“This is a gruesome affair, Jervis,” my colleague said as he sat down on
the seat opposite the dead man and cast a searching glance round the
compartment. “I wonder who this poor fellow was and what was the object
of the murder? It looks almost too determined for a common robbery; and,
in fact, the body does not appear to have been robbed.” Here he stooped
suddenly to pick up one or two minute fragments of glass which seemed to
have been trodden into the carpet, and which he examined closely in the
palm of his hand. I leaned over and looked at the fragments, and we agreed
that they were portions of the bulb of an electric torch or flash-lamp.
“The significance of these—if they have any,” said Thorndyke, “we can
consider later. But if they are recent, it would appear that the metal part of
the bulb has been picked up and taken away. That might be an important
fact. But, on the other hand, the fragments may have been here some time
and have no connexion with the tragedy; though you notice that they were
lying opposite the body and opposite the seat which the murderer must have
occupied when the crime was committed.”
As he was speaking, the uncoupled coach began slowly to move towards
the siding, and we both stooped to make a further search for the remainder
of the lamp-bulb. And then, almost at the same moment, we perceived two
objects lying under the opposite seat—the seat occupied by the dead man.
One was a small pocket-handkerchief, the other a sheet of notepaper.
“This,” said I, as I picked up the former, “accounts for the strong smell of
scent in the compartment.”
“Possibly,” Thorndyke agreed, “though you will notice that the odour
does not come principally from the handkerchief, but from the back cushion
of the corner seat. But here is something more distinctive—a most
incriminating piece of evidence, unless it can be answered by an undeniable
alibi.” He held out to me a sheet of letter paper, both pages of which were
covered with writing in bright blue ink, done with a Hectograph or some
similar duplicator. It was evidently a circular letter, for it bore the printed
heading, “Women’s Emancipation League, 16 Barnabas Square, S.W.,” and

the contents appeared to refer to a “militant demonstration” planned for the
near future.
“It is dated the day before yesterday,” commented Thorndyke, “so that it
might have been lying here for twenty-four hours, though that is obviously
improbable; and as this is neither the first sheet nor the last, there are—or
have been—at least two more sheets. The police will have something to
start on, at any rate.”
He laid the letter on the seat and explored both of the hat-racks, taking
down the dead man’s hat, gloves, and umbrella, and noting in the hat the
initials “F.B.” He had just replaced them when voices became audible
outside, and the station-master climbed up on the foot-board and opened the
door to admit two men, one of whom I assumed to be a doctor, the other
being a police inspector.
“The station-master tells me that this is a case of homicide,” said the
former, addressing us jointly.
“That is what the appearances suggest,” replied Thorndyke. “There is a
bullet wound, inflicted apparently at quite short range—the waistcoat is
perceptibly singed—and we have found no weapon in the compartment.”
The doctor stepped past us and proceeded to make a rapid examination of
the body.
“Yes,” he said, “I agree with you. The position of the wound and the
posture of the body both suggest that death was practically instantaneous. If
it had been suicide, the pistol would have been in the hand or on the floor.
There is no clue to the identity of the murderer, I suppose?”
“We found these on the floor under the dead man’s seat,” replied
Thorndyke, indicating the letter and the handkerchief; “and there is some
glass trodden into the carpet—apparently the remains of an electric flash-
lamp.”
The inspector pounced on the handkerchief and the letter, and having
scrutinized the former vainly in search of name or initials, turned to the
letter.
“Why, this is a suffragist’s letter!” he exclaimed. “But it can’t have
anything to do with this affair. They are mischievous beggars, but they
don’t do this sort of thing.” Nevertheless, he carefully bestowed both
articles in a massive wallet, and approaching the corpse, remarked: “We
may as well see who he is while we are waiting for the stretcher.”

With a matter-of-fact air, which seemed somewhat to shock the station-
master, he unbuttoned the coat of the passive figure in the corner and thrust
his hand into the breast pocket, drawing out a letter-case which he opened,
and from which he extracted a visiting card. As he glanced at it, his face
suddenly took on an expression of amazement.
“God!” he exclaimed in a startled tone. “Who do you think he is, doctor?
He is Mr. Francis Burnham!”
The doctor looked at him with an interrogative frown. “Burnham—
Burnham,” he repeated. “Let me see, now——”
“Don’t you know? The anti-suffrage man. Surely——”
“Yes, yes,” interrupted the doctor. “Of course I remember him. The arch-
enemy of the suffrage movement and—yes, of course.” The doctor’s brisk
speech changed abruptly into a hesitating mumble. Like the inspector, he
had suddenly “seen a great light”; and again, like the officer, his perception
had begotten a sudden reticence.
Thorndyke glanced at his watch. “Our train is a minute overdue,” said he.
“We ought to get back to the platform.” Taking a card from his case, he
handed it to the inspector, who looked at it and slightly raised his eyebrows.
“I don’t think my evidence will be of much value,” said he; “but, of
course, I am at your service if you want it.” With this and a bow to the
doctor and the station-master, he climbed down to the ground; and when I
had given the inspector my card, I followed, and we made our way to the
platform.

The case was not long in developing. That very evening, as Thorndyke
and I were smoking our after-dinner pipes by the fire, a hurried step was
heard on the stair and was followed by a peremptory knock on our door.
The visitor was a man of about thirty, with a clean-shaved face, an intense
and rather neurotic expression, and a restless, excited manner. He
introduced himself by the name of Cadmus Bawley, and thereby, in effect,
indicated the purpose of his visit.
“You know me by name, I expect,” he said, speaking rapidly and with a
sharp, emphatic manner, “and probably you can guess what I have come
about. You have seen the evening paper, of course?”
“I have not,” replied Thorndyke.
“Well,” said Mr. Bawley, “you know about the murder of the man
Burnham, because I see that you were present at the discovery; and you

know that part of a circular letter from our League was found in the
compartment. Perhaps you will not be surprised to learn that Miss Isabel
Dalby has been arrested and charged with the murder.”
“Indeed!” said Thorndyke.
“Yes. It’s an infamous affair! A national disgrace!” exclaimed Bawley,
banging the table with his fist. “A manifest plot of the enemies of social
reform to get rid of a high-minded, noble-hearted lady whose championship
of this great Cause they are unable to combat by fair means in the open.
And it is a wild absurdity, too. As to the fellow, Burnham, I can’t pretend to
feel any regret——”
“May I suggest”—Thorndyke interrupted somewhat stiffly—“that the
expression of personal sentiments is neither helpful nor discreet? My
methods of defence—if that is what you have come about—are based on
demonstration rather than rhetoric. Could you give us the plain facts?”
Mr. Cadmus Bawley looked unmistakably sulky, but after a short pause,
he began his recital in a somewhat lower key.
“The bald facts,” he said, “are these: This afternoon, at half-past two,
Miss Dalby took the train from King’s Cross to Holmwood. This is the train
that stops at Densford Junction and is the one in which Burnham travelled.
She took a first-class ticket and occupied a compartment for ladies only, of
which she was the only occupant. She got out at Holmwood and went
straight to the house of our Vice-President, Miss Carleigh—who has been
confined to her room for some days—and stayed there about an hour. She
came back by the four-fifteen train, and I met her at the station—King’s
Cross—at a quarter to five. We had tea at a restaurant opposite the station,
and over our tea we discussed the plans for the next demonstration, and
arranged the rendezvous and the most convenient routes for retreat and
dispersal when the police should arrive. This involved the making of sketch
plans, and these Miss Dalby drew on a sheet of paper that she took from her
pocket, and which happened to be part of the circular letter referring to the
raid. After tea we walked together down Gray’s Inn Road and parted at
Theobald’s Road, I going on to the head-quarters and she to her rooms in
Queen Square. On her arrival home, she found two detectives waiting
outside her house, and then—and then, in short, she was arrested, like a
common criminal, and taken to the police station, where she was searched
and the remainder of the circular letter found in her pocket. Then she was
formally charged with the murder of the man Burnham, and she was

graciously permitted to send a telegram to head-quarters. It arrived just after
I got there, and, of course, I at once went to the police station. The police
refused to accept bail, but they allowed me to see her to make arrangements
for the defence.”
“Does Miss Dalby offer any suggestion,” asked Thorndyke, “as to how a
sheet of her letter came to be in the compartment with the murdered man?”
“Oh, yes!” replied Mr. Bawley. “I had forgotten that. It wasn’t her letter
at all. She destroyed her copy of the letter as soon as she had read it.”
“Then,” inquired Thorndyke, “how came the letter to be in her pocket?”
“Ah,” replied Bawley, “that is the mystery. She thinks someone must
have slipped it into her pocket to throw suspicion on her.”
“Did she seem surprised to find it in her pocket when you were having
tea together?”
“No. She had forgotten having destroyed her copy. She only remembered
it when I told her that the sheet had been found in Burnham’s carriage.”
“Can she produce the fragments of the destroyed letter?”
“No, she can’t. Unfortunately she burned it.”
“Do these circular letters bear any distinguishing mark? Are they
addressed to members by name?”
“Only on the envelopes. The letters are all alike. They are run off a
duplicator. Of course, if you don’t believe the story——”
“I am not judging the case,” interrupted Thorndyke; “I am simply
collecting the facts. What do you want me to do?”
“If you feel that you could undertake the defence, I should like you to do
so. We shall employ the solicitors to the League, Bird & Marshall, but I
know they will be willing and glad to act with you.”
“Very well,” said Thorndyke. “I will investigate the case and consult with
your solicitors. By the way, do the police know about the sheet of the letter
on which the plans were drawn?”
“No. I thought it best to say nothing about that, and I have told Miss
Dalby not to mention it.”
“That is just as well,” said Thorndyke. “Have you the sheet with the plan
on it?”
“I haven’t it about me,” was the reply. “It is in my desk at my chambers.”
“You had better let me have it to look at,” said Thorndyke.
“You can have it if you want it, of course,” said Bawley, “but it won’t
help you. The letters are all alike, as I have told you.”

“I should like to see it, nevertheless,” said Thorndyke; “and perhaps you
could give me some account of Mr. Burnham. What do you know about
him?”
Mr. Bawley shut his lips tightly, and his face took on an expression of
vindictiveness verging on malignity.
“All I know about Burnham,” he said, “is that he was a fool and a ruffian.
He was not only an enemy of the great reform that our League stands for;
he was a treacherous enemy—violent, crafty, and indefatigably active. I can
only regard his death as a blessing to mankind.”
“May I ask,” said Thorndyke, “if any members of your League have ever
publicly threatened to take personal measures against him?”
“Yes,” snapped Bawley. “Several of us—including myself—have
threatened to give him the hiding that he deserved. But a hiding is a
different thing from murder, you know.”
“Yes,” Thorndyke agreed somewhat dryly; then he asked: “Do you know
anything about Mr. Burnham’s occupation and habits?”
“He was a sort of manager of the London and Suburban Bank. His job
was to supervise the suburban branches, and his habit was to visit them in
rotation. He was probably going to the branch at Holmwood when he was
killed. That is all I can tell you about him.”
“Thank you,” said Thorndyke; and as our visitor rose to depart he
continued: “Then I will look into the case and arrange with your solicitors
to have Miss Dalby properly represented at the inquest; and I shall be glad
to have that sheet of the letter as soon as you can send or leave it.”
“Very well,” said Bawley, “though, as I have told you, it won’t be of any
use to you. It is only a duplicated circular.”
“Possibly,” Thorndyke assented. “But the other sheets will be produced
in Court, so I may as well have an opportunity of examining it beforehand.”
For some minutes after our client had gone Thorndyke remained silent
and reflective, copying his rough notes into his pocket-book and apparently
amplifying and arranging them. Presently he looked up at me with an
unspoken question in his eyes.
“It is a queer case,” said I. “The circumstantial evidence seems to be
strongly against Miss Dalby, but it is manifestly improbable that she
murdered the man.”
“It seems so,” he agreed. “But the case will be decided on the evidence;
and the evidence will be considered by a judge, not by a Home Secretary.

You notice the importance of Burnham’s destination?”
“Yes. He was evidently dead when the train arrived at Holmwood. But it
isn’t clear how long he had been dead.”
“The evidence,” said Thorndyke, “points strongly to the tunnel between
Cawden and Holmwood as the place where the murder was committed. You
will remember that the up-express passed our train in the tunnel. If the
adjoining compartments were empty, the sound of a pistol shot would be
completely drowned by the noise of the express thundering past. Then you
will remember the fragments of the electric bulb that we picked up, and that
there was no light on in the carriage. That is rather significant. It not only
suggests that the crime was committed in the dark, but there is a distinct
suggestion of preparation—arrangement and premeditation. It suggests that
the murderer knew what the circumstances would be and provided for
them.”
“Yes; and that is rather a point against our client. But I don’t quite see
what you expect to get out of that sheet of the letter. It is the presence of the
letter, rather than its matter, that constitutes the evidence against Miss
Dalby.”
“I don’t expect to learn anything from it,” replied Thorndyke; “but the
letter will be the prosecution’s trump card, and it is always well to know in
advance exactly what cards your opponent holds. It is a mere matter of
routine to examine everything, relevant or irrelevant.”

The inquest was to be held at Densford on the third day after the
discovery of the body. But in the interval certain new facts had come to
light. One was that the deceased was conveying to the Holmwood branch of
the bank a sum of three thousand pounds, of which one thousand was in
gold and the remainder in Bank of England notes, the whole being
contained in a leather handbag. This bag had been found, empty, in a ditch
by the side of the road which led from the station to the house of Miss
Carleigh, the Vice-President of the Women’s Emancipation League. It was
further stated that the ticket-collector at Holmwood had noticed that Miss
Dalby—whom he knew by sight—was carrying a bag of the kind described
when she passed the barrier, and that when she returned, about an hour later,
she had no bag with her. On the other hand, Miss Carleigh had stated that
the bag which Miss Dalby brought to her house was her (Miss Carleigh’s)
property, and she had produced it for the inspection of the police. So that

already there was some conflict of evidence, with a balance distinctly
against Miss Dalby.
“There is no denying,” said Thorndyke, as we discussed the case at the
breakfast table on the morning of the inquest, “that the circumstantial
evidence is formidably complete and consistent, while the rebutting
evidence is of the feeblest. Miss Dalby’s statement that the letter had been
put into her pocket by some unknown person will hardly be taken seriously,
and even Miss Carleigh’s statement with reference to the bag will not carry
much weight unless she can furnish corroboration.”
“Nevertheless,” said I, “the general probabilities are entirely in favour of
the accused. It is grossly improbable that a lady like Miss Dalby would
commit a robbery with murder of this cold-blooded, deliberate type.”
“That may be,” Thorndyke retorted, “but a jury has to find in accordance
with the evidence.”
“By the way,” said I, “did Bawley ever send you that sheet of the letter
that you asked for?”
“No, confound him! But I have sent Polton round to get it from him, so
that I can look it over carefully in the train. Which reminds me that I can’t
get down in time for the opening of the inquest. You had better travel with
the solicitors and see the shorthand writers started. I shall have to come
down by a later train.”
Half an hour later, just as I was about to start, a familiar step was heard
on the stair, and then our laboratory assistant, Polton, let himself in with his
key.
“Just caught him, sir, as he was starting for the station,” he said, with a
satisfied, crinkly smile, laying an envelope on the table, and added, “Lord!
how he did swear!”
Thorndyke chuckled, and having thanked his assistant, opened the
envelope and handed it to me. It contained a single sheet of letter-paper,
exactly similar to the one that we had found in the railway carriage,
excepting that the writing filled one side and a quarter only, and, since it
concluded with the signature “Letitia Humboe, President,” it was evidently
the last sheet. There was no water-mark nor anything, so far as I could see,
to distinguish it from the dozens of other impressions that had been run off
the duplicator with it, excepting the roughly-pencilled plan on the blank
side of the sheet.

“Well,” I said as I put on my hat and walked towards the door, “I suspect
that Bawley was right. You won’t get much help from this to support Miss
Dalby’s rather improbable statement.” And Thorndyke agreed that
appearances were not very promising.

The scene in the coffee-room of “The Plough” Inn at Densford was one
with which I was familiar enough. The quiet, business-like coroner, the
half-embarrassed jurors, the local police and witnesses and the spectators,
penned up at one end of the room, were all well-known characters. The
unusual feature was the handsome, distinguished-looking young lady who
sat on a plain Windsor chair between two inscrutable policemen, watched
intently by Mr. Cadmus Bawley. Miss Dalby was pale and obviously
agitated, but quiet, resolute, and somewhat defiant in manner. She greeted
me with a pleasant smile when I introduced myself, and hoped that I and
my colleague would have no difficulty in disposing of “this grotesque and
horrible accusation.”
I need not describe the proceedings in detail. Evidence of the identity of
the deceased having been taken, Dr. Pooke deposed that death was due to a
wound of the heart produced by a spherical bullet, apparently fired from a
small, smooth-bore pistol at very short range. The wound was in his opinion
not self-inflicted. The coroner then produced the sheet of the circular letter
found in the carriage, and I was called to testify to the finding of it. The
next witness was Superintendent Miller of the Criminal Investigation
Department, who produced the two sheets of the letter which were taken
from Miss Dalby’s pocket when she was arrested. These he handed to the
coroner for comparison with the one found in the carriage with the body of
deceased.
“There appears,” said the coroner, after placing the three sheets together,
“to be one or more sheets missing. The two you have handed me are sheets
one and three, and the one found in the railway carriage is sheet two.”
“Yes,” the witness agreed, “sheet four is missing, but I have a photograph
of it. Here is a set of the complete letter,” and he laid four unmounted prints
on the table.
The coroner examined them with a puzzled frown. “May I ask,” he said,
“how you obtained these photographs?”
“They are not photographs of the copy that you have,” the witness
explained, “but of another copy of the same letter which we intercepted in

the post. That letter was addressed to a stationer’s shop to be called for. We
have considered it necessary to keep ourselves informed of the contents of
these circulars, so that we can take the necessary precautions; and as the
envelopes are marked with the badge and are invariably addressed in blue
ink, it is not difficult to identify them.”
“I see,” said the coroner, glaring stonily at Mr. Bawley, who had
accompanied the Superintendent’s statement with audible and unfavourable
comments. “Is that the whole of your evidence? Thank you. Then, if there is
no cross-examination, I will call the next witness. Mr. Bernard Parsons.”
Mr. Parsons was the general manager of the London and Suburban Bank,
and he deposed that deceased was, on the day when he met his death,
travelling to Holmwood to visit and inspect the new local branch of the
bank, and that he was taking thither the sum of three thousand pounds, of
which one thousand was in gold and the remainder in Bank of England
notes—mostly five-pound notes. He carried the notes and specie in a strong
leather handbag.
“Can you say if either of these is the bag that he carried?” the coroner
asked, indicating two largish, black leather bags that his officer had placed
on the table.
Mr. Parsons promptly pointed to the larger of the two, which was
smeared externally with mud. The coroner noted the answer and then asked:
“Did anyone besides yourself know that deceased was making this visit?”
“Many persons must have known,” was the reply. “Deceased visited the
various branches in a fixed order. He came to Holmwood on the second
Tuesday in the month.”
“And would it be known that he had this great sum of money with him?”
“The actual amount would not be generally known, but he usually took
with him supplies of specie and notes—sometimes very large sums—and
this would be known to many of the bank staff, and probably to a good
many persons outside. The Holmwood Branch consumes a good deal of
specie, as most of the customers pay in cheques and draw out cash for local
use.”
This was the substance of Mr. Parsons’ evidence, and when he sat down
the ticket-collector was called. That official identified Miss Dalby as one of
the passengers by the train in which the body of deceased was found. She
was carrying a bag when she passed the barrier. He could not identify either
of the bags, but both were similar to the one that she was carrying. She

returned about an hour later and caught an up-train, and he noticed that she
was then not carrying a bag. He could not say whether any of the other
passengers was carrying a bag. There were very few first-class passengers
by that train, but a large number of third-class—mostly fruit-pickers—and
they made a dense crowd at the barrier, so that he did not notice individual
passengers particularly. He noticed Miss Dalby because he knew her by
sight, as she often came to Holmwood with other suffragist ladies. He did
not see which carriage Miss Dalby came from, and he did not see any first-
class compartment with an open door.
The coroner noted down this evidence with thoughtful deliberation, and I
was considering whether there were any questions that it would be
advisable to ask the witness when I felt a light touch on my shoulder, and
looking up perceived a constable holding out a telegram. Observing that it
was addressed to “Dr. Jervis, Plough Inn, Densford,” I nodded to the
constable, and taking the envelope from him, opened it and unfolded the
paper. The telegram was from Thorndyke, in the simple code that he had
devised for our private use. I was able to decode it without referring to the
key—which each of us always carried in his pocket—and it then read:

“I am starting for Folkestone in re Burnham deceased. Follow
immediately and bring Miller if you can for possible arrest. Meet
me on pier near Ostend boat. Thorndyke.”

Accustomed as I was to my colleague’s inveterate habit of acting in the
least expected manner, I must confess that I gazed at the decoded message
in absolute stupefaction. I had been totally unaware of the faintest clue
beyond the obvious evidence to which I had been listening, and behold!
here was Thorndyke with an entirely fresh case, apparently cut-and-dried,
and the unsuspected criminal in the hollow of his hand. It was astounding.
Unconsciously I raised my eyes—and met those of Superintendent
Miller, fixed on me with devouring curiosity. I held up the telegram and
beckoned, and immediately he tip-toed across and took a seat by my side. I
laid the decoded telegram before him, and when he had glanced through it, I
asked in a whisper: “Well, what do you say?”
By way of reply, he whisked out a time-table, conned it eagerly for a few
minutes, and then held it towards me with his thumb-nail on the words
“Densford Junction.”

“There’s a fast train up in seven minutes,” he whispered hoarsely. “Get
the coroner to excuse us and let your solicitors carry on for you.”
A brief, and rather vague, explanation secured the assent of the coroner—
since we had both given our evidence—and the less willing agreement of
my clients. In another minute the superintendent and I were heading for the
station, which we reached just as the train swept up alongside the platform.
“This is a queer start,” said Miller, as the train moved out of the station;
“but, Lord! there is never any calculating Dr. Thorndyke’s moves. Did you
know that he had anything up his sleeve?”
“No; but then one never does know. He is as close as an oyster. He never
shows his hand until he can play a trump card. But it is possible that he has
struck a fresh clue since I left.”
“Well,” rejoined Miller, “we shall know when we get to the other end.
And I don’t mind telling you that it will be a great relief to me if we can
drop this charge against Miss Dalby.”
From time to time during the journey to London, and from thence to
Folkestone, the superintendent reverted to Thorndyke’s mysterious
proceedings. But it was useless to speculate. We had not a single fact to
guide us; and when, at last, the train ran into Folkestone Central Station, we
were as much in the dark as when we started.
Assuming that Thorndyke would have made any necessary arrangements
for assistance from the local police, we chartered a cab and proceeded direct
to the end of Rendez-vous Street—a curiously appropriate destination, by
the way. Here we alighted in order that we might make our appearance at
the meeting place as inconspicuously as possible, and, walking towards the
harbour, perceived Thorndyke waiting on the quay, ostensibly watching the
loading of a barge, and putting in their case a pair of prismatic binoculars
with which he had apparently observed our arrival.
“I am glad you have come, Miller,” he said, shaking the superintendent’s
hand. “I can’t make any promises, but I have no doubt that it is a case for
you even if it doesn’t turn out all that I hope and expect. The Cornflower is
our ship, and we had better go on board separately in case our friends are
keeping a look-out. I have arranged matters with the captain, and the local
superintendent has got some plain-clothes men on the pier.”
With this we separated. Thorndyke went on in advance, and Miller and I
followed at a discreet interval.

As I descended the gangway a minute or so after Miller, a steward
approached me, and having asked my name, requested me to follow him,
when he conducted me to the purser’s office, in which I found Thorndyke
and Miller in conversation with the purser.
“The gentlemen you are inquiring for,” said the latter, “are in the
smoking-room playing cards with another passenger. I have put a tarpaulin
over one of the ports, in case you want to have a look at them without being
seen.”
“Perhaps you had better make a preliminary inspection, Miller,” said
Thorndyke. “You may know some of them.”
To this suggestion the superintendent agreed, and forthwith went off with
the purser, leaving me and Thorndyke alone. I at once took the opportunity
to demand an explanation.
“I take it that you struck some new evidence after I left you?”
“Yes,” Thorndyke replied. “And none too soon, as you see. I don’t quite
know what it will amount to, but I think we have secured the defence, at
any rate; and that is really all that we are concerned with. The positive
aspects of the case are the business of the police. But here comes Miller,
looking very pleased with himself, and with the purser.”
The superintendent, however, was not only pleased; he was also not a
little puzzled.
“Well!” he exclaimed, “this is a quaint affair. We have got two of the
leading lights of the suffrage movement in there. One is Jameson, the
secretary of the Women’s Emancipation League, the other is Pinder, their
chief bobbery-monger. Then there are two men named Dorman and Spiller,
both of them swell crooks, I am certain, though we have never been able to
fix anything on them. The fifth man I don’t know.”
“Neither do I,” said Thorndyke. “My repertoire includes only four. And
now we will proceed to sort them out. Could we have a few words with Mr.
Thorpe—in here, if you don’t mind.”
“Certainly,” replied the purser. “I’ll go and fetch him.” He bustled away
in the direction of the smoking-room, whence he presently reappeared,
accompanied by a tall, lean man who wore large bi-focal spectacles of the
old-fashioned, split-lens type, and was smoking a cigar. As the new-comer
approached down the alley-way, it was evident that he was nervous and
uneasy, though he maintained a certain jaunty swagger that accorded ill
with a pronounced, habitual stoop. As he entered the cabin, however, and

became aware of the portentous group of strangers, the swagger broke
down completely; suddenly his face became ashen and haggard, and he
peered through his great spectacles from one to the others with an
expression of undisguisable terror.
“Mr. Thorpe?” queried Thorndyke; and the superintendent murmured:
“Alias Pinder.”
“Yes,” was the reply, in a husky undertone. “What can I do for you?”
Thorndyke turned to the superintendent.
“I charge this man,” said he, “with having murdered Francis Burnham in
the train between London and Holmwood.”
The superintendent was visibly astonished, but not more so than the
accused, on whom Thorndyke’s statement produced the most singular
effect. In a moment, his terror seemed to drop from him; the colour returned
to his face, the haggard expression of which gave place to one of obvious
relief.
Miller stood up, and addressing the accused, began:
“It is my duty to caution you—” but the other interrupted:
“Caution your grandmother! You are talking a parcel of dam’ nonsense. I
was in Birmingham when the murder was committed. I can prove it, easily.”
The superintendent was somewhat taken aback, for the accused spoke
with a confidence that carried conviction.
“In that case,” said Thorndyke, “you can probably explain how a letter
belonging to you came to be found in the carriage with the murdered man.”
“Belonging to me!” exclaimed Thorpe. “What the deuce do you mean?
That letter belonged to Miss Dalby. The rest of it was found in her pocket.”
“Precisely,” said Thorndyke. “One sheet had been placed in the railway
carriage and the remainder in Miss Dalby’s pocket to fix suspicion on her.
But it was your letter, and the inference is that you disposed of it in that
manner for the purpose that I have stated.”
“But,” persisted Thorpe, with visibly-growing uneasiness, “this was a
duplicated circular. You couldn’t tell one copy from another.”
“Mr. Pinder,” said Thorndyke, in an impressively quiet tone, “if I tell you
that I ascertained from that letter that you had taken a passage on this ship
in the name of Thorpe, you will probably understand what I mean.”
Apparently he did understand, for, once more, the colour faded from his
face and he sat down heavily on a locker, fixing on Thorndyke a look of

undisguised dismay. Thus he sat for some moments, motionless and silent,
apparently thinking hard.
Suddenly he started up. “My God!” he exclaimed, “I see now what has
happened. The infernal scoundrel! First he put it on to Miss Dalby, and now
he has put it on to me. Now I understand why he looked so startled when I
ran against him.”
“What do you mean?” asked Thorndyke.
“I’ll tell you,” replied Pinder. “As I move about a good deal—and for
other reasons—I used to have my suffrage letters sent to a stationer’s shop
in Barlow Street——”
“I know,” interrupted the superintendent; “Bedall’s. I used to look them
over and take photographs of them.” He grinned craftily as he made this
statement, and, rather to my surprise, the accused grinned too. A little later I
understood that grin.
“Well,” continued Pinder, “I used to collect these letters pretty regularly.
But this last letter was delivered while I was away at Birmingham. Before I
came back I met a man who gave me certain—er—instructions—you know
what they were,” he added, addressing Thorndyke—“so I did not need the
letter. But, of course, I couldn’t leave it there uncollected, so when I got
back to London, I called for it. That was two days ago. To my astonishment
Miss Bedall declared that I had collected it three days previously. I assured
her that I was not in London on that day, but she was positive that I had
called. ‘I remember clearly,’ she said, ‘giving you the letter myself.’ Well,
there was no arguing. Evidently she had given the letter to the wrong person
—she is very nearsighted, I should say, judging by the way she holds things
against her nose—but how it happened I couldn’t understand. But I think I
understand now. There is one person only in the world who knew that I had
my letters addressed there: a sort of pal of mine named Payne. He happened
to be with me one evening when I called to collect my letters. Now, Payne
chanced to be a good deal like me—at least, he is tall and thin and stoops a
bit; but he does not wear spectacles. He tried on my spectacles once for a
joke, and then he really looked extremely like me. He looked in a mirror
and remarked on the resemblance himself. Now, Payne did not belong to
the Women’s League, and I suggest that he took advantage of this
resemblance to get possession of this letter. He got a pair of spectacles like
mine and personated me at the shop.”
“Why should he want to get possession of that letter?” Miller demanded.

“To plant it as he has planted it,” replied Pinder, “and set the police on a
false trail.”
“This sounds pretty thin,” said Miller. “You are accusing this man of
having murdered Mr. Burnham. What grounds have you for this
accusation?”
“My grounds,” replied Pinder, “are, first, that he stole this letter which
has been found, obviously planted; and, second, that he had a grudge
against Burnham and knew all about his movements.”
“Indeed!” said Miller, with suddenly increased interest. “Then who and
what is this man Payne?”
“Why,” replied Pinder, “until a month ago, he was assistant cashier at the
Streatham branch of the bank. Then Burnham came down and hoofed him
out without an hour’s notice. I don’t know what for, but I can guess.”
“Do you happen to know where Payne is at this moment?”
“Yes, I do. He is on this ship, in the smoking-room—only he is Mr.
Shenstone now. And mighty sick he was when he found me on board.”
The superintendent looked at Thorndyke.
“What do you think about it, doctor?” he asked.
“I think,” said Thorndyke, “that we had better have Mr. Shenstone in here
and ask him a few questions. Would you see if you can get him to come
here?” he added, addressing the purser, who had been listening with ecstatic
enjoyment.
“I’ll get him to come along all right,” replied the purser, evidently
scenting a new act in this enthralling drama; and away he bustled, all agog.
In less than a minute we saw him returning down the alley-way, with a tall,
thin man, who, at a distance, was certainly a good deal like Pinder, though
the resemblance diminished as he approached. He, too, was obviously
agitated, and seemed to be plying the purser with questions. But when he
came opposite the door of the cabin he stopped dead and seemed disposed
to shrink back.
“Is that the man?” Thorndyke demanded sharply and rather loudly,
springing to his feet as he spoke.
The effect of the question was electrical. As Thorndyke rose, the new-
comer turned, and, violently thrusting the purser aside, raced madly down
the alley-way and out on to the deck.
“Stop that man!” roared Miller, darting out in pursuit; and at the shout a
couple of loitering deck-hands headed the fugitive off from the gangway.

Following, I saw the terrified man swerving this way and that across the
littered deck to avoid the seamen, who joined in the pursuit; I saw him
make a sudden frantic burst for a baggage-slide springing from a bollard up
to the bulwark-rail. Then his foot must have tripped on a lashing, for he
staggered for a moment, flung out his arms with a wild shriek, and plunged
headlong into the space between the ship’s side and the quay wall.
In an instant the whole ship was in an uproar. An officer and two hands
sprang to the rail with ropes and a boathook, while others manned the cargo
derrick and lowered a rope with a running bowline between the ship and the
quay.
“He’s gone under,” a hoarse voice proclaimed from below; “but I can see
him jammed against the side.”
There were a couple of minutes of sickening suspense. Then the voice
from below was heard again.
“Heave up!”
The derrick-engine rattled, the taut rope came up slowly, and at length
out of that horrid gulf arose a limp and dripping shape that, as it cleared the
bulwark, was swung inboard and let down gently on the deck. Thorndyke
and I stooped over him. But it was a dead man’s face that we looked into;
and a tinge of blood on the lips told the rest of the tale.
“Cover him up,” said the superintendent. “He’s out of our jurisdiction
now. But what’s going on there?”
Following his look, I perceived a small, scattered crowd of men all
running furiously along the quay towards the town. Some of them I judged
to be the late inmates of the smoking-room and some plain-clothes men.
The only figure that I recognized was that of Mr. Pinder, and he was already
growing small in the distance.
“The local police will have to deal with them,” said Miller. Then turning
to the purser, he asked: “What baggage had this man?”
“Only two cabin trunks,” was the reply. “They are both in his state-
room.”
To the state-room we followed the purser, when Miller had possessed
himself of the dead man’s keys, and the two trunks were hoisted on to the
bunk and opened. Each trunk contained a large cash-box, and each cash-box
contained five hundred pounds in gold and a big bundle of notes. The latter
Miller examined closely, checking their numbers by a column of entries in
his pocket-book.

“Yes,” he reported at length; “it’s a true bill. These are the notes that were
stolen from Mr. Burnham. And now I will have a look at the baggage of
those other four sportsmen.”
This being no affair of ours, Thorndyke and I went ashore and slowly
made our way towards the town. But presently the superintendent overtook
us in high glee, with the news that he had discovered what appeared to be
the accumulated “swag” of a gang of swell burglars for whom he had been
for some months vainly on the look-out.

“How was it done?” repeated Thorndyke in reply to Miller’s question, as
we sat at a retired table in the “Lord Warden” Hotel. “Well, it was really
very simple. I am afraid I shall disappoint you if you expect anything
ingenious and recondite. Of course, it was obvious that Miss Dalby had not
committed this atrocious murder and robbery; and it was profoundly
improbable that this extremely incriminating letter had been dropped
accidentally. That being so, it was almost certain that the letter had been
‘planted,’ as Pinder expressed it. But that was a mere opinion that helped us
not at all. The actual solution turned upon a simple chemical fact with
which I happened to be acquainted; which is this: that all the basic coal-tar
dyes, and especially methylene blue, dye oxycellulose without requiring a
mordant, but do not react in this way on cellulose. Now, good paper is
practically pure cellulose; and if you dip a sheet of such paper into certain
oxidizing liquids, such as a solution of potassium chlorate with a slight
excess of hydrochloric acid, the paper is converted into oxycellulose. But if
instead of immersing the paper, you write on it with a quill or glass pen
dipped in the solution, only the part which has been touched by the pen is
changed into oxycellulose. No change is visible to the eye: but if a sheet of
paper written on with this colourless fluid is dipped in a solution of, say,
methylene blue, the invisible writing immediately becomes visible. The
oxycellulose takes up the blue dye.
“Now, when I picked up that sheet of the letter in the railway carriage
and noted that the ink used appeared to be methylene blue, this fact was
recalled to my mind. Then, on looking at it closely, I seemed to detect a
certain slight spottiness in the writing. There were points on some of the
letters that were a little deeper in colour than the rest; and it occurred to me
that it was possible that these circulars might be used to transmit secret
messages of a less innocent kind than those that met the unaided eye, just as

these political societies might form an excellent cover for the operations of
criminal associations. But if the circulars had been so used, it is evident that
the secret writing would not be on all the circulars. The prepared sheets
would be used only for the circulars that were to be sent to particular
persons, and in those cases the secret writing would probably be in the
nature of a personal communication, either to a particular individual or to a
small group. The possible presence of a secret message thus became of vital
evidential importance; for if it could be shown that this letter was addressed
to some person other than Miss Dalby, that would dispose of the only
evidence connecting her with the crime.
“It happened, most fortunately, that I was able to get possession of the
final sheet of this letter——”
“Of course it did,” growled Miller, with a sour smile.
“It reached me,” continued Thorndyke, “only after Dr. Jervis had started
for Densford. The greater part of one side was blank, excepting for a rough
plan drawn in pencil, and this blank side I laid down on a sheet of glass and
wetted the written side with a small wad of cotton-wool dipped in distilled
water. Of course, the blue writing began to run and dissolve out; and then,
very faintly, some other writing began to show through in reverse. I turned
the paper over, and now the new writing, though faint, was quite legible,
and became more so when I wiped the blue-stained cotton-wool over it a
few times. A solution of methylene blue would have made it still plainer,
but I used water only, as I judged that the blue writing was intended to
furnish the dye for development. Here is the final result.”
He drew from his pocket a letter-case, from which he extracted a folded
paper which he opened and laid on the table. It was stained a faint blue,
through which the original writing could be seen, dim and blurred, while
the secret message, though very pale, was quite sharp and clear. And this
was the message:

“… so although we are not actually blown on, the position is
getting risky and it’s time for us to hop. I have booked passages
for the four of us to Ostend by the Cornflower, which sails on
Friday evening next (20th). The names of the four illustrious
passengers are, Walsh (that’s me), Grubb (Dorman), Jenkins
(Spiller), and Thorpe (that’s you). Get those names well into your

canister—better make a note of them—and turn up in good time
on Friday.”

“Well,” said Miller, as he handed back the letter, “we can’t know
everything—unless we are Dr. Thorndyke. But there’s one thing I do
know.”
“What is that?” I asked.
“I know why that fellow, Pinder, grinned when I told him that I had
photographed his confounded letters.”

IV.
THE NATURALIST AT LAW

A hush had fallen on the court as the coroner concluded his brief
introductory statement and the first witness took up his position by the long
table. The usual preliminary questions elicited that Simon Moffet, the
witness aforesaid, was fifty-eight years of age, that he followed the calling
of a shepherd and that he was engaged in supervising the flocks that fed
upon the low-lying meadows adjoining the little town of Bantree in
Buckinghamshire.
“Tell us how you came to discover the body,” said the coroner.
“ ’Twas on Wednesday morning, about half-past five,” Moffet began. “I
was getting the sheep through the gate into the big meadow by Reed’s farm,
when I happened to look down the dyke, and then I noticed a boot sticking
up out of the water. Seemed to me as if there was a foot in it by the way it
stuck up, so as soon as all the sheep was in, I shut the gate and walked
down the dyke to have a look at un. When I got close I see the toe of
another boot just alongside. Looks a bit queer, I thinks, but I couldn’t see
anything more, ’cause the duck-weed is that thick as it looks as if you could
walk on it. Howsever, I clears away the weed with my stick, and then I see
’twas a dead man. Give me a rare turn, it did. He was a-layin’ at the bottom
of the ditch with his head near the middle and his feet up close to the bank.
Just then young Harry Walker comes along the cart-track on his way to
work, so I shows him the body and sends him back to the town for to give
notice at the police station.”
“And is that all you know about the affair?”
“Ay. Later on I see the sergeant come along with a man wheelin’ the
stretcher, and I showed him where the body was and helped to pull it out
and load it on the stretcher. And that’s all I know about it.”

On this the witness was dismissed and his place taken by a shrewd-
looking, business-like police sergeant, who deposed as follows:
“Last Wednesday, the 8th of May, at 6.15 a.m., I received information
from Henry Walker that a dead body was lying in the ditch by the cart-track
leading from Ponder’s Road to Reed’s farm. I proceeded there forthwith,
accompanied by Police-Constable Ketchum, and taking with us a wheeled
stretcher. On the track I was met by the last witness, who conducted me to
the place where the body was lying and where I found it in the position that
he has described; but we had to clear away the duck-weed before we could
see it distinctly. I examined the bank carefully, but could see no trace of
footprints, as the grass grows thickly right down to the water’s edge. There
were no signs of a struggle or any disturbance on the bank. With the aid of
Moffet and Ketchum, I drew the body out and placed it on the stretcher. I
could not see any injuries or marks of violence on the body or anything
unusual about it. I conveyed it to the mortuary, and with Constable
Ketchum’s assistance removed the clothing and emptied the pockets,
putting the contents of each pocket in a separate envelope and writing the
description on each. In a letter-case from the coat pocket were some visiting
cards bearing the name and address of Mr. Cyrus Pedley, of 21 Hawtrey
Mansions, Kensington, and a letter signed Wilfred Pedley, apparently from
deceased’s brother. Acting on instructions, I communicated with him and
served a summons to attend this inquest.”
“With regard to the ditch in which you found the body,” said the coroner,
“can you tell us how deep it is?”
“Yes; I measured it with Moffet’s crook and a tape measure. In the
deepest part, where the body was lying, it is four feet two inches deep.
From there it slopes up pretty sharply to the bank.”
“So far as you can judge, if a grown man fell into the ditch by accident,
would he have any difficulty in getting out?”
“None at all, I should say, if he were sober and in ordinary health. A man
of medium height, standing in the middle at the deepest part would have his
head and shoulders out of water; and the sides are not too steep to climb up
easily, especially with the grass and rushes on the bank to lay hold of.”
“You say there were no signs of disturbance on the bank. Were there any
in the ditch itself?”
“None that I could see. But, of course, signs of disturbance soon
disappear in water. The duck-weed drifts about as the wind drives it, and

there are creatures moving about on the bottom. I noticed that deceased had
some weed grasped in one hand.”
This concluded the sergeant’s evidence, and as he retired, the name of Dr.
Albert Parton was called. The new witness was a young man of grave and
professional aspect, who gave his evidence with an extreme regard for
clearness and accuracy.
“I have made an examination of the body of the deceased,” he began,
after the usual preliminaries. “It is that of a healthy man of about forty-five.
I first saw it about two hours after it was found. It had then been dead from
twelve to fifteen hours. Later I made a complete examination. I found no
injuries, marks of violence or any definite bruises, and no signs of disease.”
“Did you ascertain the cause of death?” the coroner asked.
“Yes. The cause of death was drowning.”
“You are quite sure of that?”
“Quite sure. The lungs contained a quantity of water and duck-weed, and
there was more than a quart of water mixed with duck-weed and water-
weed in the stomach. That is a clear proof of death by drowning. The water
in the lungs was the immediate cause of death, by making breathing
impossible, and as the water and weed in the stomach must have been
swallowed, they furnish conclusive evidence that deceased was alive when
he fell into the water.”
“The water and weed could not have got into the stomach after death?”
“No, that is quite impossible. They must have been swallowed when the
head of the deceased was just below the surface; and the water must have
been drawn into the lungs by spasmodic efforts to breathe when the mouth
was under water.”
“Did you find any signs indicating that deceased might have been
intoxicated?”
“No. I examined the water from the stomach very carefully with that
question in view, but there was no trace of alcohol—or, indeed, of anything
else. It was simple ditch-water. As the point is important I have preserved it,
and——” here the witness produced a paper parcel which he unfastened,
revealing a large glass jar containing about a quart of water plentifully
sprinkled with duck-weed. This he presented to the coroner, who waved it
away hastily and indicated the jury; to whom it was then offered and
summarily rejected with emphatic head-shakes. Finally it came to rest on
the table by the place where I was sitting with my colleague, Dr.

Thorndyke, and our client, Mr. Wilfred Pedley. I glanced at it with faint
interest, noting how the duck-weed plants had risen to the surface and
floated, each with its tassel of roots hanging down into the water, and how a
couple of tiny, flat shells, like miniature ammonites, had sunk and lay on
the bottom of the jar. Thorndyke also glanced at it; indeed, he did more than
glance, for he drew the jar towards him and examined its contents in the
systematic way in which it was his habit to examine everything. Meanwhile
the coroner asked:
“Did you find anything abnormal or unusual, or anything that could
throw light on how deceased came to be in the water?”
“Nothing whatever,” was the reply. “I found simply that deceased met his
death by drowning.”
Here, as the witness seemed to have finished his evidence, Thorndyke
interposed.
“The witness states, sir, there were no definite bruises. Does he mean that
there were any marks that might have been bruises?”
The coroner glanced at Dr. Parton, who replied:
“There was a faint mark on the outside of the right arm, just above the
elbow, which had somewhat the appearance of a bruise, as if the deceased
had been struck with a stick. But it was very indistinct. I shouldn’t like to
swear that it was a bruise at all.”
This concluded the doctor’s evidence, and when he had retired, the name
of our client, Wilfred Pedley, was called. He rose, and having taken the oath
and given his name and address, deposed:
“I have viewed the body of deceased. It is that of my brother, Cyrus
Pedley, who is forty-three years of age. The last time I saw deceased alive
was on Tuesday morning, the day before the body was found.”
“Did you notice anything unusual in his manner or state of mind?”
The witness hesitated but at length replied:
“Yes. He seemed anxious and depressed. He had been in low spirits for
some time past, but on this occasion he seemed more so than usual.”
“Had you any reason to suspect that he might contemplate taking his
life?”
“No,” the witness replied, emphatically, “and I do not believe that he
would, under any circumstances, have contemplated suicide.”
“Have you any special reason for that belief?”

“Yes. Deceased was a highly conscientious man and he was in my debt.
He had occasion to borrow two thousand pounds from me, and the debt was
secured by an insurance on his life. If he had committed suicide that
insurance would be invalidated and the debt would remain unpaid. From
my knowledge of him, I feel certain that he would not have done such a
thing.”
The coroner nodded gravely, and then asked:
“What was deceased’s occupation?”
“He was employed in some way by the Foreign Office, I don’t know in
what capacity. I know very little about his affairs.”
“Do you know if he had any money worries or any troubles or
embarrassments of any kind?”
“I have never heard of any; but deceased was a very reticent man. He
lived alone in his flat, taking his meals at his club, and no one knew—at
least, I did not—how he spent his time or what was the state of his finances.
He was not married, and I am his only near relative.”
“And as to deceased’s habits. Was he ever addicted to taking more
stimulants than was good for him?”
“Never,” the witness replied emphatically. “He was a most temperate and
abstemious man.”
“Was he subject to fits of any kind, or fainting attacks?”
“I have never heard that he was.”
“Can you account for his being in this solitary place at this time—
apparently about eight o’clock at night?”
“I cannot. It is a complete mystery to me. I know of no one with whom
either of us was acquainted in this district. I had never heard of the place
until I got the summons to the inquest.”
This was the sum of our client’s evidence, and, so far, things did not look
very favourable from our point of view—we were retained on the insurance
question, to rebut, if possible, the suggestion of suicide. However, the
coroner was a discreet man, and having regard to the obscurity of the case
—and perhaps to the interests involved—summed up in favour of an open
verdict; and the jury, taking a similar view, found that deceased met his
death by drowning, but under what circumstances there was no evidence to
show.
“Well,” I said, as the court rose, “that leaves it to the insurance people to
make out a case of suicide if they can. I think you are fairly safe, Mr.

Pedley. There is no positive evidence.”
“No,” our client replied. “But it isn’t only the money I am thinking of. It
would be some consolation to me for the loss of my poor brother if I had
some idea how he met with his death, and could feel sure that it was an
unavoidable misadventure. And for my own satisfaction—leaving the
insurance out of the question—I should like to have definite proof that it
was not suicide.”
He looked half-questioningly at Thorndyke, who nodded gravely.
“Yes,” the latter agreed, “the suggestion of suicide ought to be disposed
of if possible, both for legal and sentimental reasons. How far away is the
mortuary?”
“A couple of minutes’ walk,” replied Mr. Pedley. “Did you wish to
inspect the body?”
“If it is permissible,” replied Thorndyke; “and then I propose to have a
look at the place where the body was found.”
“In that case,” our client said, “I will go down to the Station Hotel and
wait for you. We may as well travel up to town together, and you can then
tell me if you have seen any further light on the mystery.”
As soon as he was gone, Dr. Parton advanced, tying the string of the
parcel which once more enclosed the jar of ditch-water.
“I heard you say, sir, that you would like to inspect the body,” said he. “If
you like, I will show you the way to the mortuary. The sergeant will let us
in, won’t you, sergeant? This gentleman is a doctor as well as a lawyer.”
“Bless you, sir,” said the sergeant, “I know who Dr. Thorndyke is, and I
shall feel it an honour to show him anything he wishes to see.”
Accordingly we set forth together, Dr. Parton and Thorndyke leading the
way.
“The coroner and the jury didn’t seem to appreciate my exhibit,” the
former remarked with a faint grin, tapping the parcel as he spoke.
“No,” Thorndyke agreed; “and it is hardly reasonable to expect a layman
to share our own matter-of-fact outlook. But you were quite right to
produce the specimen. That ditch-water furnishes conclusive evidence on a
vitally material question. Further, I would advise you to preserve that jar for
the present, well covered and under lock and key.”
Parton looked surprised.
“Why?” he asked. “The inquest is over and the verdict pronounced.”

“Yes, but it was an open verdict, and an open verdict leaves the case in
the air. The inquest has thrown no light on the question as to how Cyrus
Pedley came by his death.”
“There doesn’t seem to me much mystery about it,” said the doctor.
“Here is a man found drowned in a shallow ditch which he could easily
have got out of if he had fallen in by accident. He was not drunk.
Apparently he was not in a fit of any kind. There are no marks of violence
and no signs of a struggle, and the man is known to have been in an
extremely depressed state of mind. It looks like a clear case of suicide,
though I admit that the jury were quite right, in the absence of direct
evidence.”
“Well,” said Thorndyke, “it will be my duty to contest that view if the
insurance company dispute the claim on those grounds.”
“I can’t think what you will have to offer in answer to the suggestion of
suicide,” said Parton.
“Neither can I, at present,” replied Thorndyke. “But the case doesn’t look
to me quite so simple as it does to you.”
“You think it possible that an analysis of the contents of this jar may be
called for?”
“That is a possibility,” replied Thorndyke. “But I mean that the case is
obscure, and that some further inquiry into the circumstances of this man’s
death is by no means unlikely.”
“Then,” said Parton, “I will certainly follow your advice and lock up this
precious jar. But here we are at the mortuary. Is there anything in particular
that you want to see?”
“I want to see all that there is to see,” Thorndyke replied. “The evidence
has been vague enough so far. Shall we begin with that bruise or mark that
you mentioned?”
Dr. Parton advanced to the grim, shrouded figure that lay on the slate-
topped table, like some solemn effigy on an altar tomb, and drew back the
sheet that covered it. We all approached, stepping softly, and stood beside
the table, looking down with a certain awesome curiosity at the still, waxen
figure that, but a few hours since, had been a living man like ourselves. The
body was that of a good-looking, middle-aged man with a refined,
intelligent face—slightly disfigured by a scar on the cheek—now set in the
calm, reposeful expression that one so usually finds on the faces of the

drowned; with drowsy, half-closed eyes and slightly parted lips that
revealed a considerable gap in the upper front teeth.
Thorndyke stood awhile looking down on the dead man with a curious
questioning expression. Then his eye travelled over the body, from the
placid face to the marble-like torso and the hand which, though now
relaxed, still lightly grasped a tuft of water-weed. The latter Thorndyke
gently disengaged from the limp hand, and, after a glance at the dark green,
feathery fronds, laid it down and stooped to examine the right arm at the
spot above the elbow that Parton had spoken of.
“Yes,” he said, “I think I should call it a bruise, though it is very faint. As
you say, it might have been produced by a blow with a stick or rod. I notice
that there are some teeth missing. Presumably he wore a plate?”
“Yes,” replied Parton; “a smallish gold plate with four teeth on it—at
least, so his brother told me. Of course, it fell out when he was in the water,
but it hasn’t been found; in fact, it hasn’t been looked for.”
Thorndyke nodded and then turned to the sergeant.
“Could I see what you found in the pockets?” he asked.
The sergeant complied readily, and my colleague watched his orderly
procedure with evident approval. The collection of envelopes was produced
from an attaché-case and conveyed to a side table, where the sergeant
emptied out the contents of each into a little heap, opposite which he placed
the appropriate envelope with its written description. Thorndyke ran his eye
over the collection—which was commonplace enough—until he came to
the tobacco pouch, from which protruded the corner of a scrap of crumpled
paper. This he drew forth and smoothed out the creases, when it was seen to
be a railway receipt for an excess fare.
“Seems to have lost his ticket or travelled without one,” the sergeant
remarked. “But not on this line.”
“No,” agreed Thorndyke. “It is the Tilbury and Southend line. But you
notice the date. It is the 18th; and the body was found on the morning of
Wednesday, the 19th. So it would appear that he must have come into this
neighbourhood in the evening; and that he must have come either by way of
London or by a very complicated cross-country route. I wonder what
brought him here.”
He produced his note-book and was beginning to copy the receipt when
the sergeant said:

“You had better take the paper, sir. It is of no use to us now, and it isn’t
very easy to make out.”
Thorndyke thanked the officer, and, handing me the paper, asked:
“What do you make of it, Jervis?”
I scrutinized the little crumpled scrap and deciphered with difficulty the
hurried scrawl, scribbled with a hard, ill-sharpened pencil.
“It seems to read Ldn to ‘C.B. or S.B., Hlt’—that is some ‘Halt,’ I
presume. But the amount, 4/9, is clear enough, and that will give us a clue if
we want one.” I returned the paper to Thorndyke, who bestowed it in his
pocket-book and then remarked:
“I don’t see any keys.”
“No, sir,” replied the sergeant, “there aren’t any. Rather queer, that, for he
must have had at least a latch-key. They must have fallen out into the
water.”
“That is possible,” said Thorndyke, “but it would be worth while to make
sure. Is there anyone who could show us the place where the body was
found?”
“I will walk up there with you myself, sir, with pleasure,” said the
sergeant, hastily repacking the envelopes. “It is only a quarter of an hour’s
walk from here.”
“That is very good of you, sergeant,” my colleague responded; “and as
we seem to have seen everything here, I propose that we start at once. You
are not coming with us, Parton?”
“No,” the doctor replied. “I have finished with the case and I have got my
work to do.” He shook hands with us heartily and watched us—with some
curiosity, I think—as we set forth in company with the sergeant.
His curiosity did not seem to me to be unjustified. In fact, I shared it. The
presence of the police officer precluded discussion, but as we took our way
out of the town I found myself speculating curiously on my colleague’s
proceedings. To me, suicide was written plainly on every detail of the case.
Of course, we did not wish to take that view, but what other was possible?
Had Thorndyke some alternative theory? Or was he merely, according to his
invariable custom, making an impartial survey of everything, no matter how
apparently trivial, in the hope of lighting on some new and informative
fact?
The temporary absence of the sergeant, who had stopped to speak to a
constable on duty, enabled me to put the question.

“Is this expedition intended to clear up anything in particular?”
“No,” he replied, “excepting the keys, which ought to be found. But you
must see for yourself that this is not a straightforward case. That man did
not come all this way merely to drown himself in a ditch. I am quite in the
dark at present, so there is nothing for it but to examine everything with our
own eyes and see if there is anything that has been overlooked that may
throw some light on either the motive or the circumstances. It is always
desirable to examine the scene of a crime or a tragedy.”
Here the return of the sergeant put a stop to the discussion and we
proceeded on our way in silence. Already we had passed out of the town,
and we now turned out of the main road into a lane or by-road, bordered by
meadows and orchards and enclosed by rather high hedgerows.
“This is Ponder’s Road,” said the sergeant. “It leads to Renham, a couple
of miles farther on, where it joins the Aylesbury Road. The cart track is on
the left a little way along.”
A few minutes later we came to our turning, a narrow and rather muddy
lane, the entrance to which was shaded by a grove of tall elms. Passing
through this shady avenue, we came out on a grass-covered track, broken
by deep wagon-ruts and bordered on each side by a ditch, beyond which
was a wide expanse of marshy meadows.
“This is the place,” said the sergeant, halting by the side of the right-hand
ditch and indicating a spot where the rushes had been flattened down. “It
was just as you see it now, only the feet were just visible sticking out of the
duck-weed, which had drifted back after Moffet had disturbed it.”
We stood awhile looking at the ditch, with its thick mantle of bright
green, spotted with innumerable small dark objects and showing here and
there a faint track where a water-vole had swum across.
“Those little dark objects are water-snails, I suppose,” said I, by way of
making some kind of remark.
“Yes,” replied Thorndyke; “the common Amber shell, I think—Succinea
putris.” He reached out his stick and fished up a sample of the duck-weed,
on which one or two of the snails were crawling. “Yes,” he repeated.
“Succinea putris it is; a queer little left-handed shell, with the spire, as you
see, all lop-sided. They have a habit of swarming in this extraordinary way.
You notice that the ditch is covered with them.”
I had already observed this, but it hardly seemed to be worth commenting
on under the present circumstances—which was apparently the sergeant’s

view also, for he looked at Thorndyke with some surprise, which developed
into impatience when my colleague proceeded further to expand on the
subject of natural history.
“These water-weeds,” he observed, “are very remarkable plants in their
various ways. Look at this duck-weed, for instance. Just a little green oval
disc with a single root hanging down into the water, like a tiny umbrella
with a long handle; and yet it is a complete plant, and a flowering plant,
too.” He picked a specimen off the end of his stick and held it up by its root
to exhibit its umbrella-like form; and as he did so, he looked in my face
with an expression that I felt to be somehow significant; but of which I
could not extract the meaning. But there was no difficulty in interpreting the
expression on the sergeant’s face. He had come here on business and he
wanted to “cut the cackle and get to the hosses.”
“Well, sergeant,” said Thorndyke, “there isn’t much to see, but I think we
ought to have a look for those keys. He must have had keys of some kind, if
only a latch-key; and they must be in this ditch.”
The sergeant was not enthusiastic. “I’ve no doubt you are right, sir,” said
he; “but I don’t see that we should be much forrarder if we found them.
However, we may as well have a look, only I can’t stay more than a few
minutes. I’ve got my work to do at the station.”
“Then,” said Thorndyke, “let us get to work at once. We had better hook
out the weed and look it over; and if the keys are not in that, we must try to
expose the bottom where the body was lying. You must tell us if we are
working in the right place.”
With this he began, with the crooked handle of his stick, to rake up the
tangle of weed that covered the bottom of the ditch and drag the detached
masses ashore, piling them on the bank and carefully looking them through
to see if the keys should chance to be entangled in their meshes. In this
work I took my part under the sergeant’s direction, raking in load after load
of the delicate, stringy weed, on the pale green ribbon-like leaves of which
multitudes of the water-snails were creeping; and sorting over each batch in
hopeless and fruitless search for the missing keys. In about ten minutes we
had removed the entire weedy covering from the bottom of the ditch over
an area of from eight to nine feet—the place which, according to the
sergeant, the body had occupied; and as the duck-weed had been caught by
the tangled masses of water-weed that we had dragged ashore, we now had

an uninterrupted view of the cleared space save for the clouds of mud that
we had stirred up.
“We must give the mud a few minutes to settle,” said Thorndyke.
“Yes,” the sergeant agreed, “it will take some time; and as it doesn’t
really concern me now that the inquest is over, I think I will get back to the
station if you will excuse me.”
Thorndyke excused him very willingly, I think, though politely and with
many thanks for his help. When he had gone I remarked:
“I am inclined to agree with the sergeant. If we find the keys we shan’t be
much forrarder.”
“We shall know that he had them with him,” he replied. “Though, of
course, if we don’t find them, that will not prove that they are not here.
Still, I think we should try to settle the question.”
His answer left me quite unconvinced; but the care with which he
searched the ditch and sorted out the weed left me in no doubt that, to him,
the matter seemed to be of some importance. However, nothing came of the
search. If the keys were there they were buried in the mud, and eventually
we had to give up the search and make our way back towards the station.
As we passed out of the lane into Ponder’s Road, Thorndyke stopped at
the entrance, under the trees, by a little triangle of turf which marked the
beginning of the lane, and looked down at the muddy ground.
“Here is quite an interesting thing, Jervis,” he remarked, “which shows
us how standardized objects tend to develop an individual character. These
are the tracks of a car, or more probably a tradesman’s van, which was fitted
with Barlow tyres. Now there must be thousands of vans fitted with these
tyres; they are the favourite type for light covered vans, and when new they
are all alike and indistinguishable. Yet this tyre—of the off hind-wheel—has
acquired a character which would enable one to pick it out with certainty
from ten thousand others. First, you see, there is a deep cut in the tyre at an
angle of forty-five, then a kidney-shaped ‘Blakey’ has stuck in the outer
tyre without puncturing the inner; and finally some adhesive object—
perhaps a lump of pitch from a newly-mended road—has become fixed on
just behind the ‘Blakey.’ Now, if we make a rough sketch of those three
marks and indicate their distance apart, thus”—here he made a rapid sketch
in his note-book, and wrote in the intervals in inches—“we have the means
of swearing to the identity of a vehicle which we have never seen.”

“And which,” I added, “had for some reason swerved over to the wrong
side of the road. Yes, I should say that tyre is certainly unique. But surely
most tyres are identifiable when they have been in use for some time.”
“Exactly,” he replied. “That was my point. The standardized thing is
devoid of character only when it is new.”
It was not a very subtle point, and as it was fairly obvious I made no
comment, but presently reverted to the case of Pedley deceased.
“I don’t quite see why you are taking all this trouble. The insurance claim
is not likely to be contested. No one can prove that it was a case of suicide,
though I should think no one will feel any doubt that it was, at least that is
my own feeling.”
Thorndyke looked at me with an expression of reproach.
“I am afraid that my learned friend has not been making very good use of
his eyes,” said he. “He has allowed his attention to be distracted by
superficial appearances.”
“You don’t think that it was suicide, then?” I asked, considerably taken
aback.
“It isn’t a question of thinking,” he replied. “It was certainly not suicide.
There are the plainest indications of homicide; and, of course, in the
particular circumstances, homicide means murder.”
I was thunderstruck. In my own mind I had dismissed the case somewhat
contemptuously as a mere commonplace suicide. As my friend had truly
said, I had accepted the obvious appearances and let them mislead me,
whereas Thorndyke had followed his golden rule of accepting nothing and
observing everything. But what was it that he had observed? I knew that it
was useless to ask, but still I ventured on a tentative question.
“When did you come to the conclusion that it was a case of homicide?”
“As soon as I had had a good look at the place where the body was
found,” he replied promptly.
This did not help me much, for I had given very little attention to
anything but the search for the keys. The absence of those keys was, of
course, a suspicious fact, if it was a fact. But we had not proved their
absence; we had only failed to find them.
“What do you propose to do next?” I asked.
“Evidently,” he answered, “there are two things to be done. One is to test
the murder theory—to look for more evidence for or against it; the other is
to identify the murderer, if possible. But really the two problems are one,

since they involve the questions, Who had a motive for killing Cyrus
Pedley? and Who had the opportunity and the means?”
Our discussion brought us to the station, where, outside the hotel, we
found Mr. Pedley waiting for us.
“I am glad you have come,” said he. “I was beginning to fear that we
should lose this train. I suppose there is no new light on this mysterious
affair?”
“No,” Thorndyke replied. “Rather there is a new problem. No keys were
found in your brother’s pockets, and we have failed to find them in the
ditch; though, of course, they may be there.”
“They must be,” said Pedley. “They must have fallen out of his pocket
and got buried in the mud, unless he lost them previously, which is most
unlikely. It is a pity, though. We shall have to break open his cabinets and
drawers, which he would have hated. He was very fastidious about his
furniture.”
“You will have to break into his flat, too,” said I.
“No,” he replied, “I shan’t have to do that. I have a duplicate of his latch-
key. He had a spare bedroom which he let me use if I wanted to stay in
town.” As he spoke, he produced his key-bunch and exhibited a small
Chubb latch-key. “I wish we had the others, though,” he added.
Here the up-train was heard approaching and we hurried on to the
platform, selecting an empty first-class compartment as it drew up. As soon
as the train had started, Thorndyke began his inquiries, to which I listened
attentively.
“You said that your brother had been anxious and depressed lately. Was
there anything more than this? Any nervousness or foreboding?”
“Well, yes,” replied Pedley. “Looking back, I seem to see that the
possibility of death was in his mind. A week or two ago he brought his will
to me to see if it was quite satisfactory to me as the principal beneficiary;
and he handed to me his last receipt for the insurance premium. That looks
a little suggestive.”
“It does,” Thorndyke agreed. “And as to his occupation and his
associates, what do you know about them?”
“His private friends are mostly my own, but of his official associates I
know nothing. He was connected with the Foreign Office; but in what
capacity I don’t know at all. He was extremely reticent on the subject. I

only know that he travelled about a good deal, presumably on official
business.”
This was not very illuminating, but it was all our client had to tell; and
the conversation languished somewhat until the train drew up at
Marylebone, when Thorndyke said, as if by an after-thought:
“You have your brother’s latch-key. How would it be if we just took a
glance at the flat? Have you time now?”
“I will make time,” was the reply, “if you want to see the flat. I don’t see
what you could learn from inspecting it; but that is your affair. I am in your
hands.”
“I should like to look round the rooms,” Thorndyke answered; and as our
client assented, we approached a taxi-cab and entered while Pedley gave the
driver the necessary directions. A quarter of an hour later we drew up
opposite a tall block of buildings, and Mr. Pedley, having paid off the cab,
led the way to the lift.
The dead man’s flat was on the third floor, and, like the others, was
distinguished only by the number on the door. Mr. Pedley inserted the key
into the latch, and having opened the door, preceded us across the small
lobby into the sitting-room.
“Ha!” he exclaimed, as he entered, “this solves your problem.” As he
spoke, he pointed to the table, on which lay a small bunch of keys,
including a latch-key similar to the one that he had shown us.
“But,” he continued, “it is rather extraordinary. It just shows what a very
disturbed state his mind must have been in.”
“Yes,” Thorndyke agreed, looking critically about the room; “and as the
latch-key is there, it raises the question whether the keys may have been out
of his possession. Do you know what the various locked receptacles
contain?”
“I know pretty well what is in the bureau; but as to the cupboard above it,
I have never seen it open and don’t know what he kept in it. I always
assumed that he reserved it for his official papers. I will just see if anything
seems to have been disturbed.”
He unlocked and opened the flap of the old-fashioned bureau and pulled
out the small drawers one after the other, examining the contents of each.
Then he opened each of the larger drawers and turned over the various
articles in them. As he closed the last one, he reported: “Everything seems
to be in order—cheque-book, insurance policy, a few share certificates, and

so on. Nothing seems to have been touched. Now we will try the cupboard,
though I don’t suppose its contents would be of much interest to anyone but
himself. I wonder which is the key.”
He looked at the keyhole and made a selection from the bunch, but it was
evidently the wrong key. He tried another and yet another with a like result,
until he had exhausted the resources of the bunch.
“It is very remarkable,” he said. “None of these keys seems to fit. I
wonder if he kept this particular key locked up or hidden. It wasn’t in the
bureau. Will you try what you can do?”
He handed the bunch to Thorndyke, who tried all the keys in succession
with the same result. None of them was the key belonging to the lock. At
length, having tried them all, he inserted one and turned it as far as it would
go. Then he gave a sharp pull; and immediately the door came open.
“Why, it was unlocked after all!” exclaimed Mr. Pedley. “And there is
nothing in it. That is why there was no key on the bunch. Apparently he
didn’t use the cupboard.”
Thorndyke looked critically at the single vacant shelf, drawing his finger
along it in two places and inspecting his finger-tips. Then he turned his
attention to the lock, which was of the kind that is screwed on the inside of
the door, leaving the bolt partly exposed. He took the bolt in his fingers and
pushed it out and then in again; and by the way it moved I could see that the
spring was broken. On this he made no comment, but remarked:
“The cupboard has been in use pretty lately. You can see the trace of a
largish volume—possibly a box-file—on the shelf. There is hardly any dust
there, whereas the rest of the shelf is fairly thickly coated. However, that
does not carry us very far; and the appearance of the rooms is otherwise
quite normal.”
“Quite,” agreed Pedley. “But why shouldn’t it be? You didn’t suspect
——”
“I was merely testing the suggestion offered by the absence of the keys,”
said Thorndyke. “By the way, have you communicated with the Foreign
Office?”
“No,” was the reply, “but I suppose I ought to. What had I better say to
them?”
“I should merely state the facts in the first instance. But you can, if you
like, say that I definitely reject the idea of suicide.”

“I am glad to hear you say that,” said Pedley. “Can I give any reasons for
your opinion?”
“Not in the first place,” replied Thorndyke. “I will consider the case and
let you have a reasoned report in a day or two, which you can show to the
Foreign Office and also to the insurance company.”
Mr. Pedley looked as if he would have liked to ask some further
questions, but as Thorndyke now made his way to the door, he followed in
silence, pocketing the keys as we went out. He accompanied us down to the
entry and there we left him, setting forth in the direction of South
Kensington Station.
“It looked to me,” said I, as soon as we were out of ear-shot, “as if that
lock had been forced. What do you think?”
“Well,” he answered, “locks get broken in ordinary use, but taking all the
facts together, I think you are right. There are too many coincidences for
reasonable probability. First, this man leaves his keys, including his latch-
key, on the table, which is an extraordinary thing to do. On that very
occasion, he is found dead under inexplicable circumstances. Then, of all
the locks in his rooms, the one which happens to be broken is the one of
which the key is not on the bunch. That is a very suspicious group of facts.”
“It is,” I agreed. “And if there is, as you say—though I can’t imagine on
what grounds—evidence of foul play, that makes it still more suspicious.
But what is the next move? Have you anything in view?”
“The next move,” he replied, “is to clear up the mystery of the dead
man’s movements on the day of his death. The railway receipt shows that
on that day he travelled down somewhere into Essex. From that place, he
took a long, cross-country journey of which the destination was a ditch by a
lonely meadow in Buckinghamshire. The questions that we have to answer
are, What was he doing in Essex? Why did he make that strange journey?
Did he make it alone? and, if not, Who accompanied him?
“Now, obviously, the first thing to do is to locate that place in Essex; and
when we have done that, to go down there and see if we can pick up any
traces of the dead man.”
“That sounds like a pretty vague quest,” said I; “but if we fail, the police
may be able to find out something. By the way, we want a new Bradshaw.”
“An excellent suggestion, Jervis,” said he. “I will get one as we go into
the station.”

A few minutes later, as we sat on a bench waiting for our train, he passed
to me the open copy of Bradshaw, with the crumpled railway receipt.
“You see,” said he, “it was apparently ‘G.B.Hlt.’ and the fare from
London was four and ninepence. Here is Great Buntingfield Halt, the fare to
which is four and ninepence. That must be the place. At any rate, we will
give it a trial. May I take it that you are coming to lend a hand? I shall start
in good time to-morrow morning.”
I assented emphatically. Never had I been more completely in the dark
than I was in this case, and seldom had I known Thorndyke to be more
positive and confident. Obviously, he had something up his sleeve; and I
was racked with curiosity as to what that something was.

On the following morning we made a fairly early start, and half-past ten
found us seated in the train, looking out across a dreary waste of marshes,
with the estuary of the Thames a mile or so distant. For the first time in my
recollection Thorndyke had come unprovided with his inevitable “research
case,” but I noted that he had furnished himself with a botanist’s vasculum
—or tin collecting-case—and that his pocket bulged as if he had some other
appliances concealed about his person. Also that he carried a walking-stick
that was strange to me.
“This will be our destination, I think,” he said, as the train slowed down;
and sure enough it presently came to rest beside a little makeshift platform
on which was displayed the name “Great Buntingfield Halt.” We were the
only passengers to alight, and the guard, having noted the fact, blew his
whistle and dismissed the little station with a contemptuous wave of his
flag.
Thorndyke lingered on the platform after the train had gone, taking a
general survey of the country. Half a mile away to the north a small village
was visible; while to the south the marshes stretched away to the river, their
bare expanse unbroken save by a solitary building whose unredeemed
hideousness proclaimed it a factory of some kind. Presently the station-
master approached deferentially, and as we proffered our tickets, Thorndyke
remarked:
“You don’t seem overburdened with traffic here.”
“No, sir. You’re right,” was the emphatic reply. “ ’Tis a dead-alive place.
Excepting the people at the Golomite Works and one now and then from the

village, no one uses the halt. You’re the first strangers I’ve seen for more
than a month.”
“Indeed,” said Thorndyke. “But I think you are forgetting one. An
acquaintance of mine came here last Tuesday—and by the same token, he
hadn’t got a ticket and had to pay his fare.”
“Oh, I remember,” the station-master replied. “You mean a gentleman
with a scar on his cheek. But I don’t count him as a stranger. He has been
here before; I think he is connected with the works, as he always goes up
their road.”
“Do you happen to remember what time he came back?” Thorndyke
asked.
“He didn’t come back at all,” was the reply. “I am sure of that, because I
work the halt and level crossing by myself. I remember thinking it queer
that he didn’t come back, because the ticket that he had lost was a return.
He must have gone back in the van belonging to the works—that one that
you see coming towards the crossing.”
As he spoke, he pointed to a van that was approaching down the factory
road—a small covered van with the name “Golomite Works” painted, not
on the cover, but on a board that was attached to it. The station-master
walked towards the crossing to open the gates, and we followed; and when
the van had passed, Thorndyke wished our friend “Good morning,” and led
the way along the road, looking about him with lively interest and rather
with the air of one looking for something in particular.
We had covered about two-thirds of the distance to the factory when the
road approached a wide ditch; and from the attention with which my friend
regarded it, I suspected that this was the something for which he had been
looking. It was, however, quite unapproachable, for it was bordered by a
wide expanse of soft mud thickly covered with rushes and trodden deeply
by cattle. Nevertheless, Thorndyke followed its margin, still looking about
him keenly, until, about a couple of hundred yards from the factory, I
observed a small decayed wooden staging or quay, apparently the remains
of a vanished footbridge. Here Thorndyke halted, and unbuttoning his coat,
began to empty out his pockets, producing first the vasculum, then a small
case containing three wide-mouthed bottles—both of which he deposited on
the ground—and finally a sort of miniature landing-net, which he proceeded
to screw on to the ferrule of his stick.

“I take it,” said I, “that these proceedings are a blind to cover some sort
of observations.”
“Not at all,” he replied. “We are engaged in the study of pond and ditch
natural history, and a most fascinating and instructive study it is. The
variety of forms is endless. This ditch, you observe, like the one at Bantree,
is covered with a dense growth of duck-weed: but whereas that ditch was
swarming with succineæ, here there is not a single succinea to be seen.”
I grunted a sulky assent, and watched suspiciously as he filled the bottles
with water from the ditch and then made a preliminary sweep with his net.
“Here is a trial sample,” said he, holding the loaded net towards me.
“Duck-weed, horn-weed, Planorbis nautileus, but no succineæ. What do
you think of it, Jervis?”
I looked distastefully at the repulsive mess, but yet with attention, for I
realized that there was a meaning in his question. And then, suddenly, my
attention sharpened. I picked out of the net a strand of dark green, plumy
weed and examined it.
“So this is horn-weed,” I said. “Then it was a piece of horn-weed that
Cyrus Pedley held grasped in his hand; and now I come to think of it, I
don’t remember seeing any horn-weed in the ditch at Bantree.”
He nodded approvingly. “There wasn’t any,” said he.
“And these little ammonite-like shells are just like those that I noticed at
the bottom of Dr. Parton’s jar. But I don’t remember seeing any in the
Bantree ditch.”
“There were none there,” said he. “And the duck-weed?”
“Oh, well,” I replied, “duck-weed is duck-weed, and there’s an end of it.”
He chuckled aloud at my answer, and quoting:

“A primrose by the river’s brim
A yellow primrose was to him,”

bestowed a part of the catch in the vasculum, then turned once more to the
ditch and began to ply his net vigorously, emptying out each netful on the
grass, looking it over quickly and then making a fresh sweep, dragging the
net each time through the mud at the bottom. I watched him now with a
new and very lively interest; for enlightenment was dawning, mingled with
some self-contempt and much speculation as to how Thorndyke had got his
start in this case.

But I was not the only interested watcher. At one of the windows of the
factory I presently observed a man who seemed to be looking our way.
After a few seconds’ inspection he disappeared, to reappear almost
immediately with a pair of field-glasses, through which he took a long look
at us. Then he disappeared again, but in less than a minute I saw him
emerge from a side door and advance hurriedly towards us.
“We are going to have a notice of ejectment served on us, I fancy,” said I.
Thorndyke glanced quickly at the approaching stranger but continued to
ply his net, working, as I noticed, methodically from left to right. When the
man came within fifty yards he hailed us with a brusque inquiry as to what
our business was. I went forward to meet him and, if possible, to detain him
in conversation; but this plan failed, for he ignored me and bore straight
down on Thorndyke.
“Now, then,” said he, “what’s the game? What are you doing here?”
Thorndyke was in the act of raising his net from the water, but he now
suddenly let it fall to the bottom of the ditch while he turned to confront the
stranger.
“I take it that you have some reason for asking,” said he.
“Yes, I have,” the other replied angrily and with a slight foreign accent
that agreed with his appearance—he looked like a Slav of some sort. “This
is private land. It belongs to the factory. I am the manager.”
“The land is not enclosed,” Thorndyke remarked.
“I tell you the land is private land,” the fellow retorted excitedly. “You
have no business here. I want to know what you are doing.”
“My good sir,” said Thorndyke, “there is no need to excite yourself. My
friend and I are just collecting botanical and other specimens.”
“How do I know that?” the manager demanded. He looked round
suspiciously and his eye lighted on the vasculum. “What have you got in
that thing?” he asked.
“Let him see what is in it,” said Thorndyke, with a significant look at me.
Interpreting this as an instruction to occupy the man’s attention for a few
moments, I picked up the vasculum and placed myself so that he must turn
his back to Thorndyke to look into it. I fumbled awhile with the catch, but
at length opened the case and began to pick out the weed strand by strand.
As soon as the stranger’s back was turned Thorndyke raised his net and
quickly picked out of it something which he slipped into his pocket. Then
he advanced towards us, sorting out the contents of his net as he came.

“Well,” he said, “you see we are just harmless naturalists. By the way,
what did you think we were looking for?”
“Never mind what I thought,” the other replied fiercely. “This is private
land. You have no business here, and you have got to clear out.”
“Very well,” said Thorndyke. “As you please. There are plenty of other
ditches.” He took the vasculum and the case of bottles, and having put them
in his pocket, unscrewed his net, wished the stranger “Good morning,” and
turned back towards the station. The man stood watching us until we were
near the level crossing, when he, too, turned back and retired to the factory.
“I saw you take something out of the net,” said I. “What was it?”
He glanced back to make sure that the manager was out of sight. Then he
put his hand in his pocket, drew it out closed, and suddenly opened it. In his
palm lay a small gold dental plate with four teeth on it.
“My word!” I exclaimed; “this clenches the matter with a vengeance.
That is certainly Cyrus Pedley’s plate. It corresponds exactly to the
description.”
“Yes,” he replied, “it is practically a certainty. Of course, it will have to
be identified by the dentist who made it. But it is a foregone conclusion.”
I reflected as we walked towards the station on the singular sureness with
which Thorndyke had followed what was to me an invisible trail. Presently
I said:
“What is puzzling me is how you got your start in this case. What gave
you the first hint that it was homicide and not suicide or misadventure?”
“It was the old story, Jervis,” he replied; “just a matter of observing and
remembering apparently trivial details. Here, by the way, is a case in point.”
He stopped and looked down at a set of tracks in the soft, earth road—
apparently those of the van which we had seen cross the line. I followed the
direction of his glance and saw the clear impression of a Blakey’s protector,
preceded by that of a gash in the tyre and followed by that of a projecting
lump.
“But this is astounding!” I exclaimed. “It is almost certainly the same
track that we saw in Ponder’s Road.”
“Yes,” he agreed. “I noticed it as we came along.” He brought out his
spring-tape and note-book, and handing the latter to me, stooped and
measured the distances between the three impressions. I wrote them down
as he called them out, and then we compared them with the note made in

Ponder’s Road. The measurements were identical, as were the relative
positions of the impressions.
“This is an important piece of evidence,” said he. “I wish we were able to
take casts, but the notes will be pretty conclusive. And now,” he continued
as we resumed our progress towards the station, “to return to your question.
Parton’s evidence at the inquest proved that Cyrus Pedley was drowned in
water which contained duck-weed. He produced a specimen and we both
saw it. We saw the duck-weed in it and also two Planorbis shells. The
presence of those two shells proved that the water in which he was drowned
must have swarmed with them. We saw the body, and observed that one
hand grasped a wisp of horn-weed. Then we went to view the ditch and we
examined it. That was when I got, not a mere hint, but a crucial and
conclusive fact. The ditch was covered with duck-weed, as we expected.
But it was the wrong duck-weed.”
“The wrong duck-weed!” I exclaimed. “Why, how many kinds of duck-
weed are there?”
“There are four British species,” he replied. “The Greater Duck-weed, the
Lesser Duck-weed, the Thick Duck-weed, and the Ivy-leaved Duck-weed.
Now the specimens in Parton’s jar I noticed were the Greater Duck-weed,
which is easily distinguished by its roots, which are multiple and form a
sort of tassel. But the duck-weed on the Bantree ditch was the Lesser Duck-
weed, which is smaller than the other, but is especially distinguished by
having only a single root. It is impossible to mistake one for the other.
“Here, then, was practically conclusive evidence of murder. Cyrus Pedley
had been drowned in a pond or ditch. But not in the ditch in which his body
was found. Therefore his dead body had been conveyed from some other
place and put into this ditch. Such a proceeding furnishes prima facie
evidence of murder. But as soon as the question was raised, there was an
abundance of confirmatory evidence. There was no horn-weed or Planorbis
shells in the ditch, but there were swarms of succineæ, some of which
would inevitably have been swallowed with the water. There was an
obscure linear pressure mark on the arm of the dead man, just above the
elbow: such a mark as might be made by a cord if a man were pinioned to
render him helpless. Then the body would have had to be conveyed to this
place in some kind of vehicle; and we found the traces of what appeared to
be a motor-van, which had approached the cart-track on the wrong side of
the road, as if to pull up there. It was a very conclusive mass of evidence;

but it would have been useless but for the extraordinarily lucky chance that
poor Pedley had lost his railway ticket and preserved the receipt; by which
we were able to ascertain where he was on the day of his death and in what
locality the murder was probably committed. But that is not the only way in
which Fortune has favoured us. The station-master’s information was, and
will be, invaluable. Then it was most fortunate for us that there was only
one ditch on the factory land; and that that ditch was accessible at only one
point, which must have been the place where Pedley was drowned.”
“The duck-weed in this ditch is, of course, the Greater Duck-weed?”
“Yes. I have taken some specimens as well as the horn-weed and shells.”
He opened the vasculum and picked out one of the tiny plants, exhibiting
the characteristic tassel of roots.
“I shall write to Parton and tell him to preserve the jar and the horn-weed
if it has not been thrown away. But the duck-weed alone, produced in
evidence, would be proof enough that Pedley was not drowned in the
Bantree ditch; and the dental plate will show where he was drowned.”
“Are you going to pursue the case any farther?” I asked.
“No,” he replied. “I shall call at Scotland Yard on my way home and
report what I have learned and what I can prove in court. Then I shall have
finished with the case. The rest is for the police, and I imagine they won’t
have much difficulty. The circumstances seem to tell their own story. Pedley
was employed by the Foreign Office, probably on some kind of secret
service. I imagine that he discovered the existence of a gang of evil-doers—
probably foreign revolutionaries, of whom we may assume that our friend
the manager of the factory is one; that he contrived to associate himself
with them and to visit the factory occasionally to ascertain what was made
there besides Golomite—if Golomite is not itself an illicit product. Then I
assume that he was discovered to be a spy, that he was lured down here;
that he was pinioned and drowned some time on Tuesday night and his
body put into the van and conveyed to a place miles away from the scene of
his death, where it was deposited in a ditch apparently identical in character
with that in which he was drowned. It was an extremely ingenious and well-
thought-out plan. It seemed to have provided for every kind of inquiry, and
it very narrowly missed being successful.”
“Yes,” I agreed. “But it didn’t provide for Dr. John Thorndyke.”
“It didn’t provide for a searching examination of all the details,” he
replied; “and no criminal plan that I have ever met has done so. The

completeness of the scheme is limited by the knowledge of the schemers,
and, in practice, there is always something overlooked. In this case, the
criminals were unlearned in the natural history of ditches.”

Thorndyke’s theory of the crime turned out to be substantially correct.
The Golomite Works proved to be a factory where high explosives were
made by a gang of cosmopolitan revolutionaries who were all known to the
police. But the work of the latter was simplified by a detailed report which
the dead man had deposited at his bank and which was discovered in time
to enable the police to raid the factory and secure the whole gang. When
once they were under lock and key, further information was forthcoming;
for a charge of murder against them jointly soon produced King’s Evidence
sufficient to procure a conviction of the three actual perpetrators of the
murder.

V.
MR. PONTING’S ALIBI

Thorndyke looked doubtfully at the pleasant-faced, athletic-looking
clergyman who had just come in, bearing Mr. Brodribb’s card as an
explanatory credential.
“I don’t quite see,” said he, “why Mr. Brodribb sent you to me. It seems
to be a purely legal matter which he could have dealt with himself, at least
as well as I can.”
“He appeared to think otherwise,” said the clergyman. (“The Revd.
Charles Meade” was written on the card.) “At any rate,” he added with a
persuasive smile, “here I am, and I hope you are not going to send me
away.”
“I shouldn’t offer that affront to my old friend Brodribb,” replied
Thorndyke, smiling in return; “so we may as well get to business, which, in
the first place, involves the setting out of all the particulars. Let us begin
with the lady who is the subject of the threats of which you spoke.”
“Her name,” said Mr. Meade, “is Miss Millicent Fawcett. She is a person
of independent means, which she employs in works of charity. She was
formerly a hospital sister, and she does a certain amount of voluntary work
in the parish as a sort of district nurse. She has been a very valuable help to
me and we have been close friends for several years; and I may add, as a
very material fact, that she has consented to marry me in about two months’
time. So that, you see, I am properly entitled to act on her behalf.”
“Yes,” agreed Thorndyke. “You are an interested party. And now, as to
the threats. What do they amount to?”
“That,” replied Meade, “I can’t tell you. I gathered quite by chance from
some words that she dropped, that she had been threatened. But she was
unwilling to say more on the subject, as she did not take the matter
seriously. She is not at all nervous. However, I told her I was taking advice;

and I hope you will be able to extract more details from her. For my own
part, I am decidedly uneasy.”
“And as to the person or persons who have uttered the threats. Who are
they? and out of what circumstances have the threats arisen?”
“The person is a certain William Ponting, who is Miss Fawcett’s step-
brother—if that is the right term. Her father married, as his second wife, a
Mrs. Ponting, a widow with one son. This is the son. His mother died before
Mr. Fawcett, and the latter, when he died, left his daughter, Millicent, sole
heir to his property. That has always been a grievance to Ponting. But now
he has another. Miss Fawcett made a will some years ago by which the bulk
of her rather considerable property is left to two cousins, Frederick and
James Barnett, the sons of her father’s sister. A comparatively small amount
goes to Ponting. When he heard this he was furious. He demanded a portion
at least equal to the others, and has continued to make this demand from
time to time. In fact, he has been extremely troublesome, and appears to be
getting still more so. I gathered that the threats were due to her refusal to
alter the will.”
“But,” said I, “doesn’t he realize that her marriage will render that will
null and void?”
“Apparently not,” replied Meade; “nor, to tell the truth, did I realize it
myself. Will she have to make a new will?”
“Certainly,” I replied. “And as that new will may be expected to be still
less favourable to him, that will presumably be a further grievance.”
“One doesn’t understand,” said Thorndyke, “why he should excite
himself so much about her will. What are their respective ages?”
“Miss Fawcett is thirty-six and Ponting is about forty.”
“And what kind of man is he?” Thorndyke asked.
“A very unpleasant kind of man, I am sorry to say. Morose, rude, and
violent-tempered. A spendthrift and a cadger. He has had quite a lot of
money from Miss Fawcett—loans, which, of course, are never repaid. And
he is none too industrious, though he has a regular job on the staff of a
weekly paper. But he seems to be always in debt.”
“We may as well note his address,” said Thorndyke.
“He lives in a small flat in Bloomsbury—alone, now, since he quarrelled
with the man who used to share it with him. The address is 12 Borneo
House, Devonshire Street.”
“What sort of terms is he on with the cousins, his rivals?”

“No sort of terms now,” replied Meade. “They used to be great friends.
So much so that he took his present flat to be near them—they live in the
adjoining flat, number 12 Sumatra House. But since the trouble about the
will, he is hardly on speaking terms with them.”
“They live together, then?”
“Yes, Frederick and his wife and James, who is unmarried. They are
rather a queer lot, too. Frederick is a singer on the variety stage, and James
accompanies him on various instruments. But they are both sporting
characters of a kind, especially James, who does a bit on the turf and
engages in other odd activities. Of course, their musical habits are a
grievance to Ponting. He is constantly making complaints of their
disturbing him at his work.”
Mr. Meade paused and looked wistfully at Thorndyke, who was making
full notes of the conversation.
“Well,” said the latter, “we seem to have got all the facts excepting the
most important—the nature of the threats. What do you want us to do?”
“I want you to see Miss Fawcett—with me, if possible—and induce her
to give you such details as would enable you to put a stop to the nuisance.
You couldn’t come to-night, I suppose? It is a beast of a night, but I would
take you there in a taxi—it is only to Tooting Bec. What do you say?” he
added eagerly, as Thorndyke made no objection. “We are sure to find her in,
because her maid is away on a visit to her home and she is alone in the
house.”
Thorndyke looked reflectively at his watch.
“Half-past eight,” he remarked, “and half an hour to get there. These
threats are probably nothing but ill-temper. But we don’t know. There may
be something more serious behind them; and, in law as in medicine,
prevention is better than a post-mortem. What do you say, Jervis?”
What could I say? I would much sooner have sat by the fire with a book
than turn out into the murk of a November night. But I felt it necessary,
especially as Thorndyke had evidently made up his mind. Accordingly I
made a virtue of necessity; and a couple of minutes later we had exchanged
the cosy room for the chilly darkness of Inner Temple Lane, up which the
gratified parson was speeding ahead to capture a taxi. At the top of the Lane
we perceived him giving elaborate instructions to a taxi-driver as he held
the door of the cab open; and Thorndyke, having carefully disposed of his
research-case—which, to my secret amusement, he had caught up, from

mere force of habit, as we started—took his seat, and Meade and I
followed.
As the taxi trundled smoothly along the dark streets, Mr. Meade filled in
the details of his previous sketch, and, in a simple, manly, unaffected way
dilated upon his good fortune and the pleasant future that lay before him. It
was not, perhaps, a romantic marriage, he admitted; but Miss Fawcett and
he had been faithful friends for years, and faithful friends they would
remain till death did them part. So he ran on, now gleefully, now with a
note of anxiety, and we listened by no means unsympathetically, until at last
the cab drew up at a small, unpretentious house, standing in its own little
grounds in a quiet suburban road.
“She is at home, you see,” observed Meade, pointing to a lighted ground-
floor window. He directed the taxi-driver to wait for the return journey, and
striding up the path, delivered a characteristic knock at the door. As this
brought no response, he knocked again and rang the bell. But still there was
no answer, though twice I thought I heard the sound of a bolt being either
drawn or shot softly. Again Mr. Meade plied the knocker more vigorously,
and pressed the push of the bell, which we could hear ringing loudly within.
“This is very strange,” said Meade, in an anxious tone, keeping his thumb
pressed on the bell-push. “She can’t have gone out and left the electric light
on. What had we better do?”
“We had better enter without more delay,” Thorndyke replied. “There
were certainly sounds from within. Is there a side gate?”
Meade ran off towards the side of the house, and Thorndyke and I
glanced at the lighted window, which was slightly open at the top.
“Looks a bit queer,” I remarked, listening at the letter-box.
Thorndyke assented gravely, and at this moment Meade returned,
breathing hard.
“The side gate is bolted inside,” said he; and at this I recalled the stealthy
sound of the bolt that I had heard. “What is to be done?”
Without replying, Thorndyke handed me his research-case, stepped
across to the window, sprang up on the sill, drew down the upper sash and
disappeared between the curtains into the room. A moment later the street
door opened and Meade and I entered the hall. We glanced through the open
doorway into the lighted room, and I noticed a heap of needlework thrown
hastily on the dining table. Then Meade switched on the hall light, and
Thorndyke walked quickly past him to the half-open door of the next room.

Before entering, he reached in and switched on the light; and as he stepped
into the room he partly closed the door behind him.
“Don’t come in here, Meade!” he called out. But the parson’s eye, like
my own, had seen something before the door closed: a great, dark stain on
the carpet just within the threshold. Regardless of the admonition, he
pushed the door open and darted into the room. Following him, I saw him
rush forward, fling his arms up wildly, and with a dreadful, strangled cry,
sink upon his knees beside a low couch on which a woman was lying.
“Merciful God!” he gasped. “She is dead! Is she dead, doctor? Can
nothing be done?”
Thorndyke shook his head. “Nothing,” he said in a low voice. “She is
dead.”
Poor Meade knelt by the couch, his hands clutching at his hair and his
eyes riveted on the dead face, the very embodiment of horror and despair.
“God Almighty!” he exclaimed in the same strangled undertone. “How
frightful! Poor, poor Millie! Dear, sweet friend!” Then suddenly—almost
savagely—he turned to Thorndyke. “But it can’t be, doctor! It is impossible
—unbelievable. That, I mean!” and he pointed to the dead woman’s right
hand, which held an open razor.
Our poor friend had spoken my own thought. It was incredible that this
refined, pious lady should have inflicted those savage wounds that gaped
scarlet beneath the waxen face. There, indeed, was the razor lying in her
hand. But what was its testimony worth? My heart rejected it; but yet,
unwillingly, I noted that the wounds seemed to support it; for they had been
made from left to right, as they would have been if self-inflicted.
“It is hard to believe,” said Thorndyke, “but there is only one alternative.
Someone should acquaint the police at once.”
“I will go,” exclaimed Meade, starting up. “I know the way and the cab is
there.” He looked once more with infinite pity and affection at the dead
woman. “Poor, sweet girl!” he murmured. “If we can do no more for you,
we can defend your memory from calumny and call upon the God of Justice
to right the innocent and punish the guilty.”
With these words and a mute farewell to his dead friend, he hurried from
the room, and immediately afterwards we heard the street door close.
As he went out, Thorndyke’s manner changed abruptly. He had been
deeply moved—as who would not have been—by this awful tragedy that

had in a moment shattered the happiness of the genial, kindly parson. Now
he turned to me with a face set and stern.
“This is an abominable affair, Jervis,” he said in an ominously quiet
voice.
“You reject the suggestion of suicide, then?” said I, with a feeling of
relief that surprised me.
“Absolutely,” he replied. “Murder shouts at us from everything that
meets our eye. Look at this poor woman, in her trim nurse’s dress, with her
unfinished needlework lying on the table in the next room and that
preposterous razor loose in her limp hand. Look at the savage wounds. Four
of them, and the first one mortal. The great bloodstain by the door, the great
blood-stain on her dress from the neck to the feet. The gashed collar, the
cap-string cut right through. Note that the bleeding had practically ceased
when she lay down. That is a group of visible facts that is utterly
inconsistent with the idea of suicide. But we are wasting time. Let us search
the premises thoroughly. The murderer has pretty certainly got away, but as
he was in the house when we arrived, any traces will be quite fresh.”
As he spoke he took his electric lamp from the research-case and walked
to the door.
“We can examine this room later,” he said, “but we had better look over
the house. If you will stay by the stairs and watch the front and back doors,
I will look through the upper rooms.”
He ran lightly up the stairs while I kept watch below, but he was absent
less than a couple of minutes.
“There is no one there,” he reported, “and as there is no basement we will
just look at this floor and then examine the grounds.”
After a rapid inspection of the ground-floor rooms, including the kitchen,
we went out by the back door, which was unbolted, and inspected the
grounds. These consisted of a largish garden with a small orchard at the
side. In the former we could discover no traces of any kind, but at the end
of the path that crossed the orchard we came on a possible clue. The
orchard was enclosed by a five-foot fence, the top of which bristled with
hooked nails; and at the point opposite to the path, Thorndyke’s lantern
brought into view one or two wisps of cloth caught on the hooks.
“Someone has been over here,” said Thorndyke, “but as this is an
orchard, there is nothing remarkable in the fact. However, there is no fruit

on the trees now, and the cloth looks fairly fresh. There are two kinds, you
notice: a dark blue and a black and white mixture of some kind.”
“Corresponding, probably, to the coat and trousers,” I suggested.
“Possibly,” he agreed, taking from his pocket a couple of the little seed-
envelopes of which he always carried a supply. Very delicately he picked
the tiny wisps of cloth from the hooks and bestowed each kind in a separate
envelope. Having pocketed these, he leaned over the fence and threw the
light of his lamp along the narrow lane or alley that divided the orchard
from the adjoining premises. It was ungravelled and covered with a growth
of rank grass, which suggested that it was little frequented. But immediately
below was a small patch of bare earth, and on this was a very distinct
impression of a foot, covering several less distinct prints.
“Several people have been over here at different times,” I remarked.
“Yes,” Thorndyke agreed. “But that sharp footprint belongs to the last
one over, and he is our concern. We had better not confuse the issues by
getting over ourselves. We will mark the spot and explore from the other
end.” He laid his handkerchief over the top of the fence and we then went
back to the house.
“You are going to take a plaster cast, I suppose?” said I; and as he
assented, I fetched the research-case from the drawing-room. Then we fixed
the catch of the front-door latch and went out, drawing the door to after us.
We found the entrance to the alley about sixty yards from the gate, and
entering it, walked slowly forwards, scanning the ground as we went. But
the bright lamp-light showed nothing more than the vague marks of
trampling feet on the grass until we came to the spot marked by the
handkerchief on the fence.
“It is a pity,” I remarked, “that this footprint has obliterated the others.”
“On the other hand,” he replied, “this one, which is the one that interests
us, is remarkably clear and characteristic: a circular heel and a rubber sole
of a recognizable pattern mended with a patch of cement paste. It is a
footprint that could be identified beyond a doubt.”
As he was speaking, he took from the research-case the water-bottle,
plaster-tin, rubber mixing-bowl and spoon, and a piece of canvas with
which to “reinforce” the cast. Rapidly, he mixed a bowlful—extra thick, so
that it should set quickly and hard—dipped the canvas into it, poured the
remainder into the footprint, and laid the canvas on it.

“I will get you to stay here, Jervis,” said he, “until the plaster has set. I
want to examine the body rather more thoroughly before the police arrive,
particularly the back.”
“Why the back?” I asked.
“Did not the appearance of the body suggest to you the advisability of
examining the back?” he asked, and then, without waiting for a reply, he
went off, leaving the inspection-lamp with me.
His words gave me matter for profound thought during my short vigil. I
recalled the appearance of the dead woman very vividly—indeed, I am not
likely ever to forget it—and I strove to connect that appearance with his
desire to examine the back of the corpse. But there seemed to be no
connexion at all. The visible injuries were in front, and I had seen nothing
to suggest the existence of any others. From time to time I tested the
condition of the plaster, impatient to rejoin my colleague but fearful of
cracking the thin cast by raising it prematurely. At length the plaster seemed
to be hard enough, and trusting to the strength of the canvas, I prised
cautiously at the edge, when, to my relief, the brittle plate came up safely
and I lifted it clear. Wrapping it carefully in some spare rag, I packed it in
the research-case, and then, taking this and the lantern, made my way back
to the house.
When I had let down the catch and closed the front door, I went into the
drawing-room, where I found Thorndyke stooping over the dark stain at the
threshold and scanning the floor as if in search of something. I reported the
completion of the cast and then asked him what he was looking for.
“I am looking for a button,” he replied. “There is one missing from the
back; the one to which the collar was fastened.”
“Is it of any importance?” I asked.
“It is important to ascertain when and where it became detached,” he
replied. “Let us have the inspection-lamp.”
I gave him the lamp, which he placed on the floor, turning it so that its
beam of light travelled along the surface. Stooping to follow the light, I
scrutinized the floor minutely but in vain.
“It may not be here at all,” said I; but at that moment the bright gleam,
penetrating the darkness under a cabinet, struck a small object close to the
wall. In a moment I had thrown myself prone on the carpet, and reaching
under the cabinet, brought forth a largish mother-of-pearl button.

“You notice,” said Thorndyke, as he examined it, “that the cabinet is near
the window, at the opposite end of the room to the couch. But we had better
see that it is the right button.”
He walked slowly towards the couch, still stooping and searching the
floor with the light. The corpse, I noticed, had been turned on its side,
exposing the back and the displaced collar. Through the strained button-
hole of the latter Thorndyke passed the button without difficulty.
“Yes,” he said, “that is where it came from. You will notice that there is a
similar one in front. By the way,” he continued, bringing the lamp close to
the surface of the grey serge dress, “I picked off one or two hairs—animal
hairs; cat and dog they looked like. Here are one or two more. Will you hold
the lamp while I take them off?”
“They are probably from some pets of hers,” I remarked, as he picked
them off with his forceps and deposited them in one of the invaluable seed-
envelopes. “Spinsters are a good deal addicted to pets, especially cats and
dogs.”
“Possibly,” he replied. “But I could see none in front, where you would
expect to find them, and there seem to be none on the carpet. Now let us
replace the body as we found it and just have a look at our material before
the police arrive. I expected them here before this.”
We turned the body back into its original position, and taking the
research-case and the lamp, went into the dining-room. Here Thorndyke
rapidly set up the little travelling microscope, and bringing forth the seed-
envelopes, began to prepare slides from the contents of some while I
prepared the others. There was time only for a very hasty examination,
which Thorndyke made as soon as the specimens were mounted.
“The clothing,” he reported, with his eye at the microscope, “is woollen
in both cases. Fairly good quality. The one a blue serge, apparently indigo
dyed; the other a mixture of black and white, no other colour. Probably a
fine tabby or a small shepherd’s plaid.”
“Serge coat and shepherd’s plaid trousers,” I suggested. “Now see what
the hairs are.” I handed him the slide, on which I had roughly mounted the
collection in oil of lavender, and he placed it on the stage.
“There are three different kinds of hairs here,” he reported, after a rapid
inspection. “Some are obviously from a cat—a smoky Persian. Others are
long, rather fine tawny hairs from a dog. Probably a Pekinese. But there are
two that I can’t quite place. They look like monkey’s hairs, but they are a

very unusual colour. There is a perceptible greenish tint, which is extremely
uncommon in mammalian hairs. But I hear the taxi approaching. We need
not be expansive to the local police as to what we have observed. This will
probably be a case for the C.I.D.”
I went out into the hall and opened the door as Meade came up the path,
followed by two men; and as the latter came into the light, I was astonished
to recognize in one of them our old friend, Detective-Superintendent Miller,
the other being, apparently, the station superintendent.
“We have kept Mr. Meade a long time,” said Miller, “but we knew you
were here, so the time wouldn’t be wasted. Thought it best to get a full
statement before we inspected the premises. How do, doctor,” he added,
shaking hands with Thorndyke. “Glad to see you here. I suppose you have
got all the facts. I understood so from Mr. Meade.”
“Yes,” replied Thorndyke, “we have all the antecedents of the case, and
we arrived within a few minutes of the death of the deceased.”
“Ha!” exclaimed Miller. “Did you? And I expect you have formed an
opinion on the question as to whether the injuries were self-inflicted?”
“I think,” said Thorndyke, “that it would be best to act on the assumption
that they were not—and to act promptly.”
“Pre—cisely,” Miller agreed emphatically. “You mean that we had better
find out at once where a certain person was at—what time did you arrive
here?”
“It was two minutes to nine when the taxi stopped,” replied Thorndyke;
“and, as it is now only twenty-five minutes to ten, we have good time if Mr.
Meade can spare us the taxi. I have the address.”
“The taxi is waiting for you,” said Mr. Meade, “and the man has been
paid for both journeys. I shall stay here in case the superintendent wants
anything.” He shook our hands warmly, and as we bade him farewell and
noted the dazed, despairing expression and lines of grief that had already
eaten into the face that had been so blithe and hopeful, we both thought
bitterly of the few fatal minutes that had made us too late to save the
wreckage of his life.
We were just turning away when Thorndyke paused and again faced the
clergyman.
“Can you tell me,” he asked, “whether Miss Fawcett had any pets? Cats,
dogs, or other animals?”

Meade looked at him in surprise, and Superintendent Miller seemed to
prick up his ears. But the former answered simply: “No. She was not very
fond of animals; she reserved her affections for men and women.”
Thorndyke nodded gravely, and picking up the research-case walked
slowly out of the room, Miller and I following.
As soon as the address had been given to the driver and we had taken our
seats in the taxi, the superintendent opened the examination-in-chief.
“I see you have got your box of magic with you, doctor,” he said, cocking
his eye at the research-case. “Any luck?”
“We have secured a very distinctive footprint,” replied Thorndyke, “but it
may have no connexion with the case.”
“I hope it has,” said Miller. “A good cast of a footprint which you can let
the jury compare with the boot is first-class evidence.” He took the cast,
which I had produced from the research-case, and turning it over tenderly
and gloatingly, exclaimed: “Beautiful! beautiful! Absolutely distinctive!
There can’t be another exactly like it in the world. It is as good as a finger-
print. For the Lord’s sake take care of it. It means a conviction if we can
find the boot.”
The superintendent’s efforts to engage Thorndyke in discussion were not
very successful, and the conversational brunt was borne by me. For we both
knew my colleague too well to interrupt him if he was disposed to be
meditative. And such was now his disposition. Looking at him as he sat in
his corner, silent but obviously wrapped in thought, I knew that he was
mentally sorting out the data and testing the hypotheses that they yielded.
“Here we are,” said Miller, opening the door as the taxi stopped. “Now
what are we going to say? Shall I tell him who I am?”
“I expect you will have to,” replied Thorndyke, “if you want him to let us
in.”
“Very well,” said Miller. “But I shall let you do the talking, because I
don’t know what you have got up your sleeve.”
Thorndyke’s prediction was verified literally. In response to the third
knock, with an obbligato accompaniment on the bell, wrathful footsteps—I
had no idea footsteps could be so expressive—advanced rapidly along the
lobby, the door was wrenched open—but only for a few inches—and an
angry, hairy face appeared in the opening.
“Now then,” the hairy person demanded, “what the deuce do you want?”
“Are you Mr. William Ponting?” the superintendent inquired.

“What the devil is that to do with you?” was the genial answer—in the
Scottish mode.
“We have business,” Miller began persuasively.
“So have I,” the presumable Ponting replied, “and mine won’t wait.”
“But our business is very important,” Miller urged.
“So is mine,” snapped Ponting, and would have shut the door but for
Miller’s obstructing foot, at which he kicked viciously, but with
unsatisfactory results, as he was shod in light slippers, whereas the
superintendent’s boots were of constabulary solidity.
“Now, look here,” said Miller, dropping his conciliatory manner very
completely, “you’d better stop this nonsense. I am a police officer, and I am
going to come in”; and with this he inserted a massive shoulder and pushed
the door open.
“Police officer, are you?” said Ponting. “And what might your business
be with me?”
“That is what I have been waiting to tell you,” said Miller. “But we don’t
want to do our talking here.”
“Very well,” growled Ponting. “Come in. But understand that I am busy.
I’ve been interrupted enough this evening.”
He led the way into a rather barely furnished room with a wide bay-
window in which was a table fitted with a writing-slope and lighted by an
electric standard lamp. A litter of manuscript explained the nature of his
business and his unwillingness to receive casual visitors. He sulkily placed
three chairs, and then, seating himself, glowered at Thorndyke and me.
“Are they police officers, too?” he demanded.
“No,” replied Miller, “they are medical gentlemen. Perhaps you had
better explain the matter, doctor,” he added, addressing Thorndyke, who
thereupon opened the proceedings.
“We have called,” said he, “to inform you that Miss Millicent Fawcett
died suddenly this evening.”
“The devil!” exclaimed Ponting. “That’s sudden with a vengeance. What
time did this happen?”
“About a quarter to nine.”
“Extraordinary!” muttered Ponting. “I saw her only the day before
yesterday, and she seemed quite well then. What did she die of?”
“The appearances,” replied Thorndyke, “suggest suicide.”

“Suicide!” gasped Ponting. “Impossible! I can’t believe it. Do you mean
to tell me she poisoned herself?”
“No,” said Thorndyke, “it was not poison. Death was caused by injuries
to the throat inflicted with a razor.”
“Good God!” exclaimed Ponting. “What a horrible thing! But,” he added
after a pause, “I can’t believe she did it herself, and I don’t. Why should she
commit suicide? She was quite happy, and she was just going to be married
to that mealy-faced parson. And a razor, too! How do you suppose she came
by a razor? Women don’t shave. They smoke and drink and swear, but they
haven’t taken to shaving yet. I don’t believe it. Do you?”
He glared ferociously at the superintendent, who replied:
“I am not sure that I do. There’s a good deal in what you’ve just said, and
the same objections had occurred to us. But, you see, if she didn’t do it
herself, someone else must have done it, and we should like to find out who
that someone is. So we begin by ascertaining where any possible persons
may have been at a quarter to nine this evening.”
Ponting smiled like an infuriated cat.
“So you think me a possible person, do you?” said he.
“Everyone is a possible person,” Miller replied blandly, “especially when
he is known to have uttered threats.”
The reply sobered Ponting considerably. For a few moments he sat,
looking reflectively at the superintendent; then, in comparatively quiet
tones, he said:
“I have been working here since six o’clock. You can see the stuff for
yourself, and I can prove that it has been written since six.”
The superintendent nodded, but made no comment, and Ponting gazed at
him fixedly, evidently thinking hard. Suddenly he broke into a harsh laugh.
“What is the joke?” Miller inquired stolidly.
“The joke is that I have got another alibi—a very complete one. There are
compensations in every evil. I told you I had been interrupted in my work
already this evening. It was those fools next door, the Barnetts—cousins of
mine. They are musicians, save the mark! Variety stage, you know. Funny
songs and jokes for mental defectives. Well, they practise their infernal
ditties in their rooms, and the row comes into mine, and an accursed
nuisance it is. However, they have agreed not to practise on Thursdays and
Fridays—my busy nights—and usually they don’t. But to-night, just as I
was in the thick of my writing, I suddenly heard the most unholy din; that

idiot, Fred Barnett, bawling one of his imbecile songs—‘When the pigs
their wings have folded,’ and balderdash of that sort—and the other donkey
accompanying him on the clarinet, if you please! I stuck it for a minute or
two. Then I rushed round to their flat and raised Cain with the bell and
knocker. Mrs. Fred opened the door, and I told her what I thought of it. Of
course she was very apologetic, said they had forgotten that it was Thursday
and promised that she would make her husband stop. And I suppose she did,
for by the time I got back to my rooms the row had ceased. I could have
punched the whole lot of them into a jelly, but it was all for the best as it
turns out.”
“What time was it when you went round there?” asked Miller.
“About five minutes past nine,” replied Ponting. “The church bell had
struck nine when the row began.”
“Hm!” grunted Miller, glancing at Thorndyke. “Well, that is all we
wanted to know, so we need not keep you from your work any longer.”
He rose, and being let out with great alacrity, stumped down the stairs,
followed by Thorndyke and me. As we came out into the street, he turned to
us with a deeply disappointed expression.
“Well,” he exclaimed, “this is a suck in. I was in hopes that we had
pounced on our quarry before he had got time to clear away the traces. And
now we’ve got it all to do. You can’t get round an alibi of that sort.”
I glanced at Thorndyke to see how he was taking this unexpected check.
He was evidently puzzled, and I could see by the expression of
concentration in his face that he was trying over the facts and inferences in
new combinations to meet this new position. Probably he had noticed, as I
had, that Ponting was wearing a tweed suit, and that therefore the shreds of
clothing from the fence could not be his unless he had changed. But the
alibi put him definitely out of the picture, and, as Miller had said, we now
had nothing to give us a lead.
Suddenly Thorndyke came out of his reverie and addressed the
superintendent.
“We had better put this alibi on the basis of ascertained fact. It ought to
be verified at once. At present we have only Ponting’s unsupported
statement.”
“It isn’t likely that he would risk telling a lie,” Miller replied gloomily.
“A man who is under suspicion of murder will risk a good deal,”
Thorndyke retorted, “especially if he is guilty. I think we ought to see Mrs.

Barnett before there is any opportunity of collusion.”
“There has been time for collusion already,” said Miller. “Still, you are
quite right, and I see there is a light in their sitting-room, if that is it, next to
Ponting’s. Let us go up and settle the matter now. I shall leave you to
examine the witness and say what you think it best to say.”
We entered the building and ascended the stairs to the Barnetts’ flat,
where Miller rang the bell and executed a double knock. After a short
interval the door was opened and a woman looked out at us inquisitively.
“Are you Mrs. Frederick Barnett?” Thorndyke inquired. The woman
admitted her identity in a tone of some surprise, and Thorndyke explained:
“We have called to make a few inquiries concerning your neighbour, Mr.
Ponting, and also about certain matters relating to your family. I am afraid it
is a rather unseasonable hour for a visit, but as the affair is of some
importance and time is an object, I hope you will overlook that.”
Mrs. Barnett listened to this explanation with a puzzled and rather
suspicious air. After a few moments’ hesitation, she said:
“I think you had better see my husband. If you will wait here a moment I
will go and tell him.” With this, she pushed the door to, without actually
closing it, and we heard her retire along the lobby, presumably to the
sitting-room. For, during the short colloquy, I had observed a door at the
end of the lobby, partly open, through which I could see the end of a table
covered with a red cloth.
The “moment” extended to a full minute, and the superintendent began to
show signs of impatience.
“I don’t see why you didn’t ask her the simple question straight out,” he
said, and the same question had occurred to me. But at this point footsteps
were heard approaching, the door opened, and a man confronted us, holding
the door open with his left hand, his right being wrapped in a handkerchief.
He looked suspiciously from one to the other of us, and asked stiffly:
“What is it that you want to know? And would you mind telling me who
you are?”
“My name is Thorndyke,” was the reply. “I am the legal adviser of the
Reverend Charles Meade, and these two gentlemen are interested parties. I
want to know what you can tell me of Mr. Ponting’s recent movements—to-
day, for instance. When did you last see him?”
The man appeared to be about to refuse any conversation, but suddenly
altered his mind, reflected for a few moments, and then replied:

“I saw him from my window at his—they are bay-windows—about half-
past eight. But my wife saw him later than that. If you will come in she can
tell you the time exactly.” He led the way along the lobby with an obviously
puzzled air. But he was not more puzzled than I, or than Miller, to judge by
the bewildered glance that the superintendent cast at me, as he followed our
host along the lobby. I was still meditating on Thorndyke’s curiously
indirect methods when the sitting-room door was opened; and then I got a
minor surprise of another kind. When I had last looked into the room, the
table had been covered by a red cloth. It was now bare; and when we
entered the room I saw that the red cover had been thrown over a side table,
on which was some bulky and angular object. Apparently it had been
thought desirable to conceal that object, whatever it was, and as we took our
seats beside the bare table, my mind was busy with conjectures as to what
that object could be.
Mr. Barnett repeated Thorndyke’s question to his wife, adding: “I think it
must have been a little after nine when Ponting came round. What do you
say?”
“Yes,” she replied, “it would be, for I heard it strike nine just before you
began your practice, and he came a few minutes after.”
“You see,” Barnett explained, “I am a singer, and my brother, here,
accompanies me on various instruments, and of course we have to practise.
But we don’t practise on the nights when Ponting is busy—Thursdays and
Fridays—as he said that the music disturbed him. To-night, however, we
made a little mistake. I happen to have got a new song that I am anxious to
get ready—it has an illustrative accompaniment on the clarinet, which my
brother will play. We were so much taken up with the new song that we all
forgot what day of the week it was, and started to have a good practise. But
before we had got through the first verse, Ponting came round, battering at
the door like a madman. My wife went out and pacified him, and of course
we shut down for the evening.”
While Mr. Barnett was giving his explanation, I looked about the room
with vague curiosity. Somehow—I cannot tell exactly how—I was sensible
of something queer in the atmosphere of this place; of a certain indefinite
sense of tension. Mrs. Barnett looked pale and flurried. Her husband, in
spite of his volubility, seemed ill at ease, and the brother, who sat huddled
in an easy-chair, nursing a dark-coloured Persian cat, stared into the fire,

and neither moved nor spoke. And again I looked at the red table-cloth and
wondered what it covered.
“By the way,” said Barnett, after a brief pause, “what is the point of these
inquiries of yours? About Ponting, I mean. What does it matter to you
where he was this evening?”
As he spoke, he produced a pipe and tobacco-pouch and proceeded to fill
the former, holding it in his bandaged right hand and filling it with his left.
The facility with which he did this suggested that he was left-handed, an
inference that was confirmed by the ease with which he struck the match
with his left hand, and by the fact that he wore a wrist-watch on his right
wrist.
“Your question is a perfectly natural one,” said Thorndyke. “The answer
to it is that a very terrible thing has happened. Miss Millicent Fawcett, who
is, I think, a connexion of yours, met her death this evening under
circumstances of grave suspicion. She died, either by her own hand or by
the hand of a murderer, a few minutes before nine o’clock. Hence it has
become necessary to ascertain the whereabouts at that time of any persons
on whom suspicion might reasonably fall.”
“Good God!” exclaimed Barnett. “What a shocking thing!”
The exclamation was followed by a deep silence, amidst which I could
hear the barking of a dog in an adjacent room, the unmistakable sharp,
treble yelp of a Pekinese. And again I seemed to be aware of a strange sense
of tension in the occupants of this room. On hearing Thorndyke’s answer,
Mrs. Barnett had turned deadly pale and let her head fall forward on her
hand. Her husband had sunk on to a chair, and he, too, looked pale and
deeply shocked, while the brother continued to stare silently into the fire.
At this moment Thorndyke astonished me by an exhibition of what
seemed—under the tragic circumstances—the most outrageous bad
manners and bad taste. Rising from his chair with his eyes fixed on a print
which hung on the wall above the red-covered table, he said:
“That looks like one of Cameron’s etchings,” and forthwith stepped
across the room to examine it, resting his hand, as he leaned forward, on the
object covered by the cloth.
“Mind where you are putting your hand, sir!” Fred Barnett called out,
springing to his feet.
Thorndyke looked down at his hand, and deliberately raising a corner of
the cloth, looked under. “There is no harm done,” he remarked quietly,

letting the cloth drop; and with another glance at the print, he went back to
his chair.
Once more a deep silence fell upon the room, and I had a vague feeling
that the tension had increased. Mrs. Barnett was as white as a ghost and
seemed to catch at her breath. Her husband watched her with a wild, angry
expression and smoked furiously, while the superintendent—also conscious
of something abnormal in the atmosphere of the room—looked furtively
from the woman to the man and from him to Thorndyke.
Yet again in the silence the shrill barking of the Pekinese dog broke out,
and somehow that sound connected itself in my mind with the Persian cat
that dozed on the knees of the immovable man by the fire. I looked at the
cat and at the man, and even as I looked, I was startled by a most
extraordinary apparition. Above the man’s shoulder, slowly rose a little
round head like the head of a diminutive, greenish-brown man. Higher and
higher the tiny monkey raised itself, resting on its little hands to peer at the
strangers. Then, with sudden coyness, like a shy baby, it popped down out
of sight.
I was thunderstruck. The cat and the dog I had noted merely as a curious
coincidence. But the monkey—and such an unusual monkey, too—put
coincidences out of the question. I stared at the man in positive
stupefaction. Somehow that man was connected with that unforgettable
figure lying upon the couch miles away. But how? When that deed of horror
was doing, he had been here in this very room. Yet, in some way, he had
been concerned in it. And suddenly a suspicion dawned upon me that
Thorndyke was waiting for the actual perpetrator to arrive.
“It is a most ghastly affair,” Barnett repeated presently in a husky voice.
Then, after a pause, he asked: “Is there any sort of evidence as to whether
she killed herself or was killed by somebody else?”
“I think that my friend, here, Detective-Superintendent Miller, has
decided that she was murdered.” He looked at the bewildered
superintendent, who replied with an inarticulate grunt.
“And is there any clue as to who the—the murderer may be? You spoke
of suspected persons just now.”
“Yes,” replied Thorndyke, “there is an excellent clue, if it can only be
followed up. We found a most unmistakable footprint; and what is more, we
took a plaster cast of it. Would you like to see the cast?”

Without waiting for a reply, he opened the research-case and took out the
cast, which he placed in my hands.
“Just take it round and show it to them,” he said.
The superintendent had witnessed Thorndyke’s amazing proceedings
with an astonishment that left him speechless. But now he sprang to his
feet, and, as I walked round the table, he pressed beside me to guard the
precious cast from possible injury. I laid it carefully down on the table, and
as the light fell on it obliquely, it presented a most striking appearance—
that of a snow-white boot-sole on which the unshapely patch, the circular
heel, and the marks of wear were clearly visible.
The three spectators gathered round, as near as the superintendent would
let them approach, and I observed them closely, assuming that this
incomprehensible move of Thorndyke’s was a device to catch one or more
of them off their guard. Fred Barnett looked at the cast stolidly enough,
though his face had gone several shades paler, but Mrs. Barnett stared at it
with starting eye-balls and dropped jaw—the very picture of horror and
dismay. As to James Barnett, whom I now saw clearly for the first time, he
stood behind the woman with a singularly scared and haggard face, and his
eyes riveted on the white boot-sole. And now I could see that he wore a suit
of blue serge and that the front both of his coat and waistcoat were thickly
covered with the shed hairs of his pets.
There was something very uncanny about this group of persons gathered
around that accusing footprint, all as still and rigid as statues and none
uttering a sound. But something still more uncanny followed. Suddenly the
deep silence of the room was shattered by the shrill notes of a clarinet, and
a brassy voice burst forth:

“When the pigs their wings have folded
And the cows are in their nest——”

We all spun round in amazement, and at the first glance the mystery of
the crime was solved. There stood Thorndyke with the red table-cover at his
feet, and at his side, on the small table, a massively-constructed phonograph
of the kind used in offices for dictating letters, but fitted with a convoluted
metal horn in place of the rubber ear-tubes.
A moment of astonished silence was succeeded by a wild confusion. Mrs.
Barnett uttered a piercing shriek and fell back on to a chair, her husband

broke away and rushed at Thorndyke, who instantly gripped his wrist and
pinioned him, while the superintendent, taking in the situation at a glance,
fastened on the unresisting James and forced him down into a chair. I ran
round, and having stopped the machine—for the preposterous song was
hideously incongruous with the tragedy that was enacting—went to
Thorndyke’s assistance and helped him to remove his prisoner from the
neighbourhood of the instrument.
“Superintendent Miller,” said Thorndyke, still maintaining a hold on his
squirming captive, “I believe you are a justice of the peace?”
“Yes,” was the reply, “ex officio.”
“Then,” said Thorndyke, “I accuse these three persons of being
concerned in the murder of Miss Millicent Fawcett; Frederick Barnett as the
principal who actually committed the murder, James Barnett as having
aided him by holding the arms of the deceased, and Mrs. Barnett as an
accessory before the fact in that she worked this phonograph for the
purpose of establishing a false alibi.”
“I knew nothing about it!” Mrs. Barnett shrieked hysterically. “They
never told me why they wanted me to work the thing.”
“We can’t go into that now,” said Miller. “You will be able to make your
defence at the proper time and place. Can one of you go for assistance or
must I blow my whistle?”
“You had better go, Jervis,” said Thorndyke. “I can hold this man until
reinforcements arrive. Send a constable up and then go on to the station.
And leave the outer door ajar.”
I followed these directions, and having found the police station, presently
returned to the flat with four constables and a sergeant in two taxis.
When the prisoners had been removed, together with the three animals—
the latter in charge of a zoophilist constable—we searched the bedrooms.
Frederick Barnett had changed his clothing completely, but in a locked
drawer—the lock of which Thorndyke picked neatly, to the superintendent’s
undisguised admiration—we found the discarded garments, including a pair
of torn shepherd’s plaid trousers, covered with blood-stains, and a new,
empty razor-case. These things, together with the wax cylinder of the
phonograph, Miller made up into a neat parcel and took away with him.

“Of course,” said I, as we walked homewards, “the general drift of this
case is quite obvious. But it seemed to me that you went to the Barnetts’ flat

with a definite purpose already formed, and with a definite suspicion in
your mind. Now, I don’t see how you came to suspect the Barnetts.”
“I think you will,” he replied, “if you will recall the incidents in their
order from the beginning, including poor Meade’s preliminary statement.
To begin with the appearances of the body: the suggestion of suicide was
transparently false. To say nothing of its incongruity with the character and
circumstances of the deceased and the very unlikely weapon used, there
were the gashed collar and the cut cap-string. As you know, it is a well-
established rule that suicides do not damage their clothing. A man who cuts
his own throat doesn’t cut his collar. He takes it off. He removes all
obstructions. Naturally, for he wishes to complete the act as easily and
quickly as possible, and he has time for preparation. But the murderer must
take things as he finds them and execute his purpose as best he can.
“But further; the wounds were inflicted near the door, but the body was
on the couch at the other end of the room. We saw, from the absence of
bleeding, that she was dying—in fact, apparently dead—when she lay
down. She must therefore have been carried to the couch after the wounds
were inflicted.
“Then there were the blood-stains. They were all in front, and the blood
had run down vertically. Then she must have been standing upright while
the blood was flowing. Now there were four wounds, and the first one was
mortal. It divided the common carotid artery and the great veins. On
receiving that wound she would ordinarily have fallen down. But she did
not fall, or there would have been a blood-stain across the neck. Why did
she not fall? The obvious suggestion was that someone was holding her up.
This suggestion was confirmed by the absence of cuts on her hands—which
would certainly have been cut if someone had not been holding them. It was
further confirmed by the rough crumpling of the collar at the back: so rough
that the button was torn off. And we found that button near the door.
“Further, there were the animal hairs. They were on the back only. There
were none on the front—where they would have been if derived from the
animals—or anywhere else. And we learned that she kept no animals. All
these appearances pointed to the presence of two persons, one of whom
stood behind her and held her arms while the other stood in front and
committed the murder. The cloth on the fence supported this view, being
probably derived from two different pairs of trousers. The character of the
wounds made it nearly certain that the murderer was left-handed.

“While we were returning in the cab, I reflected on these facts and
considered the case generally. First, what was the motive? There was
nothing to suggest robbery, nor was it in the least like a robber’s crime.
What other motive could there be? Well, here was a comparatively rich
woman who had made a will in favour of certain persons, and she was
going to be married. On her marriage the will would automatically become
void, and she was not likely to make another will so favourable to those
persons. Here, then, was a possible motive, and that motive applied to
Ponting, who had actually uttered threats and was obviously suspect.
“But, apart from those threats, Ponting was not the principal suspect, for
he benefited only slightly under the will. The chief beneficiaries were the
Barnetts, and Miss Fawcett’s death would benefit them, not only by
securing the validity of the will, but by setting the will into immediate
operation. And there were two of them. They therefore fitted the
circumstances better than Ponting did. And when we came to interview
Ponting, he went straight out of the picture. His manuscript would probably
have cleared him—with his editor’s confirmation. But the other alibi was
conclusive.
“What instantly struck me, however, was that Ponting’s alibi was also an
alibi for the Barnetts. But there was this difference: Ponting had been seen;
the Barnetts had only been heard. Now, it has often occurred to me that a
very effective false alibi could be worked with a gramophone or a
phonograph—especially with one on which one can make one’s own
records. This idea now recurred to me; and at once it was supported by the
appearance of an arranged effect. Ponting was known to be at work. It was
practically certain that a blast of ‘music’ would bring him out. Then he
would be available, if necessary, as a witness to prove an alibi. It seemed to
be worth while to investigate.
“When we came to the flat we encountered a man with an injured hand—
the right. It would have been more striking if it had been his left. But it
presently turns out that he is left-handed; which is still more striking as a
coincidence. This man is extraordinarily ready to answer questions which
most persons would have refused to answer at all. Those answers contain
the alibi.
“Then there was the incident of the table-cover—I think you noticed it.
That cover was on the large table when we arrived, but it was taken off and
thrown over something, evidently to conceal it. But I need not pursue the

details. When I had seen the cat, heard the dog, and then seen the monkey, I
determined to see what was under the table-cover; and finding that it was a
phonograph with the cylinder record still on the drum, I decided to ‘go Nap’
and chance making a mistake. For until we had tried the record, the alibi
remained. If it had failed, I should have advised Miller to hold a boot
parade. Fortunately we struck the right record and completed the case.”

Mrs. Barnett’s defence was accepted by the magistrate and the charge
against her was dismissed. The other two were committed for trial, and in
due course paid the extreme penalty. “Yet another illustration,” was
Thorndyke’s comment, “of the folly of that kind of criminal who won’t let
well alone, and who will create false clues. If the Barnetts had not laid
down those false tracks, they would probably never have been suspected. It
was their clever alibi that led us straight to their door.”

VI.
PANDORA’S BOX

“I see our friend, S. Chapman, is still a defaulter,” said I, as I ran my eye
over the “personal” column of The Times.
Thorndyke looked up interrogatively.
“Chapman?” he repeated; “let me see, who is he?”
“The man with the box. I read you the advertisement the other day. Here
it is again. ‘If the box left in the luggage-room by S. Chapman is not
claimed within a week from this date, it will be sold to defray expenses.—
Alexander Butt, “Red Lion” Hotel, Stoke Varley, Kent.’ That sounds like an
ultimatum; but it has been appearing at intervals for the last month. As the
first notice expired about three weeks ago, the question is, why doesn’t Mr.
Butt sell the box and have done with it?”
“He may have some qualms as to the legality of the proceeding,” said
Thorndyke. “It would be interesting to know what expenses he refers to and
what is the value of the box.”
The latter question was resolved a day or two later by the appearance in
our chambers of an agitated gentleman, who gave his name as George
Chapman. After apologizing for his unannounced visit he explained:
“I have come to you on the advice of my solicitor and on behalf of my
brother, Samuel, who has become involved in a most extraordinary and
horrible set of complications. At present he is in custody of the police
charged with an atrocious murder.”
“That is certainly a rather serious complication,” Thorndyke observed
dryly. “Perhaps you had better give us an account of the circumstances—the
whole set of circumstances, from the beginning.”
“I will,” said Mr. Chapman, “without any reservations. The only question
is, which is the beginning? There are the business and the domestic affairs.
Perhaps I had better begin with the business concerns. My brother was a

sort of travelling agent for a firm of manufacturing jewellers. He held a
stock of the goods, which he used as samples for large orders, but in the
case of small retailers he actually supplied the goods himself. When
travelling, he usually carried his stock in a small Gladstone bag, but he kept
the bulk of it in a safe in his house, and he used to go home at week-ends,
or oftener, to replenish his travelling stock. Now, about two months ago he
left home on a trip, but instead of taking a selection of his goods, he took
the entire stock in a largish wooden box, leaving the safe empty. What he
meant to do I don’t know, and that’s the fact. I offer no opinion. The
circumstances were peculiar, as you will hear presently, and his proceedings
were peculiar; for he went down to Stoke Varley—a village not far from
Folkestone—put up at the ‘Red Lion,’ and deposited his box in the luggage-
room that is kept for the use of commercial travellers; and then, after
staying there for a few days, came up to London to make some
arrangements for selling or letting his house—which, it seems, he had
decided to leave. He came up in the evening, and the very next morning the
first of his adventures befell, and a very alarming one it was.
“It appears that, as he was walking down a quiet street, he saw a lady’s
purse lying on the pavement. Naturally he picked it up, and as it contained
nothing to show the name or address of the owner, he put it in his pocket,
intending to hand it in at a police station. Shortly after this, he got into an
omnibus, and a well-dressed woman entered at the same time and sat down
next to him. Just as the conductor was coming in to collect the fares, the
woman began to search her pocket excitedly, and then, turning to my
brother, called on him loudly to return her purse. Of course, he said that he
knew nothing about her purse, whereupon she roundly accused him of
having picked her pocket, declaring to the conductor that she had felt him
take out her purse, and demanding that the omnibus should be stopped and
a policeman fetched. At this moment a policeman was seen on the
pavement. The conductor stopped the omnibus and hailed the constable,
who came, and having examined the floor of the vehicle without finding the
missing purse, and taken the conductor’s name and number, took my
brother into custody and conducted him and the woman to the police
station. Here the inspector took down from the woman a description of the
stolen purse and its contents, which my brother, to his utter dismay,
recognized as that of the purse which he had picked up and which was still
in his pocket. Immediately, he gave the inspector an account of the incident

and produced the purse; but it is hardly necessary to say that the inspector
refused to take his explanation seriously.
“Then my brother did a thing which was natural enough, but which did
not help him. Seeing that he was practically certain to be convicted—for
there was really no answer to the charge—he gave a false name and refused
his address. He was then locked up in a cell for the night, and the next
morning was brought before the magistrate, who, having heard the evidence
of the woman and the inspector and having listened without comment to my
brother’s story, committed him for trial at the Central Criminal Court, and
refused bail. He was then removed to Brixton, where he was detained for
nearly a month, pending the opening of the sessions.
“At length the day of his trial drew near. But it was then found that the
woman who had accused him had left her lodgings and could not be traced.
As there was no one to prosecute, and as the disappearance of the woman
put a rather new light upon my brother’s story, the case against him was
allowed to drop, and he was released.
“He went home by train, and at the station he bought a copy of The Times
to read on the way. Before opening it he chanced to run his eye over the
‘personal’ column, and there his attention was arrested by his own name in
an advertisement——”
“Relating to a box?” said I.
“Precisely. Then you have seen it. Well, considering the value of the
contents of that box, he was naturally rather anxious. At once he sent off a
telegram saying that he would call on the following day before noon to
claim the box and pay what was owing. And he did so. Yesterday morning
he took an early train down to Stoke Varley and went straight to the ‘Red
Lion.’ On his arrival he was asked to step into the coffee-room, which he
did; and there he found three police officers, who forthwith arrested him on
a charge of murder. But before going into the particulars of that charge, I
had better give you an account of his domestic affairs, on which this
incredible and horrible accusation turns.
“My brother, I am sorry to say, was living with a woman who was not his
wife. He had originally intended to marry her, but his association with her
—which lasted over several years—did not encourage that intention. She
was a terrible woman, and she led him a terrible life. Her temper was
ungovernable; and when she had taken too much to drink—which was a
pretty frequent occurrence—she was not only noisy and quarrelsome, but

physically violent as well. Her antecedents were disreputable—she had
been connected with the seamy side of the music-hall stage; her
associations were disreputable; she brought questionable women to my
brother’s house; she consorted with men of doubtful character, and her
relations with them were equally doubtful. Indeed, with one of them, a man
named Gamble, I should say that her relations were not doubtful at all,
though I understand he was a married man.
“Well, my brother put up with her for years, living a life that cut him off
from all decent society. But at last his patience gave way (and I may add
that he made the acquaintance of a very desirable lady, who was willing to
condone his past and marry him if he could secure a possible future). After
a particularly outrageous scene, he ordered the woman—Rebecca Mings
was her name—out of the house and declared their relationship at an end.
“But she refused to be shaken off. She kept possession of the street-door
key, and she returned again and again, and made a public scandal. The last
time she created such an uproar when the door was bolted against her that a
crowd collected in the street and my brother was forced to let her in. She
stayed with him some hours, alone in the house—for the only servant he
had was a ‘daily girl’ who left at three o’clock—and went away quite
quietly about ten at night. But, although a good many people saw her go
into the house, no one but my brother seems to have seen her leave it; a
most disastrous circumstance, for, from the moment when she left the
house, no one ever saw her again. She did not go to her lodgings that night.
She disappeared utterly—until—but I must go back now to the ‘Red Lion’
at Stoke Varley.
“When my brother was arrested on the charge of having murdered
Rebecca Mings, certain particulars were given to him; and when I went
down there in response to a telegram, I gathered some more. The
circumstances are these: About a fortnight after my brother had left to come
to London, some of the ‘commercials’ who used the luggage-room
complained of an unpleasant odour in it, which was presently traced to my
brother’s box. As that box appeared to have been abandoned, the landlord
became suspicious, and communicated with the police. They telephoned to
the London police, who found my brother’s house shut up and his
whereabouts unknown. Thereupon the local police broke open the box and
found in it a woman’s left arm and a quantity of blood-stained clothing. On
which they caused the advertisement to be put in The Times, and meanwhile

they made certain inquiries. It appeared that my brother had spent part of
his time at Stoke Varley fishing in the little river. On learning this, the
police proceeded to dredge the river, and presently they brought up a right
arm—apparently the fellow of the one found in the box—and a leg divided
into three parts, evidently a woman’s. Now, as to the arm found in the box,
there could be no question about its identity, for it bore a very distinct
tattooed inscription consisting of the initials R.M. above a heart transfixed
by an arrow, with the initials J.B. underneath. A few inquiries elicited the
fact that the woman, Rebecca Mings, who had disappeared, bore such a
tattooed mark on her left arm; and certain persons who had known her,
having been sworn to secrecy, were shown the arm, and recognized the
mark without hesitation. Further inquiries showed that Rebecca Mings was
last seen alive entering my brother’s house, as I have described; and on this
information, the police broke into the house and searched it.”
“Do you know if they found anything?” Thorndyke asked.
“I don’t,” replied Chapman, “but I infer that they did. The police at Stoke
Varley were very courteous and kind, but they declined to give any
particulars about the visit to the house. However, we shall hear at the
inquest if they made any discoveries.”
“And is that all that you have to tell us?” asked Thorndyke.
“Yes,” was the reply, “and enough, too. I make no comment on my
brother’s story, and I won’t ask whether you believe it. I don’t expect you
to. The question is whether you would undertake the defence. I suppose it
isn’t necessary for a lawyer to be convinced of his client’s innocence in
order to convince the jury.”
“You are thinking of an advocate,” said Thorndyke. “I am not an
advocate, and I should not defend a man whom I believed to be guilty. The
most that I can do is to investigate the case. If the result of the investigation
is to confirm the suspicions against your brother, I shall go no farther in the
case. You will have to get an ordinary criminal barrister to defend your
brother. If, on the other hand, I find reasonable grounds for believing him
innocent, I will undertake the defence. What do you say to that?”
“I’ve no choice,” replied Chapman; “and I suppose, if you find all the
evidence against him, the defence won’t matter much.”
“I am afraid that is so,” said Thorndyke. “And now there are one or two
questions to be cleared up. First, does your brother offer any explanation of
the presence of these remains in his box?”

“He supposes that somebody at the ‘Red Lion’ must have taken the
jewellery out and put the remains in. Anyone could get access to the
luggage-room by asking for the key at the office.”
“Well,” said Thorndyke, “that is conceivable. Then, as to the person who
might have made this exchange. Is there anyone who had any reason for
wishing to make away with deceased?”
“No,” replied Chapman. “Plenty of people disliked her, but no one but
my brother had any motive for getting rid of her.”
“You spoke of a man with whom she was on somewhat intimate terms.
There had been no quarrel or breach there, I suppose?”
“The man, Gamble, you mean. No, I should say they were the best of
friends. Besides, Gamble had no responsibilities in regard to her. He could
have dropped her whenever he was tired of her.”
“Do you know anything about him?” Thorndyke asked.
“Very little. He has been a rolling stone, and has been in all sorts of jobs,
I believe. He was in the New Zealand trade for some time and dealt in all
sorts of things—among others, in smoked human heads; sold them to
collectors and museums, I understand. So he would have had some previous
experience,” Chapman added with a faint grin.
“Not in dismemberment,” said Thorndyke. “Those will have been ancient
Maori heads—relics of the old head hunters. There are some in the
Hunterian Museum. But, as you say, there seems to be no motive in
Gamble’s case, even if there had been the opportunity; whereas, in your
brother’s case, there seems to have been both the motive and the
opportunity. I suppose your brother never threatened the deceased?”
“I am sorry to say he did,” replied Chapman. “On several occasions, and
before witnesses, too, he threatened to put her out of the way. Of course he
never meant it—he was really the mildest of men. But it was a foolish thing
to do and most unfortunate, as things have turned out.”
“Well,” said Thorndyke, “I will look into the matter and let you know
what I think of it. It is unnecessary to remark that appearances are not very
encouraging.”
“No, I can see that,” said Chapman, rising and producing his card-case.
“But we must hope for the best.” He laid his card on the table, and having
shaken hands with us gloomily, took his departure.
“It doesn’t do to take things at their face value,” I remarked, when he had
gone; “but I don’t think we have ever had a more hopeless-looking case. All

it wants to complete it is the discovery of remains in Chapman’s house.”
“In that respect,” said Thorndyke, “it may already be complete. But it
hardly wants that finishing touch. On the evidence that we have, any jury
would find a verdict of ‘guilty’ without leaving the box. The only question
for us is whether the face value of the evidence is its real value. If it is, the
defence will be a mere formality.”
“I suppose,” said I, “you will begin the investigation at Stoke Varley?”
“Yes,” he replied. “We begin by checking the alleged facts. If they are
really as stated, we shall probably need to go no farther. And we had better
lose no time, as the remains may be moved into the jurisdiction of a London
coroner, and we ought to see everything in situ as far as possible. I suggest
that we postpone the rest of to-day’s business and start at once, taking
Scotland Yard on the way to get authority to inspect the remains and the
premises.”
In a few minutes we were ready for the expedition. While Thorndyke
packed the “research-case” with the necessary instruments, I gave
instructions to our laboratory assistant, Polton, as to what was to be done in
our absence, and then, when we had consulted the time-table, we set forth
by way of the Embankment.
At Scotland Yard, on inquiring for our friend, Superintendent Miller, we
received the slightly unwelcome news that he was at Stoke Varley, inquiring
into the case. However, the authorization was given readily enough, and,
armed with this, we made our way to Charing Cross Station, arriving there
in good time to catch our train.
We had just given up our tickets and turned out into the pleasant station
approach of Stoke Varley when Thorndyke gave a soft chuckle. I looked at
him inquiringly, and he explained: “Miller has had a telegram, and we are
going to have facilities, with a little supervision.” Following the direction of
his glance, I now observed the superintendent strolling towards us, trying to
look surprised, but achieving only a somewhat sheepish grin.
“Well, I’m sure, gentlemen!” he exclaimed. “This is an unexpected
pleasure. You don’t mean to say you are engaged in this treasure-trove
case?”
“Why not?” asked Thorndyke.
“Well, I’ll tell you why not,” replied Miller. “Because it’s no go. You’ll
only waste your time and injure your reputation. I may as well let you
know, in confidence, that we’ve been through Chapman’s house in London.

It wasn’t very necessary; but still, if there was a vacancy in his coffin for
one or two more nails, we’ve knocked them in.”
“What did you find in his house?” Thorndyke asked.
“We found,” replied Miller, “in a cupboard in his bedroom, a good-sized
bottle of hyoscine tablets, about two-thirds full—one-third missing. No
great harm in that; he might have taken ’em himself. But when we went
down into the cellar, we noticed that the place smelt—well, a bit
graveyardy, so to speak. So we had a look round. It was a stone-floored
cellar, not very even, but so far as we could see, none of the flagstones
seemed to have been disturbed. We didn’t want the job of digging the whole
of them up, so I just filled a bucket with water and poured it over the floor.
Then I watched.
“In less than a minute one big flagstone near the middle went nearly dry,
while the water still stood on all the others. ‘What O!’ says I. ‘Loose earth
underneath here.’ So we got a crow-bar and prised up that big flag; and sure
enough, underneath it we found a good-sized bundle done up in a sheet. I
won’t go into unpleasant particulars—not that it would upset you, I suppose
—but that bundle contained human remains.”
“Any bones?” inquired Thorndyke.
“No. Mostly in’ards and some skin from the front of the body. We handed
them over to the Home Office experts, and they examined them and made
an analysis. Their report states that the remains are those of a woman of
about thirty-five—that was about Mings’ age—and that the various organs
contained a large quantity of hyoscine; more than enough to have caused
death. So there you are. If you are going to conduct the defence, you won’t
get much glory from it.”
“It is very good of you, Miller,” said Thorndyke, “to have given us this
private information. It is very helpful, though I have not undertaken the
defence. I have merely come down to check the facts and see if there is any
material for a defence. And I shall go through the routine, as I am here.
Where are the remains?”
“In the mortuary. I’ll show you the way, and as I happen to have the key
in my pocket, I can let you in.”
We passed through the outskirts of the village—gathering a small train of
stealthy followers, who dogged us to the door of the mortuary and hungrily
watched us as the superintendent let us in and locked the door after us.

“There you are,” said Miller, indicating the slate table on which the
remains lay, covered by a sheet soaked in an antiseptic. “I’ve seen all I want
to see.” And he retired into a corner and lit his pipe.
The remnants of mortality, disclosed by the removal of the sheet, were
dreadfully suggestive of crime in its most brutal and horrible form, but they
offered little information. The dismemberment had been manifestly rude
and unskilful, and the remains were clearly those of a woman of medium
size and apparently in the prime of life. The principal interest centred in the
left arm, the waxen skin of which bore a very distinct tattoo-mark,
consisting of the initials R.M. over a very symmetrical heart, transfixed by
an arrow, beneath which were the initials J.B. The letters were Roman
capitals about half an inch high, well-formed and finished with serifs, and
the heart and arrow quite well drawn. I looked reflectively at the device,
standing out in dull blue from its ivory-like background, and speculated
vaguely as to whom J.B. might have been and how many predecessors and
successors he had had. And then my interest waned, and I joined the
superintendent in the corner. It was a sordid case, and a conviction being a
foregone conclusion, it did not seem to call for further attention.
Thorndyke, however, seemed to think otherwise. But that was his way.
When he was engaged in an investigation he put out of his mind everything
that he had been told and began from the very beginning. That was what he
was doing now. He was inspecting these remains as if they had been the
remains of some unidentified person. He made, and noted down, minute
measurements of the limbs; he closely examined every square inch of
surface; he scrutinized each finger separately, and then with the aid of his
portable inking-plate and roller, took a complete set of finger-prints. He
measured all the dimensions of the tattoo-marks with a delicate calliper-
gauge, and then examined the marks themselves, first with a common lens
and then with the high-power Coddington. The principles that he laid down
in his lectures at the hospital were: “Accept no statement without
verification; observe every fact independently for yourselves; and keep an
open mind.” And, certainly, no one ever carried out more conscientiously
his own precepts.
“Do you know, Dr. Jervis,” the superintendent whispered to me as
Thorndyke brought his Coddington to bear on the tattoo-marks, “I believe
this lens business is becoming a habit with the doctor. It’s my firm
conviction that if somebody were to blow up the Houses of Parliament, he’d

go and examine the ruins through a magnifying glass. Just look at him
poring over those tattooed letters that you could read plainly twenty feet
away!”
Meanwhile, Thorndyke, unconscious of these criticisms, placidly
continued his inspection. From the table, with its gruesome burden, he
transferred his attention to the box, which had been placed on a bench by
the window, examining it minutely inside and out; feeling with his fingers
the dark grey paint with which it was coated and the white-painted initials,
“S.C.,” on the lid, which he also measured carefully. He even copied into
his note-book the maker’s name, which was stamped on a small brass label
affixed to the inside of the lid, and the name of the lock-maker, and
inspected the screws which had drawn from the wood when it was forced
open. At length he put away his note-book, closed the research-case and
announced that he had finished, adding the inquiry: “How do you get to the
‘Red Lion’ from here?”
“It’s only a few minutes’ walk,” said Miller. “I’ll show you the way. But
you’re wasting your time, doctor, you are indeed. You see,” he continued,
when he had locked up the mortuary and pocketed the key, “that suggestion
of Chapman’s is ridiculous on the face of it. Just imagine a man bringing a
portmanteau full of human remains into the luggage-room of a commercial
hotel, opening it and opening another man’s box, and swapping the contents
of the one for the other with the chance of one of the commercials coming
in at any moment. Supposing one of ’em had, what would he have had to
say? ‘Hallo!’ says the baggy, ‘you seem to have got somebody’s arm in your
box.’ ‘So I have,’ says Chapman. ‘I expect it’s my wife’s. Careless woman!
must have dropped it in when she was packing the box.’ Bah! It’s a fool’s
explanation. Besides, how could he have got Chapman’s box open? We
couldn’t. It was a first-class lock. We had to break it open, but it hadn’t been
broken open before. No, sir, that cat won’t jump. Still, you needn’t take my
word for it. Here is the place, and here is Mr. Butt, himself, standing at his
own front door looking as pleasant as the flowers in May, like the lump of
sugar that you put in a fly-trap to induce ’em to walk in.”
The landlord, who had overheard—without difficulty—the concluding
passage of Miller’s peroration, smiled genially; and when the purpose of the
visit had been explained, suggested a “modest quencher” in the private
parlour as an aid to conversation.

“I wanted,” said Thorndyke, waiving the suggestion of the “quencher,”
“to ascertain whether Chapman’s theory of an exchange of contents could
be seriously entertained.”
“Well, sir,” said the landlord, “the fact is that it couldn’t. That room is a
public room, and people may be popping in there at any time all day. We
don’t usually keep it locked. It isn’t necessary. We know most of our
customers, and the contents of the packages that are stowed in the room are
principally travellers’ samples of no considerable value. The thing would
have been impossible in the daytime, and we lock the room up at night.”
“Have you had any strangers staying with you in the interval between
Chapman’s going away and the discovery of the remains?”
“Yes. There was a Mr. Doler; he had two cabin trunks and a uniform case
which went to the luggage-room. And then there was a lady, Mrs.
Murchison. She had a lot of stuff in there: a small, flat trunk, a hat-box, and
a big dress-basket—one of these great basket pantechnicons that ladies take
about with them. And there was another gentleman—I forget his name, but
you will see it in the visitors’ book—he had a couple of largish
portmanteaux in there. Perhaps you would like to see the book?”
“I should,” said Thorndyke; and when the book was produced and the
names of the guests pointed out, he copied the entries into his note-book,
adding the particulars of their luggage.
“And now, sir,” said Miller, “I suppose you won’t be happy until you’ve
seen the room itself?”
“Your insight is really remarkable, superintendent,” my colleague replied.
“Yes, I should like to see the room.”
There was little enough to see, however, when we arrived there. The key
was in the door, and the latter was not only unlocked but stood ajar; and
when we pushed it open and entered we saw a small room, empty save for a
collection of portmanteaux, trunks, and Gladstone bags. The only
noteworthy fact was that it was at the end of a corridor, covered with
linoleum, so that anyone inside would have a few seconds’ notice of another
person’s approach. But evidently that would have been of little use in the
alleged circumstances. For the hypothetical criminal must have emptied
Chapman’s box of the jewellery before he could put the incriminating
objects into it; so that, apart from the latter, the arrival of an inopportune
visitor would have found him apparently in the act of committing a robbery.
The suggestion was obviously absurd.

“By the way,” said Thorndyke, as we descended the stairs, “where is the
central character of this drama—Chapman? He is not here, I suppose?”
“Yes, he is,” replied Miller. “He is committed for trial, but we are
keeping him here until we know where the inquest is to be held. You would
probably like to have a few words with him? Well, I’ll take you along to the
police station and tell them who you are, and then perhaps you would like
to come back here and have some lunch or dinner before you return to
town.”
I warmly seconded the latter proposal, and the arrangement having been
made, we set forth for the police station, which we gathered from Miller
was incorporated with a small local prison. Here we were shown into what
appeared to be a private office, and presently a sergeant entered, ushering in
a man whom we at once recognized from his resemblance to our client, Mr.
George Chapman, disguised though it was by his pallor, his unshaven face,
and his air of abject misery. The sergeant, having announced him by name,
withdrew with the superintendent and locked the door on the outside. As
soon as we were alone, Thorndyke rapidly acquainted the prisoner with the
circumstances of his brother’s visit and then continued:
“Now, Mr. Chapman, you want me to undertake your defence. If I do so,
I must have all the facts. If there is anything known to you that your brother
has not told me, I ask you to tell it to me without reservation.”
Chapman shook his head wearily.
“I know nothing more than you know,” said he. “The whole affair is a
mystery that I can make nothing of. I don’t expect you to believe me. Who
would, with all this evidence against me? But I swear to God that I know
nothing of this abominable crime. When I brought that box down here, it
contained my stock of jewellery and nothing else; and after I put it in the
luggage-room, I never opened it.”
“Do you know of anybody who might have had a motive for getting rid
of Rebecca Mings?”
“Not a soul,” replied Chapman. “She led me the devil’s own life, but she
was popular enough with her own friends. And she was an attractive woman
in her way: a fine, well-built woman, rather big—she stood five-feet-seven
—with a good complexion and very handsome golden hair. Such as her
friends were—they were a shady lot—I think they were fond of her, and I
don’t believe she had any enemies.”

“Some hyoscine was found in your house,” said Thorndyke. “Do you
know anything about it?”
“Yes. I got it when I suffered from neuralgia. But I never took any. My
doctor heard about it and sent me to the dentist. The bottle was never
opened. It contained a hundred tablets.”
“And with regard to the box,” said Thorndyke. “Had you had it long?”
“Not very long. I bought it at Fletchers, in Holborn, about six months
ago.”
“And you have nothing more to tell us?”
“No,” he replied. “I wish I had;” and then, after a pause, he asked with a
wistful look at Thorndyke: “Are you going to undertake my defence, sir? I
can see that there is very little hope, but I should like to be given just a
chance.”
I glanced at Thorndyke, expecting at the most a cautious and conditional
reply. To my astonishment he answered:
“There is no need to take such a gloomy view of the case, Mr. Chapman.
I shall undertake the defence, and I think you have quite a fair chance of an
acquittal.”
On this amazing reply I reflected, not without some self-condemnation,
during our walk to the hotel and the meal that preceded our departure. For it
was evident that I had missed something vital. Thorndyke was a cautious
man and little given to making promises or forecasts of results. He must
have picked up some evidence of a very conclusive kind; but what that
evidence could be, I found it impossible to imagine. The superintendent,
too, was puzzled, I could see, for Thorndyke made no secret of his intention
to go on with the case. But Miller’s delicate attempts to pump him came to
nothing; and when he had escorted us to the station and our train moved off,
I could see him standing on the platform, gently scratching the back of his
head and gazing speculatively at our retreating carriage.
As soon as we were clear of the station, I opened my attack.
“What on earth,” I demanded, “did you mean by giving that poor devil,
Chapman, hopes of acquittal? I can’t see that he has a dog’s chance.”
Thorndyke looked at me gravely.
“My impression is, Jervis,” he said, “that you have not kept an open mind
in this case. You have allowed yourself to fall under the suggestive
influence of the obvious; whereas the function of the investigator is to
consider the possible alternatives of the obvious inference. And you have

not brought your usual keen attention to bear on the facts. If you had
considered George Chapman’s statement attentively, you would have
noticed that it contained some very curious and significant suggestions; and
if you had examined those dismembered remains critically, you would have
seen that they confirmed those suggestions in a very remarkable manner.”
“As to George Chapman’s statement,” said I, “the only suggestive point
that I recall is the reference to those Maori heads. But, as you, yourself,
pointed out, the dealers in those heads don’t do the dismemberment.”
Thorndyke shook his head a little impatiently.
“Tut, tut, Jervis,” said he, “that isn’t the point at all. Any fool can cut up a
dead body as this one has been cut up. The point is that that statement,
carefully considered, yields a definite and consistent alternative to the
theory that Samuel Chapman killed this woman and dismembered her body;
and that alternative theory is supported by the appearance of these remains.
I think you will see the point if you recall Chapman’s statement, and reflect
on the possible bearing of the various incidents that he described.”
In this, however, Thorndyke was unduly optimistic. I recalled the
statement completely enough, and reflected on it frequently and profoundly
during the next few days; but the more I thought of it the more conclusive
did the case against the accused appear.
Meanwhile, my colleague appeared to be taking no steps in the matter,
and I assumed that he was waiting for the inquest. It is true that, when, on
one occasion, he had accompanied me towards the City, and leaving me in
Queen Victoria Street disappeared into the premises of Messrs. Burden
Brothers, lock manufacturers, I was inclined to associate his proceedings
with his minute examination of the lock at Stoke Varley. And, again, when
our laboratory assistant, Polton, was seen to issue forth, top-hatted and
armed with an umbrella and an attaché-case, I suspected some sort of
“private inquiries,” possibly connected with the case. But from Thorndyke I
could get no information at all. My tentative “pumpings” elicited one
unvarying reply. “You have the facts, Jervis. You heard George Chapman’s
statement, and you have seen the remains. Give me a reasonable theory and
I will discuss it with pleasure.” And that was how the matter remained. I
had no reasonable theory—other than that of the police—and there was
accordingly no discussion.
On a certain evening, a couple of days before the inquest—which had
been postponed in the hope that some further remains might be discovered

—I observed signs of an expected visitor: a small table placed by the
supernumerary arm-chair and furnished with a tray bearing a siphon, a
whisky-decanter and a box of cigars. Thorndyke caught my inquiring
glance at these luxuries, for which neither of us had any use, and proceeded
to explain.
“I have asked Miller to look in this evening—he is due now. I have been
working at this Chapman case, and as it is now complete, I propose to lay
my cards on the table.”
“Is that safe?” said I. “Supposing the police still go for a conviction and
try to forestall your evidence?”
“They won’t,” he replied. “They couldn’t. And it would be most
improper to let the case go for trial on a false theory. But here is Miller; and
a mighty twitter he is in, I have no doubt.”
He was. Without even waiting for the customary cigar, he plumped down
into the chair, and dragging a letter from his pocket, fixed a glare of
astonishment on my placid colleague.
“This letter of yours, sir,” said he, “is perfectly incomprehensible to me.
You say that you are prepared to put us in possession of the facts of this
Chapman case. But we are in possession of the facts already. We are
absolutely certain of a conviction. Let me remind you, sir, of what those
facts are. We have got a dead body which has been identified beyond all
doubt. Part of that body was found in a box which is the property of Samuel
Chapman, which was brought by him and deposited by him at the ‘Red
Lion’ Hotel. Another part of that body was found in his dwelling-house. A
supply of poison—an uncommon poison, too—similar to that which killed
the dead person, has also been found in his house; and the dead body is that
of a woman with whom Chapman was known to be on terms of enmity and
whom he has threatened, in the presence of witnesses, to kill. Now, sir, what
have you got to say to those facts?”
Thorndyke regarded the agitated detective with a quiet smile. “My
comments, Miller,” said he, “can be put in a nut-shell. You have got the
wrong man, you have got the wrong box, and you have got the wrong
body.”
The superintendent was thunderstruck, and no wonder. So was I. As to
Miller, he drew himself forward until he was sitting on the extreme edge of
the chair, and for some moments stared at my impassive colleague in
speechless amazement. At length he burst out:

“But, my dear sir! This is sheer nonsense—at least, that’s what it sounds
like, though I know it can’t be. Let’s begin with the body. You say it’s the
wrong one.”
“Yes. Rebecca Mings was a biggish woman. Her height was five-feet-
seven. This woman was not more than five-feet-four.”
“Bah!” exclaimed Miller. “You can’t judge to an inch or two from parts
of a dismembered body. You are forgetting the tattoo-mark. That clenches
the identity beyond any possible doubt.”
“It does, indeed,” said Thorndyke. “That is the crucial evidence. Rebecca
Mings had a certain tattoo-mark on her left forearm. This woman had not.”
“Had not!” shrieked Miller, coming yet farther forward on his chair. (I
expected, every moment, to see him sitting on the floor.) “Why, I saw it;
and so did you.”
“I am speaking of the woman, not of the body,” said Thorndyke. “The
mark that you saw was a post-mortem tattoo-mark. It was made after death.
But the fact that it was made after death is good evidence that it was not
there during life.”
“Moses!” exclaimed the superintendent. “This is a facer. Are you
perfectly sure it was done after death?”
“Quite sure. The appearance, through a powerful lens, is unmistakable.
Tattoo-marks are made, as you know, of course, by painting Indian ink on
the skin and pricking it in with fine needles. In the living skin the needle
wounds heal up at once and disappear, but in the dead skin the needle-holes
remain unclosed and can be easily seen with a lens. In this case the skin had
been well washed and the surface pressed with some smooth object; but the
holes were plainly visible and the ink was still in them.”
“Well, I’m sure!” said Miller. “I never heard of tattooing a dead body
before.”
“Very few people have, I expect,” said Thorndyke. “But there is one class
of persons who know all about it: the persons who deal in Maori heads.”
“Indeed?” queried Miller. “How does it concern them?”
“Those heads are usually elaborately tattooed, and the value of a head
depends on the quality of the tattooing. Now, when those heads became
objects of trade, the dealers conceived the idea of touching up defective
specimens by additional tattooing on the dead head, and from this they
proceeded to obtain heads which had no tattoo-marks, and turn them into
tattooed heads.”

“Well, to be sure,” said the superintendent, with a grin, “what wicked
men there are in the world, aren’t there, Dr. Jervis?”
I murmured a vague assent, but I was principally conscious of a desire to
kick myself for having failed to pick this invaluable clue out of George
Chapman’s statement.
“And now,” said Miller, “we come to the box. How do you know it is the
wrong one?”
“That,” replied Thorndyke, “is proved even more conclusively. The
original box was made by Fletchers, in Holborn. It was sold to Chapman,
and his initials painted on it, on the 9th of last April. I have seen the entry in
the day-book. The locks of these boxes are made by Burden Brothers of
Queen Victoria Street, and as they are quite high-class locks each is given a
registered number, which is stamped on the lock. The number on the lock of
the box that you have is 5007, and Burden’s books show that it was made
and sold to Fletchers about the middle of July—the sale was dated the 13th.
Therefore this cannot be Chapman’s box.”
“Apparently not,” Miller agreed. “But whose box is it? And what has
become of Chapman’s box?”
“That,” replied Thorndyke, “was presumably taken away in Mrs.
Murchison’s dress-basket.”
“Then who the deuce is Mrs. Murchison?” demanded the superintendent.
“I should say,” replied Thorndyke, “that she was formerly known as
Rebecca Mings.”
“The deceased!” exclaimed Miller, falling back in his chair with a
guffaw. “My eye! What a lark it is! But she must have some sauce, to walk
off with the jewellery and leave her own dismembered remains in
exchange! By the way, whose remains are they?”
“We shall come to that presently,” Thorndyke answered. “Now we have
to consider the man you have in custody.”
“Yes,” agreed Miller, “we must settle about him. Of course if it isn’t his
box, and the body isn’t Mings’ body, that puts him out of it so far. But there
are those remains that we dug up in his cellar. What about them?”
“That question,” replied Thorndyke, “will, I think, be answered by a
general review of the case. But I must remind you that if the box is not
Chapman’s, it is some other person’s; that is to say, that if Chapman goes
out of the case, as to the Stoke Varley incidents, someone else comes in. So,

if the body is not Mings’ body, it is some other woman’s, and that other
woman must have disappeared. And now let us review the case as a whole.
“You know about the pocket-picking charge. It was obviously a false
charge, deliberately prepared by ‘planting’ the purse; that is, it was a
conspiracy. Now what was the object of this conspiracy? Clearly it was to
get Chapman out of the way while the boxes were exchanged at Stoke
Varley, and the remains deposited in the river and elsewhere. Then who
were the conspirators—other than the agent who planted the purse?
“They—if there were more than one—must have had access to Mings,
dead or alive, in order to make the exact copy, or tracing, of her tattoo-
mark. They must have had some knowledge of the process of post-mortem
tattooing. They must have had access to Chapman’s house. And, since they
had in their possession the dead body of a woman, they must have been
associated with some woman who has disappeared.
“Who is there who answers this description? Well, of course, Mings had
access to herself, though she could hardly have taken a tracing from her
own arm, and she had access to Chapman’s house, since she had possession
of the latch-key. Then there is a man named Gamble, with whom Mings
was on terms of great intimacy. Now Gamble was formerly a dealer in
tattoed Maori heads, so he may be assumed to know something about post-
mortem tattooing. And I have ascertained that Gamble’s wife has
disappeared from her usual places of resort. So here are two persons who,
together, agree with the description of the conspirators. And now let us
consider the train of events in connexion with the dates.
“On July the 29th Chapman came to town from Stoke Varley. On the 30th
he was arrested as a pickpocket. On the 31st he was committed for trial. On
the 2nd of August Mrs. Gamble went away to the country. No one seems to
have seen her go, but that is the date on which she is reported to have gone.
On August the 5th Mrs. Murchison deposited at Stoke Varley a box which
must have been purchased between the 13th of July and the 4th of August,
and which contained a woman’s arm. On the 14th of August that box was
opened by the police. On the 18th human remains were discovered in
Chapman’s house. On the 27th Chapman was released from Brixton. On the
28th he was arrested for murder at Stoke Varley. I think, Miller, you will
agree that that is a very striking succession of dates.”
“Yes,” Miller agreed. “It looks like a true bill. If you will give me Mr.
Gamble’s address, I’ll call on him.”

“I’m afraid you won’t find him at home,” said Thorndyke. “He has gone
into the country, too; and I gather from his landlord, who holds a returned
cheque, that Mr. Gamble’s banking account has gone into the country with
him.”
“Then,” said the superintendent, “I suppose I must take a trip into the
country, too.”

“Well, Thorndyke,” I said, as I laid down the paper containing the report
of the trial of Gamble and Mings for the murder of Theresa Gamble, one
morning about four months later, “you ought to be very highly gratified.
After sentencing Gamble to death and Mings to fifteen years’ penal
servitude, the judge took the opportunity to compliment the police on their
ingenuity in unravelling this crime, and the Home Office experts on their
skill in detecting the counterfeit tattoo-marks. What do you think of that?”
“I think,” replied Thorndyke, “that his lordship showed a very proper and
appreciative spirit.”

VII.
THE TRAIL OF BEHEMOTH

Of all the minor dissipations in which temperate men indulge there is none,
I think, more alluring than the after-breakfast pipe. I had just lit mine and
was standing before the fire with the unopened paper in my hand when my
ear caught the sound of hurried footsteps ascending the stair. Now
experience has made me somewhat of a connoisseur in footsteps. A good
many are heard on our stair, heralding the advent of a great variety of
clients, and I have learned to distinguish those which are premonitory of
urgent cases. Such I judged the present ones to be, and my judgment was
confirmed by a hasty, importunate tattoo on our small brass knocker.
Regretfully taking the much-appreciated pipe from my mouth, I crossed the
room and threw the door open.
“Good morning, Dr. Jervis,” said our visitor, a barrister whom I knew
slightly. “Is your colleague at home?”
“No, Mr. Bidwell,” I replied. “I am sorry to say he is out of town. He
won’t be back until the day after to-morrow.”
Mr. Bidwell was visibly disappointed.
“Ha! Pity!” he exclaimed; and then with quick tact he added: “But still,
you are here. It comes to the same thing.”
“I don’t know about that,” said I. “But, at any rate, I am at your service.”
“Thank you,” said he. “And in that case I will ask you to come round
with me at once to Tanfield Court. A most shocking thing has happened. My
old friend and neighbour, Giles Herrington, has been—well, he is dead—
died suddenly, and I think there can be no doubt that he was killed. Can you
come now? I will give you the particulars as we go.”
I scribbled a hasty note to say where I had gone, and having laid it on the
table, got my hat and set forth with Mr. Bidwell.

“It has only just been discovered,” said he, as we crossed King’s Bench
Walk. “The laundress who does his chambers and mine was battering at my
door when I arrived—I don’t live in the Temple, you know. She was as pale
as a ghost and in an awful state of alarm and agitation. It seems that she had
gone up to Herrington’s chambers to get his breakfast ready as usual; but
when she went into the sitting-room she found him lying dead on the floor.
Thereupon she rushed down to my chambers—I am usually an early bird—
and there I found her, as I said, battering at my door, although she has a key.
“Well, I went up with her to my friend’s chambers—they are on the first
floor, just over mine—and there, sure enough, was poor old Giles lying on
the floor, cold and stiff. Evidently he had been lying there all night.”
“Were there any marks of violence on the body?” I asked.
“I didn’t notice any,” he replied, “but I didn’t look very closely. What I
did notice was that the place was all in disorder—a chair overturned and
things knocked off the table. It was pretty evident that there had been a
struggle and that he had not met his death by fair means.”
“And what do you want us to do?” I asked.
“Well,” he replied, “I was Herrington’s friend; about the only friend he
had, for he was not an amiable or a sociable man; and I am the executor of
his will.
“Appearances suggest very strongly that he has been murdered, and I
take it upon myself to see that his murderer is brought to account. Our
friendship seems to demand that. Of course, the police will go into the
affair, and if it turns out to be all plain sailing, there will be nothing for you
to do. But the murderer, if there is one, has got to be secured and convicted,
and if the police can’t manage it, I want you and Thorndyke to see the case
through. This is the place.”
He hurried in through the entry and up the stairs to the first-floor landing,
where he rapped loudly at the closed “oak” of a set of chambers above
which was painted the name of “Mr. Giles Herrington.”
After an interval, during which Mr. Bidwell repeated the summons, the
massive door opened and a familiar face looked out: the face of Inspector
Badger of the Criminal Investigation Department. The expression that it
bore was not one of welcome, and my experience of the inspector caused
me to brace myself up for the inevitable contest.
“What is your business?” he inquired forbiddingly.
Mr. Bidwell took the question to himself and replied:

“I am Mr. Herrington’s executor, and in that capacity I have instructed
Dr. Jervis and his colleague, Dr. Thorndyke, to watch the case on my behalf.
I take it that you are a police officer?”
“I am,” replied Badger, “and I can’t admit any unauthorized persons to
these chambers.”
“We are not unauthorized persons,” said Mr. Bidwell. “We are here on
legitimate business. Do I understand that you refuse admission to the legal
representatives of the deceased man?”
In the face of Mr. Bidwell’s firm and masterful attitude, Badger began, as
usual, to weaken. Eventually, having warned us to convey no information to
anybody, he grudgingly opened the door and admitted us.
“I have only just arrived, myself,” he said. “I happened to be in the
porter’s lodge on other business when the laundress came and gave the
alarm.”
As I stepped into the room and looked round, I saw at a glance the clear
indications of a crime. The place was in the utmost disorder. The cloth had
been dragged from the table, littering the floor with broken glass, books, a
tobacco jar, and various other objects. A chair sprawled on its back, the
fender was dislodged from its position, the hearth-rug was all awry; and in
the midst of the wreckage, on the space of floor between the table and the
fireplace, the body of a man was stretched in a not uneasy posture.
I stooped over him and looked him over searchingly; an elderly man,
clean-shaved and slightly bald, with a grim, rather forbidding countenance,
which was not, however, distorted or apparently unusual in expression.
There were no obvious injuries, but the crumpled state of the collar caused
me to look more closely at the throat and neck, and I then saw pretty plainly
a number of slightly discoloured marks, such as would be made by fingers
tightly grasping the throat. Evidently Badger had already observed them,
for he remarked:
“There’s no need to ask you what he died of, doctor; I can see that for
myself.”
“The actual cause of death,” said I, “is not quite evident. He doesn’t
appear to have died from suffocation, but those are very unmistakable
marks on the throat.”
“Uncommonly,” agreed Badger; “and they are enough for my purpose
without any medical hair-splittings. How long do you think he has been
dead?”

“From nine to twelve hours,” I replied, “but nearer nine, I should think.”
The inspector looked at his watch.
“That makes it between nine o’clock and midnight, but nearer midnight,”
said he. “Well, we shall hear if the night porter has anything to tell us. I’ve
sent word for him to come over, and the laundress, too. And here is one of
’em.”
It was, in fact, both of them, for when the inspector opened the door, they
were discovered conversing eagerly in whispers.
“One at a time,” said Badger. “I’ll have the porter in first;” and having
admitted the man, he unceremoniously shut the door on the woman. The
night porter saluted me as he came in—we were old acquaintances—and
then halted near the door, where he stood stiffly, with his eyes riveted on the
corpse.
“Now,” said Badger, “I want you to try to remember if you let in any
strangers last night, and if so, what their business was.”
“I remember quite well,” the porter replied. “I let in three strangers while
I was on duty. One was going to Mr. Bolter in Fig Tree Court, one was
going to Sir Alfred Blain’s chambers, and the third said he had an
appointment with Mr. Herrington.”
“Ha!” exclaimed Badger, rubbing his hands. “Now, what time did you let
him in?”
“It was just after ten-fifteen.”
“Can you tell us what he was like and how he was dressed?”
“Yes,” was the reply. “He didn’t know where Tanfield Court was, and I
had to walk down and show him, so I was able to have a good look at him.
He was a middle-sized man, rather thin, dark hair, small moustache, no
beard, and he had a long, sharp nose with a bump on the bridge. He wore a
soft felt hat, a loose light overcoat, and he carried a thickish rough stick.”
“What class of man was he? Seem to be a gentleman?”
“He was quite a gentlemanly kind of man, so far as I could judge, but he
looked a bit shabby as to his clothes.”
“Did you let him out?”
“Yes. He came to the gate a few minutes before eleven.”
“And did you notice anything unusual about him then?”
“I did,” the porter replied impressively. “I noticed that his collar was all
crumpled and his hat was dusty and dented. His face was a bit red, and he
looked rather upset, as if he had been having a tussle with somebody. I

looked at him particularly and wondered what had been happening, seeing
that Mr. Herrington was a quiet, elderly gentleman, though he was certainly
a bit peppery at times.”
The inspector took down these particulars gleefully in a large note-book
and asked:
“Is that all you know of the affair?” And when the porter replied that it
was, he said: “Then I will ask you to read this statement and sign your name
below it.”
The porter read through his statement and carefully signed his name at
the foot. He was about to depart when Badger said:
“Before you go, perhaps you had better help us to move the body into the
bedroom. It isn’t decent to leave it lying there.”
Accordingly the four of us lifted the dead man and carried him into the
bedroom, where we laid him on the undisturbed bed and covered him with a
rug. Then the porter was dismissed, with instructions to send in Mrs. Runt.
The laundress’s statement was substantially a repetition of what Mr.
Bidwell had told me. She had let herself into the chambers in the usual way,
had come suddenly on the dead body of the tenant, and had forthwith
rushed downstairs to give the alarm. When she had concluded, the inspector
stood for a few moments looking thoughtfully at his notes.
“I suppose,” he said presently, “you haven’t looked round these chambers
this morning? Can’t say if there is anything unusual about them, or anything
missing?”
The laundress shook her head.
“I was too upset,” she said, with another furtive glance at the place where
the corpse had lain; “but,” she added, letting her eyes roam vaguely round
the room, “there doesn’t seem to be anything missing, so far as I can see—
wait! Yes, there is. There’s something gone from that nail on the wall; and it
was there yesterday morning, because I remember dusting it.”
“Ha!” exclaimed Badger. “Now what was it that was hanging on that
nail?”
“Well,” Mrs. Runt replied hesitatingly, “I really don’t know what it was.
Seemed like a sort of sword or dagger, but I never looked at it particularly,
and I never took it off its nail. I used to dust it as it hung.”
“Still,” said Badger, “you can give us some sort of description of it, I
suppose?”

“I don’t know that I can,” she replied. “It had a leather case, and the
handle was covered with leather, I think, and it had a sort of loop, and it
used to hang on that nail.”
“Yes, you said that before,” Badger commented sourly. “When you say it
had a case, do you mean a sheath?”
“You can call it a sheath if you like,” she retorted, evidently ruffled by
the inspector’s manner, “I call it a case.”
“And how big was it? How long, for instance?”
Mrs. Runt held out her hands about a yard apart, looked at them
critically, shortened the interval to a foot, extended it to two, and still
varying the distance, looked vaguely at the inspector.
“I should say it was about that,” she said.
“About what?” snorted Badger. “Do you mean a foot or two feet or a
yard? Can’t you give us some idea?”
“I can’t say no clearer than what I have,” she snapped. “I don’t go round
gentlemen’s chambers measuring the things.”
It seemed to me that Badger’s questions were rather unnecessary, for the
wall-paper below the nail gave the required information. A coloured patch
on the faded ground furnished a pretty clear silhouette of a broad-bladed
sword or large dagger, about two feet six inches long, which had apparently
hung from the nail by a loop or ring at the end of the handle. But it was not
my business to point this out. I turned to Bidwell and asked:
“Can you tell us what the thing was?”
“I am afraid I can’t,” he replied. “I have very seldom been in these
chambers. Herrington and I usually met in mine and went to the club. I have
a dim recollection of something hanging on that nail, but I have not the least
idea what it was or what it was like. But do you think it really matters? The
thing was almost certainly a curio of some kind. It couldn’t have been of
any appreciable value. It is absurd, on the face of it, to suppose that this
man came to Herrington’s chambers, apparently by appointment, and
murdered him for the sake of getting possession of an antique sword or
dagger. Don’t you think so?”
I did, and so, apparently, did the inspector, with the qualification that “the
thing seemed to have disappeared, and its disappearance ought to be
accounted for”; which was perfectly true, though I did not quite see how the
“accounting for” was to be effected. However, as the laundress had told all
that she knew, Badger gave her her dismissal and she retired to the landing,

where I noticed that the night porter was still lurking. Mr. Bidwell also took
his departure, and happening, a few moments later, to glance out of the
window, I saw him walking slowly across the court, apparently conferring
with the laundress and the porter.
As soon as we were alone, Badger assumed a friendly and confidential
manner and proceeded to give advice.
“I gather that Mr. Bidwell wants you to investigate this case, but I don’t
fancy it is in your line at all. It is just a matter of tracing that stranger and
getting hold of him. Then we shall have to find out what property there was
on these premises. The laundress says that there is nothing missing, but of
course no one supposes that the man came here to take the furniture. It is
most probable that the motive was robbery of some kind. There’s no sign of
anything broken open; but then, there wouldn’t be, as the keys were
available.”
Nevertheless he prowled round the room, examining every receptacle
that had a lock and trying the drawers of the writing table and of what
looked like a file cabinet.
“You will have your work cut out,” I remarked, “to trace that man. The
porter’s description was pretty vague.”
“Yes,” he replied; “there isn’t much to go on. That’s where you come in,”
he added with a grin, “with your microscopes and air-pumps and things.
Now if Dr. Thorndyke was here he would just sweep a bit of dust from the
floor and collect any stray oddments and have a good look at them through
his magnifier, and then we should know all about it. Can’t you do a bit in
that line? There’s plenty of dust on the floor. And here’s a pin. Wonderful
significant thing is a pin. And here’s a wax vesta; now, that ought to tell you
quite a lot. And here is the end of a leather boot-lace—at least, that is what
it looks like. That must have come out of somebody’s boot. Have a look at
it, doctor, and see if you can tell me what kind of boot it came out of and
whose boot it was.”
He laid the fragment, and the match, and the pin, on the table and grinned
at me somewhat offensively. Inwardly I resented his impertinence—perhaps
the more so since I realized that Thorndyke would probably not have been
so completely gravelled as I undoubtedly was. But I considered it politic to
take his clumsy irony in good part, and even to carry on his elephantine
joke. Accordingly, I picked up the three “clues,” one after the other, and

examined them gravely, noting that the supposed boot-lace appeared to be
composed of whalebone or vulcanite.
“Well, inspector,” I said, “I can’t give you the answer off-hand. There’s
no microscope here. But I will examine these objects at my leisure and let
you have the information in due course.”
With that I wrapped them with ostentatious care in a piece of note-paper
and bestowed them in my pocket, a proceeding which the inspector watched
with a sour smile.
“I’m afraid you’ll be too late,” said he. “Our men will probably pick up
the tracks while you are doing the microscope stunt. However, I mustn’t
stay here any longer. We can’t do anything until we know what valuables
there were on the premises; and I must have the body removed and
examined by the police surgeon.”
He moved towards the door, and as I had no further business in the
rooms, I followed, and leaving him to lock up, I took my way back to our
chambers.
When Thorndyke returned to town a couple of days later, I mentioned the
case to him. But what Badger had said appeared to be true. It was a case of
ascertaining the identity of the stranger who had visited the dead man on
that fatal night, and this seemed to be a matter for the police rather than for
us. So the case remained in abeyance until the evening following the
inquest, when Mr. Bidwell called on us, accompanied by a Mr. Carston,
whom he introduced as an old friend of his and of Herrington’s family.
“I have called,” he said, “to bring you a full report of the evidence at the
inquest. I had a shorthand writer there, and this is a typed transcript of his
notes. Nothing fresh transpired beyond what Dr. Jervis knows and has
probably told you, but I thought you had better have all the information in
writing.”
“There is no clue as to who the suspicious visitor was, I suppose?” said
Thorndyke.
“Not the slightest,” replied Bidwell. “The porter’s description is all they
have to go on, and of course it would apply to hundreds of persons. But, in
connexion with that, there is a question on which I should like to take your
opinion. Poor Herrington once mentioned to me that he was subjected to a
good deal of annoyance by a certain person who from time to time applied
to him for financial help. I gathered that some sort of claim was advanced,
and that the demands for money were more or less of the nature of

blackmail. Giles didn’t say who the person was, but I got the impression
that he was a relative. Now, my friend Carston, who attended the inquest
with me, noticed that the porter’s description of the stranger would apply
fairly well to a nephew of Giles’s, whom he knows slightly and who is a
somewhat shady character; and the question that Carston and I have been
debating is whether these facts ought to be communicated to the police. It is
a serious matter to put a man under suspicion on such very slender data; and
yet——”
“And yet,” said Carston, “the facts certainly fit the circumstances. This
fellow—his name is Godfrey Herrington—is a typical ne’er-do-weel.
Nobody knows how he lives. He doesn’t appear to do any work. And then
there is the personality of the deceased. I didn’t know Giles Herrington very
well, but I knew his brother, Sir Gilbert, pretty intimately, and if Giles was
at all like him, a catastrophe might easily have occurred.”
“What was Sir Gilbert’s special characteristic?” Thorndyke asked.
“Unamiability,” was the reply. “He was a most cantankerous, overbearing
man, and violent at times. I knew him when I was at the Colonial Office
with him, and one of his official acts will show the sort of man he was. You
may remember it, Bidwell—the Bekwè affair. There was some trouble in
Bekwè, which is one of the minor kingdoms bordering on Ashanti, and Sir
Gilbert was sent out as a special commissioner to settle it. And settle it he
did with a vengeance. He took up an armed force, deposed the king of
Bekwè, seized the royal stool, message stick, state sword, drums, and the
other insignia of royalty, and brought them away with him. And what made
it worse was that he treated these important things as mere loot: kept some
of them himself and gave away others as presents to his friends.
“It was an intolerably high-handed proceeding, and it caused a rare
outcry. Even the Colonial Governor protested, and in the end the Secretary
of State directed the Governor to reinstate the king and restore the stolen
insignia, as these things went with the royal title and were necessary for the
ceremonies of re-instatement or the accession of a new king.”
“And were they restored?” asked Bidwell.
“Most of them were. But just about this time Gilbert died, and as the
whereabouts of one or two of them were unknown, it was impossible to
collect them then. I don’t know if they have been found since.”
Here Thorndyke led Mr. Carston back to the point from which he had
digressed.

“You are suggesting that certain peculiarities of temper and temperament
on the part of the deceased might have some bearing on the circumstances
of his death.”
“Yes,” said Carston. “If Giles Herrington was at all like his brother—I
don’t know whether he was——” here he looked inquiringly at Bidwell,
who nodded emphatically.
“I should say he was, undoubtedly,” said he. “He was my friend, and I
was greatly attached to him; but to others, I must admit, he must have
appeared a decidedly morose, cantankerous, and irascible man.”
“Very well,” resumed Carston. “If you imagine this cadging,
blackmailing wastrel calling on him and trying to squeeze him, and then
you imagine Herrington refusing to be squeezed and becoming abusive and
even violent, you have a fair set of antecedents for—for what, in fact, did
happen.”
“By the way,” said Thorndyke, “what exactly did happen, according to
the evidence?”
“The medical evidence,” replied Bidwell, “showed that the immediate
cause of death was heart failure. There were marks of fingers on the throat,
as you know, and various other bruises. It was evident that deceased had
been violently assaulted, but death was not directly due to the injuries.”
“And the finding of the jury?” asked Thorndyke.
“Wilful murder, committed by some person unknown.”
“It doesn’t appear to me,” said I, “that Mr. Carston’s suggestion has much
present bearing on the case. It is really a point for the defence. But we are
concerned with the identity of the unknown man.”
“I am inclined to agree with Dr. Jervis,” said Bidwell. “We have got to
catch the hare before we go into culinary details.”
“My point is,” said Carston, “that Herrington’s peculiar temper suggests
a set of circumstances that would render it probable that his visitor was his
nephew Godfrey.”
“There is some truth in that,” Thorndyke agreed. “It is highly speculative,
but a reasonable speculation cannot be disregarded when the known facts
are so few. My feeling is that the police ought to be informed of the
existence of this man and his possible relations with the deceased. As to
whether he is or is not the suspected stranger, that could be settled at once if
he were confronted with the night porter.”

“Yes, that is true,” said Bidwell. “I think Carston and I had better call at
Scotland Yard and give the Assistant Commissioner a hint on the subject. It
will have to be a very guarded hint, of course.”
“Was the question of motive raised?” Thorndyke asked. “As to robbery,
for instance.”
“There is no evidence of robbery,” replied Bidwell. “I have been through
all the receptacles in the chambers, and everything seems intact. The keys
were in poor Giles’s pocket and nothing seems to have been disturbed;
indeed, it doesn’t appear that there was any portable property of value on
the premises.”
“Well,” said Thorndyke, “the first thing that has to be done is to establish
the identity of the nocturnal visitor. That is the business of the police. And if
you call and tell them what you have told us, they will, at least, have
something to investigate. They should have no difficulty in proving either
that he is or is not the man whom the porter let in at the gate; and until they
have settled that question, there is no need for us to take any action.”
“Exactly,” said Bidwell, rising and taking up his hat. “If the police can
complete the case, there is nothing for us to do. However, I will leave you
the report of the inquest to look over at your leisure, and will keep you
informed as to how the case progresses.”
When our two friends had gone, Thorndyke sat for some time turning
over the sheets of the report and glancing through the depositions of the
witnesses. Presently he remarked:
“If it turns out that this man, Godfrey Herrington, is not the man whom
the porter let in, the police will be left in the air. Apart from Bidwell’s
purely speculative suggestion, there seems to be no clue whatever to the
visitor’s identity.”
“Badger would like to hear you say that,” said I. “He was very sarcastic
respecting our methods of research,” and here I gave him an account of my
interview with the inspector, including the “clues” with which he had
presented me.
“It was like his impudence,” Thorndyke commented smilingly, “to pull
the leg of my learned junior. Still, there was a germ of sense in what he
said. A collection of dust from the floor of that room, in which two men had
engaged in a violent struggle, would certainly yield traces of both of them.”
“Mixed up with the traces of a good many others,” I remarked.

“True,” he admitted. “But that would not affect the value of a positive
trace of a particular individual. Supposing, for instance, that Godfrey
Herrington were known to have dyed hair; and suppose that one or more
dyed male hairs were found in the dust from the floor of the room. That
would establish a probability that he had been in that room, and also that he
was the person who had struggled with the deceased.”
“Yes, I see that,” said I. “Perhaps I ought to have collected some of the
dust. But it isn’t too late now, as Bidwell has locked up the chambers.
Meanwhile, let me present you with Badger’s clues. They came off the
floor.”
I searched in my pocket and produced the paper packet, the existence of
which I had forgotten, and having opened it, offered it to him with an
ironical bow. He looked gravely at the little collection, and, disregarding the
pin and the match, picked out the third object and examined it curiously.
“That is the alleged boot-lace end,” he remarked. “It doesn’t do much
credit to Badger’s powers of observation. It is as unlike leather as it could
well be.”
“Yes,” I agreed, “it is obviously whalebone or vulcanite.”
“It isn’t vulcanite,” said he, looking closely at the broken end and getting
out his pocket lens for a more minute inspection.
“What do you suppose it is?” I asked, my curiosity stimulated by the
evident interest with which he was examining the object.
“We needn’t suppose,” he replied. “I fancy that if we get Polton to make
a cross section of it, the microscope will tell us what it is. I will take it up to
him now.”
As he went out and I heard him ascending to the laboratory where our
assistant, Polton, was at work, I was conscious of a feeling of vexation and
a sense of failure. It was always thus. I had treated this fragment with the
same levity as had the inspector, just dropping it into my pocket and
forgetting it. Probably the thing was of no interest or importance; but
whether it was or not, Thorndyke would not be satisfied until he knew for
certain what it was. And that habit of examining everything, of letting
nothing pass without the closest scrutiny, was one of the great secrets of his
success as an investigator.
When he came down again I re-opened the subject.
“It has occurred to me,” I said, “that it might be as well for us to have a
look at that room. My inspection was rather perfunctory, as Badger was

there.”
“I have just been thinking the same,” he replied. “If Godfrey is not the
man, and the police are left stranded, Bidwell will look to us to take up the
inquiry, and by that time the room may have been disturbed. I think we will
get the key from Bidwell to-morrow morning and make a thorough
examination. And we may as well adopt Badger’s excellent suggestion
respecting the dust. I will instruct Polton to come over with us and bring a
full-sized vacuum-cleaner, and we can go over what he collects at our
leisure.”
Agreeably to this arrangement, we presented ourselves on the following
morning at Mr. Bidwell’s chambers, accompanied by Polton, who, however,
being acutely conscious of the vacuum-cleaner which was thinly disguised
in brown paper, sneaked up the stairs and got out of sight. Bidwell opened
the door himself, and Thorndyke explained our intentions to him.
“Of course you can have the key,” he said, “but I don’t know that it is
worth your while to go into the matter. There have been developments since
I saw you last night. When Carston and I called at Scotland Yard we found
that we were too late. Godfrey Herrington had come forward and made a
voluntary statement.”
“That was wise of him,” said Thorndyke, “but he would have been wiser
still to have notified the porter of what had happened and sent for a doctor.
He claims that the death was a misadventure, of course?”
“Not at all,” replied Bidwell. “He states that when he left, Giles was
perfectly well; so well that he was able to kick him—Godfrey—down the
stairs and pitch him out on to the pavement. It seems, according to his
account, that he called to try to get some financial help from his uncle. He
admits that he was rather importunate and persisted after Giles had
definitely refused. Then Giles got suddenly into a rage, thrust him out of the
chambers, ran him down the stairs, and threw him out into Tanfield Court. It
is a perfectly coherent story, and quite probable up to a certain point, but it
doesn’t account for the bruises on Giles’s body or the finger-marks on his
throat.”
“No,” agreed Thorndyke; “either he is lying, or he is the victim of some
very inexplicable circumstances. But I gather that you have no further
interest in the case?”
Bidwell reflected.

“Well,” he said, “I don’t know about that. Of course I don’t believe him,
but it is just possible that he is telling the truth. My feeling is that, if he is
guilty I want him convicted; but if by any chance he is innocent—well, he
is Giles’s nephew, and I suppose it is my duty to see that he has a fair
chance. Yes, I think I would like you to watch the case independently—with
a perfectly open mind, neither for nor against. But I don’t see that there is
much that you can do.”
“Neither do I,” said Thorndyke. “But one can observe and note the
visible facts, if there are any. Has anything been done to the rooms?”
“Nothing whatever,” was the reply. “They are just as Dr. Jervis and I
found them the morning after the catastrophe.”
With this he handed Thorndyke the key and we ascended to the landing,
where we found Polton on guard with the vacuum-cleaner, like a sentry
armed with some new and unorthodox weapon.
The appearance of the room was unchanged. The half-dislodged table-
cloth, the litter of broken glass on the floor, even the displaced fender and
hearth-rug, were just as I had last seen them. Thorndyke looked about him
critically and remarked:
“The appearances hardly support Godfrey’s statement. There was clearly
a prolonged and violent struggle, not a mere ejectment. And look at the
table-cloth. The uncovered part of the table is that nearest the door, and
most of the things have fallen off at the end nearest the fireplace.
Obviously, the body that dislodged the cloth was moving away from the
door, not towards it, which again suggests something more than an
unresisted ejectment.”
He again looked round, and his glance fell on the nail and the coloured
silhouette on the wall-paper.
“That, I presume,” said he, “is where the mysterious sword or dagger
hung. It is rather large for a dagger and somewhat wide for a sword, though
barbaric swords are of all shapes and sizes.”
He produced his spring tape and carefully measured the phantom shape
on the wall. “Thirty-one inches long,” he reported, “including the loop at
the end of the handle, by which it hung; seven and a half inches at the top of
the scabbard, tapering rather irregularly to three inches at the tip. A curious
shape. I don’t remember ever having seen a sword quite like it.”
Meanwhile Polton, having picked up the broken glass and other objects,
had uncovered the vacuum-cleaner and now started the motor—which was

driven by an attached dry battery—and proceeded very systematically to
trundle the machine along the floor. At every two or three sweeps he paused
to empty the receiver, placing the grey, felt-like mass on a sheet of paper,
with a pencilled note of the part of the room from whence it came. The size
of these masses of felted dust and the astonishing change in the colour of
the carpet that marked the trail of the cleaner, suggested that Mrs. Runt’s
activities had been of a somewhat perfunctory character. Polton’s dredgings
apparently represented the accumulations of years.
“Wonderful lot of hairs in this old dust,” Polton remarked as he deposited
a fresh consignment on the paper, “especially in this lot. It came from under
that looking-glass on the wall. Perhaps that clothes brush that hangs under
the glass accounts for it.”
“Yes,” I agreed, “they will be hairs brushed off Mr. Herrington’s collar
and shoulders. But,” I added, taking the brush from its nail and examining
it, “Mrs. Runt seems to have used the glass, too. There are three long hairs
still sticking to the brush.”
As Thorndyke was still occupied in browsing inquisitively round the
room, I proceeded to make a preliminary inspection of the heaps of dust,
picking out the hairs and other recognizable objects with my pocket
forceps, and putting them on a separate sheet of paper. Of the former, the
bulk were pretty obviously those of the late tenant—white or dull black
male hairs—but Mrs. Runt had contributed quite liberally, for I picked out
of the various heaps over a dozen long hairs, the mousy brown colour of
which seemed to identify them as hers. The remainder were mostly ordinary
male hairs of various colours, eyebrow hairs and eyelashes, of no special
interest, with one exception. This was a black hair which lay flat on the
paper in a close coil, like a tiny watch-spring.
“I wonder who this negro was,” said I, inspecting it through my lens.
“Probably some African or West Indian Law student,” Thorndyke
suggested. “There are always a good many about the Inns of Court.”
He came round to examine my collection, and while he was viewing the
negro hair with the aid of my lens, I renewed my investigations of the little
dust-heaps. Presently I made a new discovery.
“Why,” I exclaimed, “here is another of Badger’s boot-laces—another
piece of the same one, I think. By the way, did you ascertain what that boot-
lace really was?”

“Yes,” he replied. “Polton made a section of it and mounted it; and
furthermore, he made a magnified photograph of it. I have the photograph
in my pocket, so you can answer your own question.”
He produced from his letter-case a half-plate print which he handed to me
and which I examined curiously.
“It is a singular object,” said I, “but I don’t quite make it out. It looks
rather like a bundle of hairs embedded in some transparent substance.”
“That, in effect,” he replied, “is what it is. It is an elephant’s hair,
probably from the tail. But, as you see, it is a compound hair; virtually a
group of hairs agglutinated into a single stem. Most very large hairs are
compound. A tiger’s whiskers, for instance, are large, stiff hairs which, if
cut across, are seen to be formed of several largish hairs fused together; and
the colossal hair which grows on the nose of the rhinoceros—the so-called
nasal horn—is made up of thousands of subordinate hairs.”
“It is a remarkable-looking thing,” I said, handing back the photograph;
“very distinctive—if you happen to know what it is. But the mystery is how
on earth it came here. There are no elephants in the Temple.”
“I certainly haven’t noticed any,” he replied; “and, as you say, the
presence of an elephant’s hair in a room in the middle of London is a rather
remarkable circumstance. And yet, perhaps, if we consider all the other
circumstances, it may not be impossible to form a conjecture as to how it
came here. I recommend the problem to my learned friend for consideration
at his leisure; and now, as we have seen all that there is to see—which is
mighty little—we may as well leave Polton to finish the collection of data
from the floor. We can take your little selection with us.”
He folded the paper containing the hairs that I had picked out into a neat
packet, which he slipped into his pocket; then, having handed the key of the
outer door to Polton, for return to Mr. Bidwell, he went out and I followed.
We descended the stairs slowly, both of us deeply reflective. As to the
subject of his meditations I could form no opinion, but my own were
occupied by the problem which he had suggested; and the more I reflected
on it, the less capable of solution did it appear.
We had nearly reached the ground floor when I became aware of quick
footsteps descending the stairs behind us. Near the entry our follower
overtook us, and as we stood aside to let him pass, I had a brief vision of a
shortish, dapper, smartly-dressed coloured man—apparently an African or
West Indian—who carried a small suit-case and a set of golf-clubs.

“Now,” said I, in a low tone, “I wonder if that gentleman is the late
owner of that negro hair that I picked up. It seems intrinsically probable as
he appears to live in this building, and would be a near neighbour of
Herrington’s.” I halted at the entry and read out the only name painted on
the door-post as appertaining to the second floor—Mr. Kwaku Essien,
which, I decided, seemed to fit a gentleman of colour.
But Thorndyke was not listening. His long legs were already carrying
him, with a deceptively leisurely air, across Tanfield Court in the wake of
Mr. Essien, and at about the same pace. I put on a spurt and overtook him, a
little mystified by his sudden air of purpose and by the fact that he was not
walking in the direction of our chambers. Still more mystified was I when it
became clear that Thorndyke was following the African and keeping at a
constant distance in rear of him; but I made no comment until, having
pursued our quarry to the top of Middle Temple Lane, we saw him hail a
taxi and drive off. Then I demanded an explanation.
“I wanted to see him fairly out of the precincts,” was the reply, “because I
have a particular desire to see what his chambers are like. I only hope his
door has a practicable latch.”
I stared at him in dismay.
“You surely don’t contemplate breaking into his chambers!” I exclaimed.
“Certainly not,” he replied. “If the latch won’t yield to gentle persuasion,
I shall give it up. But don’t let me involve you, Jervis. I admit that it is a
slightly irregular proceeding.”
“Irregular!” I repeated. “It is housebreaking, pure and simple. I can only
hope that you won’t be able to get in.”
The hope turned out to be a vain one, as I had secretly feared. When we
had reconnoitred the stairs and established the encouraging fact that the
third floor was untenanted, we inspected the door above which our victim’s
name was painted; and a glance at the yawning key-hole—diagnostic of an
old-fashioned draw-latch—told me that the deed was as good as done.
“Now, Jervis,” said Thorndyke, producing from his pocket the curious
instrument that he described as a “smoker’s companion”—it was an
undeniable picklock, made by Polton under his direction—“you had better
clear out and wait for me at our chambers.”
“I shall do nothing of the kind,” I replied. “I am an accessory before the
fact already, so I may as well stay and see the crime committed.”

“Then in that case,” said he, “you had better keep a look-out from the
landing window and call me if anyone comes to the house. That will make
us perfectly safe.”
I accordingly took my station at the window, and Thorndyke, having
knocked several times at the “oak” without eliciting any response, set to
work with the smoker’s companion. In less than a minute the latch clicked,
the outer door opened, and Thorndyke, pushing the inner door open,
entered, leaving both doors ajar. I was devoured by curiosity as to what his
purpose was. Obviously it must be a very definite one to justify this most
extraordinary proceeding. But I dared not leave my post for a moment
seeing that we were really engaged in a very serious breach of the law, and
it was of vital importance that we should not be surprised in the act. I was
therefore unable to observe my colleague’s proceedings, and I waited
impatiently to see if anything came of this unlawful entry.
I had waited thus some ten minutes, keeping a close watch on the
pavement below, when I heard Thorndyke quickly cross the room and
approach the door. A moment later he came out on the landing, bearing in
his hand an object which, while it enlightened me as to the purpose of the
raid, added to my mystification.
“That looks like the missing sword from Herrington’s room!” I
exclaimed, gazing at it in amazement.
“Yes,” he replied. “I found it in a drawer in the bedroom. Only it isn’t a
sword.”
“Then, what the deuce is it?” I demanded, for the thing looked like a
broad-bladed sword in a soft leather scabbard of somewhat rude native
workmanship.
By way of reply he slowly drew the object from its sheath, and as it came
into sight, I uttered an exclamation of astonishment. To the inexpert eye it
appeared an elongated body about nine inches in length covered with
coarse, black leather, from either side of which sprang a multitude of what
looked like thick, black wires. Above, it was furnished with a leather handle
which was surmounted by a suspension loop of plaited leather.
“I take it,” said I, “that this is an elephant’s tail.”
“Yes,” he replied, “and a rather remarkable specimen. The hairs are of
unusual length. Some of them, you see, are nearly eighteen inches long.”
“And what are you going to do now?” I asked.

“I am going to put it back where I found it. Then I shall run down to
Scotland Yard and advise Miller to get a search warrant. He is too discreet
to ask inconvenient questions.”
I must admit that it was a great relief to me when, a minute later,
Thorndyke came out and shut the door; but I could not deny that the raid
had been justified by the results. What had, presumably, been a mere
surmise had been converted into a definite fact on which action could
confidently be taken.
“I suppose,” said I, as we walked down towards the Embankment en
route for Scotland Yard, “I ought to have spotted this case.”
“You had the means,” Thorndyke replied. “At your first visit you learned
that an object of some kind had disappeared from the wall. It seemed to be a
trivial object of no value, and not likely to be connected with the crime. So
you disregarded it. But it had disappeared. Its disappearance was not
accounted for, and that disappearance seemed to coincide in time with the
death of Herrington. It undoubtedly called for investigation. Then you
found on the floor an object the nature of which was unknown to you.
Obviously, you ought to have ascertained what it was.”
“Yes, I ought,” I admitted, “though I am not sure that I should have been
much forrarder even then. In fact, I am not so very much forrarder even
now. I don’t see how you spotted this man Essien, and I don’t understand
why he took all this trouble and risk and even committed a murder to get
possession of this trumpery curio. Of course I can make a vague guess. But
I should like to hear how you ran the man and the thing to earth.”
“Very well,” said Thorndyke. “Let me retrace the train of discoveries and
inferences in their order. First I learned that an object, supposed to be a
barbaric sword of some kind, had disappeared about the time of the murder
—if it was a murder. Then we heard from Carston that Sir Gilbert
Herrington had appropriated the insignia and ceremonial objects belonging
to the King of Bekwè; that some had subsequently been restored, but others
had been given to friends as curios. As I listened to that story, the possibility
occurred to me that this curio which had disappeared might be one of the
missing ceremonial objects. It was not only possible: it was quite probable.
For Giles Herrington was a very likely person to have received one of these
gifts, and his morose temper made it unlikely that he would restore it. And
then, since such an object would be of great value to somebody, and since it
was actually stolen property, there would be good reasons why some

interested person should take forcible possession of it. This, of course, was
mere hypothesis of a rather shadowy kind. But when you produced an
object which I at once suspected, and then proved, to be an elephant’s hair,
the hypothesis became a reasonable working theory. For, among the
ceremonial objects which form what we may call the regalia of a West
African king, is the elephant’s tail which is carried before him by a special
officer as a symbol of his power and strength. An elephant’s tail had pretty
certainly been stolen from the king, and Carston said nothing about its
having been restored.
“Well, when we went to Herrington’s chambers just now, it was clear to
me that the thing which had disappeared was certainly not a sword. The
phantom shape on the wall did not show much, but it did show plainly that
the object had hung from the nail by a large loop at the end of the handle.
But the suspension loop of a sword or dagger is always on the scabbard,
never on the hilt. But if the thing was not a sword, what was it? The
elephant’s hair that you found on the floor seemed to answer the question.
“Now, as we came in, I had noticed on the door-post the West African
name, Kwaku Essien. A man whose name is Kwaku is pretty certainly a
negro. But if this was an elephant’s tail, its lawful owner was a negro, and
that owner wanted to recover it and was morally entitled to take possession
of it. Here was another striking agreement. The chambers over Herrington’s
were occupied by a negro. Finally, you found among the floor dust a
negro’s hair. Then a negro had actually been in this room. But from what we
know of Herrington, that negro was not there as an invited visitor. All the
probabilities pointed to Mr. Essien. But the probabilities were not enough to
act on. Then we had a stroke of sheer luck. We got the chance to explore
Essien’s chambers and seek the crucial fact. But here we are at Scotland
Yard.”

That night, at about eight o’clock, a familiar tattoo on our knocker
announced the arrival of Mr. Superintendent Miller, not entirely
unexpected, as I guessed.
“Well,” he said, as I let him in, “the coloured nobleman has come home.
I’ve just had a message from the man who was detailed to watch the
premises.”
“Are you going to make the arrest now?” asked Thorndyke.

“Yes, and I should be glad if you could come across with me. You know
more about the case than I do.”
Thorndyke assented at once, and we set forth together. As we entered
Tanfield Court we passed a man who was lurking in the shadow of an entry,
and who silently indicated the lighted windows of the chambers for which
we were bound. Ascending the stairs up which I had lately climbed with
unlawful intent, we halted at Mr. Essien’s door, on which the superintendent
executed an elaborate flourish with his stick, there being no knocker. After a
short interval we heard a bolt withdrawn, the door opened a short distance,
and in the interval a black face appeared, looking out at us suspiciously.
“Who are you, and what do you want?” the owner of the face demanded
gruffly.
“You are Mr. Kwaku Essien, I think?” said Miller, unostentatiously
insinuating his foot into the door opening.
“Yes,” was the reply. “But I don’t know you. What is your business?”
“I am a police officer,” Miller replied, edging his foot in a little farther,
“and I hold a warrant to arrest you on the charge of having murdered Mr.
Giles Herrington.”
Before the superintendent had fairly finished his sentence, the dusky face
vanished and the door slammed violently—on to the superintendent’s
massive foot. That foot was instantly reinforced by a shoulder and for a few
moments there was a contest of forces, opposite but not equal. Suddenly the
door flew open and the superintendent charged into the room. I had a
momentary vision of a flying figure, closely pursued, darting through into
an inner room, of the slamming of a second door—once more on an
intercepting foot. And then—it all seemed to have happened in a few
seconds—a dejected figure, sitting on the edge of a bed, clasping a pair of
manacled hands and watching Miller as he drew the elephant’s tail out of a
drawer in the dressing chest.
“This—er—article,” said Miller, “belonged to Mr. Herrington, and was
stolen from his premises on the night of the murder.”
Essien shook his head emphatically.
“No,” he replied. “You are wrong. I stole nothing, and I did not murder
Mr. Herrington. Listen to me and I will tell you all about it.”
Miller administered the usual caution and the prisoner continued:
“This elephant-brush is one of many things stolen, years ago, from the
king of Bekwè. Some of those things—most of them—have been restored,

but this could not be traced for a long time. At last it became known to me
that Mr. Herrington had it, and I wrote to him asking him to give it up and
telling him who I was—I am the eldest living son of the king’s sister, and
therefore, according to our law, the heir to the kingdom. But he would not
give it up or even sell it. Then, as I am a student of the Inn, I took these
chambers above his, intending, when I had an opportunity, to go in and take
possession of my uncle’s property. The opportunity came that night that you
have spoken of. I was coming up the stairs to my chambers when, as I
passed his door, I heard loud voices inside as of people quarrelling. I had
just reached my own door and opened it when I heard his door open, and
then a great uproar and the sound of a struggle. I ran down a little way and
looked over the banisters, and then I saw him thrusting a man across the
landing and down the lower stairs. As they disappeared, I ran down, and
finding his door ajar, I went in to recover my property. It took me a little
time to find it, and I had just taken it from the nail and was going out with it
when, at the door, I met Mr. Herrington coming in. He was very excited
already, and when he saw me he seemed to go mad. I tried to get past him,
but he seized me and dragged me back into the room, wrenching the thing
out of my hand. He was very violent. I thought he wanted to kill me, and I
had to struggle for my life. Suddenly he let go his hold of me, staggered
back a few paces, and then fell on the floor. I stooped over him, thinking
that he was taken ill, and wondering what I had better do. But soon I saw
that he was not ill; he was dead. Then I was very frightened. I picked up the
elephant-brush and put it back into its case, and I went out very quietly, shut
the door, and ran up to my rooms. That is what happened. There was no
robbery and murder.”

“Well,” said Miller, as the prisoner and his escort disappeared towards
the gate, “I suppose, in a technical sense, it is murder, but they are hardly
likely to press the charge.”
“I don’t think it is even technically,” said Thorndyke. “My feeling is that
he will be acquitted if he is sent for trial. Meanwhile, I take it that my client,
Godfrey Herrington, will be released from custody at once.”
“Yes, doctor,” replied Miller, “I will see to that now. He has had better
luck than he deserved, I suspect, in having his case looked after by you. I
don’t fancy he would have got an acquittal if he had gone for trial.”

Thorndyke’s forecast was nearly correct, but there was no acquittal, since
there was no trial. The case against Kwaku Essien never got farther than the
Grand Jury.

VIII.
THE PATHOLOGIST TO THE RESCUE

“I hope,” said I, as I looked anxiously out of our window up King’s Bench
Walk, “that our friend, Foxley, will turn up to time, or I shall lose the
chance of hearing his story. I must be in court by half-past eleven. The
telegram said that he was a parson, didn’t it?”
“Yes,” replied Thorndyke. “The Reverend Arthur Foxley.”
“Then perhaps this may be he. There is a parson crossing from the Row
in this direction, only he has a girl with him. He didn’t say anything about a
girl, did he?”
“No. He merely asked for the appointment. However,” he added, as he
joined me at the window and watched the couple approaching with their
eyes apparently fixed on the number above our portico, “this is evidently
our client, and punctual to the minute.”
In response to the old-fashioned flourish on our little knocker, he opened
the inner door and invited the clergyman and his companion to enter; and
while the mutual introductions were in progress, I looked critically at our
new clients. Mr. Foxley was a typical and favourable specimen of his class:
a handsome, refined, elderly gentleman, prim as to his speech, suave and
courteous in bearing, with a certain engaging simplicity of manner which
impressed me very favourably. His companion I judged to be a parishioner,
for she was what ladies are apt to describe as “not quite”; that is to say, her
social level appeared to appertain to the lower strata of the middle-class.
But she was a fine, strapping girl, very sweet-faced and winsome, quiet and
gentle in manner and obviously in deep trouble, for her clear grey eyes—
fixed earnestly, almost devouringly, on Thorndyke—were reddened and
swimming with unshed tears.
“We have sought your aid, Dr. Thorndyke,” the clergyman began, “on the
advice of my friend, Mr. Brodribb, who happened to call on me on some

legal business. He assured me that you would be able to solve our
difficulties if it were humanly possible, so I have come to lay those
difficulties before you. I pray to God that you may be able to help us, for
my poor young friend here, Miss Markham, is in a most terrible position, as
you will understand when I tell you that her future husband, a most
admirable young man named Robert Fletcher, is in the custody of the
police, charged with robbery and murder.”
Thorndyke nodded gravely, and the clergyman continued:
“I had better tell you exactly what has happened. The dead man is one
Joseph Riggs, a maternal uncle of Fletcher’s, a strange, eccentric man,
solitary, miserly, and of a violent, implacable temper. He was quite well-to-
do, though penurious and haunted constantly by an absurd fear of poverty.
His nephew, Robert, was apparently his only known relative, and, under his
will, was his sole heir. Recently, however, Robert has become engaged to
my friend, Miss Lilian, and this engagement was violently opposed by his
uncle, who had repeatedly urged him to make, what he called a profitable
marriage. For Miss Lilian is a dowerless maiden—dowerless save for those
endowments with which God has been pleased to enrich her, and which her
future husband has properly prized above mere material wealth. However,
Riggs declared, in his brutal way, that he was not going to leave his
property to the husband of a shop-woman, and that Robert might look out
for a wife with money or be struck out of his will.
“The climax was reached yesterday when Robert, in response to a
peremptory summons, went to see his uncle. Mr. Riggs was in a very
intractable mood. He demanded that Robert should break off his
engagement unconditionally and at once, and when Robert bluntly insisted
on his right to choose his own wife the old man worked himself up into a
furious rage, shouting, cursing, using the most offensive language and even
uttering threats of personal violence. Finally, he drew his gold watch from
his pocket and laid it with its chain on the table; then, opening a drawer, he
took out a bundle of bearer bonds and threw them down by the watch.
“ ‘There, my friend,’ said he, ‘that is your inheritance. That is all you will
get from me, living or dead. Take it and go, and don’t let me ever set eyes
on you again.’
“At first Robert refused to accept the gift, but his uncle became so violent
that eventually, for peace’ sake, he took the watch and the bonds, intending

to return them later, and went away. He left at half-past five, leaving his
uncle alone in the house.”
“How was that?” Thorndyke asked. “Was there no servant?”
“Mr. Riggs kept no resident servant. The young woman who did his
housework came at half-past eight in the morning and left at half-past four.
Yesterday she waited until five to get tea ready, but then, as the uproar in
the sitting-room was still unabated, she thought it best to go. She was afraid
to go in to lay the tea-things.
“This morning, when she arrived at the house, she found the front door
unlocked, as it always was during the day. On entering, her attention was at
once attracted by two or three little pools of blood on the floor of the hall,
or passage. Somewhat alarmed by this, she looked into the sitting-room,
and finding no one there, and being impressed by the silence in the house,
she went along the passage to a back room—a sort of study or office, which
was usually kept locked when Mr. Riggs was not in it. Now, however, it
was unlocked and the door was ajar; so having first knocked and receiving
no answer, she pushed open the door and looked in; and there, to her horror,
she saw her employer lying on the floor, apparently dead, with a wound on
the side of his head and a pistol on the floor by his side.
“Instantly she turned and rushed out of the house, and she was running
up the street in search of a policeman when she encountered me at a corner
and burst out with her dreadful tidings. I walked with her to the police
station, and as we went she told me what had happened on the previous
afternoon. Naturally, I was profoundly shocked and also alarmed, for I saw
that—rightly or wrongly—suspicion must immediately fall on Robert
Fletcher. The servant, Rose Turnmill, took it for granted that he had
murdered her master; and when we found the station inspector and Rose
had repeated her statement to him, it was evident that he took the same
view.
“With him and a sergeant, we went back to the house; but on the way we
met Mr. Brodribb, who was staying at the ‘White Lion’ and had just come
out for a walk. I told him, rapidly, what had occurred and begged him to
come with us, which, with the inspector’s consent, he did; and as we walked
I explained to him the awful position that Robert Fletcher might be placed
in, and asked him to advise me what to do. But, of course, there was
nothing to be said or done until we had seen the body and knew whether
any suspicion rested on Robert.

“We found the man Riggs lying, as Rose had said. He was quite dead,
cold and stiff. There was a pistol wound on the right temple, and a pistol lay
on the floor at his right side. A little blood—but not much—had trickled
from the wound and lay in a small pool on the oil-cloth. The door of an iron
safe was open and a bunch of keys hung from the lock; and on a desk one or
two share certificates were spread out. On searching the dead man’s pockets
it was found that the gold watch which the servant told us he usually carried
was missing, and when Rose went to the bedroom to see if it was there, it
was nowhere to be found.
“Apart from the watch, however, the appearances suggested that the man
had taken his own life. But against this view was the blood on the hall floor.
The dead man appeared to have fallen at once from the effects of the shot,
and there had been very little bleeding. Then how came the blood in the
hall? The inspector decided that it could not have been the blood of the
deceased; and when we examined it and saw that there were several little
pools and that they seemed to form a track towards the street door, he was
convinced that the blood had fallen from some person who had been
wounded and was escaping from the house. And, under the circumstances,
he was bound to assume that that person was Robert Fletcher; and on that
assumption, he despatched the sergeant forthwith to arrest Robert.
“On this I held a consultation with Mr. Brodribb, who pointed out that the
case turned principally on the blood in the hall. If it was the blood of
deceased, and the absence of the watch could be explained, a verdict of
suicide could be accepted. But if it was the blood of some other person, that
fact would point to murder. The question, he said, would have to be settled,
if possible, and his advice to me, if I believed Robert to be innocent—
which, from my knowledge of him, I certainly did—was this: Get a couple
of small, clean, labelled bottles from a chemist and—with the inspector’s
consent—put in one a little of the blood from the hall and in the other some
of the blood of the deceased. Seal them both in the inspector’s presence and
mine and take them up to Dr. Thorndyke. If it is possible to answer the
question, Are they or are they not from the same person? he will answer it.
“Well, the inspector made no objection, so I did what he advised. And
here are the specimens. I trust they may tell us what we want to know.”
Here Mr. Foxley took from his attaché-case a small cardboard box, and
opening it, displayed two little wide-mouthed bottles carefully packed in
cotton wool. Lifting them out tenderly, he placed them on the table before

Thorndyke. They were both neatly corked, sealed—with Brodribb’s seal, as
I noticed—and labelled; the one inscribed “Blood of Joseph Riggs,” and the
other “Blood of unknown origin,” and both signed “Arthur Foxley” and
dated. At the bottom of each was a small mass of gelatinous blood-clot.
Thorndyke looked a little dubiously at the two bottles, and addressing the
clergyman, said:
“I am afraid Mr. Brodribb has rather overestimated our resources. There
is no known method by which the blood of one person can be distinguished
with certainty from that of another.”
“Dear, dear!” exclaimed Mr. Foxley. “How disappointing! Then these
specimens are useless, after all?”
“I won’t say that; but it is in the highest degree improbable that they will
yield any information. You must build no expectations on them.”
“But you will examine them and see if anything is to be gleaned,” the
parson urged, persuasively.
“Yes, I will examine them. But you realize that if they should yield any
evidence, that evidence might be unfavourable?”
“Yes; Mr. Brodribb pointed that out, but we are willing to take the risk,
and so, I may say, is Robert Fletcher, to whom I put the question.”
“Then you have seen Mr. Fletcher since the discovery?”
“Yes, I saw him at the police station after his arrest. It was then that he
gave me—and also the police—the particulars that I have repeated to you.
He had to make a statement, as the dead man’s watch and the bonds were
found in his possession.”
“With regard to the pistol. Has it been identified?”
“No. It is an old-fashioned derringer which no one has ever seen before,
so there is no evidence as to whose property it was.”
“And as to those share certificates which you spoke of as lying on the
desk. Do you happen to remember what they were?”
“Yes, they were West African mining shares; Abusum Pa-pa was the
name, I think.”
“Then,” said Thorndyke,” Mr. Riggs had been losing money. The
Abusum Pa-pa Company has just gone into liquidation. Do you know if
anything had been taken from the safe?”
“It is impossible to say, but apparently not, as there was a good deal of
money in the cash-box, which we unlocked and inspected. But we shall
hear more to-morrow at the inquest, and I trust we shall hear something

there from you. But in any case I hope you will attend to watch the
proceedings on behalf of poor Fletcher. And if possible, to be present at the
autopsy at eleven o’clock. Can you manage that?”
“Yes. And I shall come down early enough to make an inspection of the
premises if the police will give the necessary facilities.”
Mr. Foxley thanked him effusively, and when the details as to the trains
had been arranged, our clients rose to depart. Thorndyke shook their hands
cordially, and as he bade farewell to Miss Markham he murmured a few
words of encouragement. She looked up at him gratefully and appealingly
as she naïvely held his hand.
“You will try to help us, Dr. Thorndyke, won’t you?” she urged. “And
you will examine that blood very, very carefully. Promise that you will.
Remember that poor Robert’s life may hang upon what you can tell about
it.”
“I realize that, Miss Markham,” he replied gently, “and I promise you
that the specimens shall be most thoroughly examined; and further, that no
stone shall be left unturned in my endeavours to bring the truth to light.”
At his answer, spoken with infinite kindliness and sympathy, her eyes
filled and she turned away with a few broken words of thanks, and the good
clergyman—himself not unmoved by the little episode—took her arm and
led her to the door.
“Well,” I remarked as their retreating footsteps died away, “old
Brodribb’s enthusiasm seems to have let you in for a queer sort of task; and
I notice that you appear to have accepted Fletcher’s statement.”
“Without prejudice,” he replied. “I don’t know Fletcher, but the balance
of probabilities is in his favour. Still, that blood-track in the hall is a curious
feature. It certainly requires explanation.”
“It does, indeed!” I exclaimed, “and you have got to find the explanation!
Well, I wish you joy of the job. I suppose you will carry out the farce to the
bitter end as you have promised?”
“Certainly,” he replied. “But it is hardly a farce. I should have looked the
specimens over in any case. One never knows what illuminating fact a
chance observation may bring into view.”
I smiled sceptically.
“The fact that you are asked to ascertain is that these two samples of
blood came from the same person. If there are any means of proving that,
they are unknown to me. I should have said it was an impossibility.”

“Of course,” he rejoined, “you are quite right, speaking academically and
in general terms. No method of identifying the blood of individual persons
has hitherto been discovered. But yet I can imagine the possibility, in
particular and exceptional cases, of an actual, personal identification by
means of blood. What does my learned friend think?”
“He thinks that his imagination is not equal to the required effort,” I
answered; and with that I picked up my brief bag and went forth to my
duties at the courts.
That Thorndyke would keep his promise to poor Lilian Markham was a
foregone conclusion, preposterous as the examination seemed. But even my
long experience of my colleague’s scrupulous conscientiousness had not
prepared me for the spectacle which met my eyes when I returned to our
chambers. On the table stood the microscope, flanked by three slide-boxes.
Each box held six trays, and each tray held six slides—a hundred and eight
slides in all!
But why three boxes? I opened one. The slides—carefully mounted
blood-films—were labelled “Joseph Riggs.” Those in the second box were
labelled, “Blood from hall floor.” But when I opened the third box, I beheld
a collection of empty slides labelled “Robert Fletcher”!
I chuckled aloud. Prodigious! Thorndyke was going even one better than
his promise. He was not only going to examine—probably had examined—
the two samples produced; he was actually going to collect a third sample
for himself!
I picked out one of Mr. Riggs’s slides and laid it on the stage of the
microscope. Thorndyke seemed to have been using a low-power objective
—the inch-and-a-half. After a glance through this, I swung round the nose-
piece to the high power. And then I got a further surprise. The brightly-
coloured “white” corpuscles showed that Thorndyke had actually been to
the trouble of staining the films with eosin! Again I murmured,
“Prodigious!” and put the slide back in its box. For, of course, it showed
just what one expected: blood—or rather, broken-up blood-clot. From its
appearance, I could not even have sworn that it was human blood.
I had just closed the box when Thorndyke entered the room. His quick
eye at once noted the changed objective and he remarked:
“I see you have been having a look at the specimens.”
“A specimen,” I corrected. “Enough is as good as a feast.”

“Blessed are they who are easily satisfied,” he retorted; and then he
added: “I have altered my arrangements, though I needn’t interfere with
yours. I shall go down to Southaven to-night; in fact, I am starting in a few
minutes.”
“Why?” I asked.
“For several reasons. I want to make sure of the post-mortem to-morrow
morning, I want to pick up any further facts that are available, and finally, I
want to prepare a set of blood-films from Robert Fletcher. We may as well
make the series complete,” he added with a smile, to which I replied by a
broad grin.
“Really, Thorndyke,” I protested, “I’m surprised at you, at your age, too.
She is a nice girl, but she isn’t so beautiful as to justify a hundred and eight
blood-films.”
I accompanied him to the taxi, followed by Polton, who carried his
modest luggage, and then returned to speculate on his probable plan of
campaign. For, of course, he had one. His purposive, resolute manner told
me that he had seen farther into this case than I had. I accepted that as
natural and inevitable. Indeed, I may admit that my disrespectful badinage
covered a belief in his powers hardly second even to old Brodribb’s. I was,
in fact, almost prepared to discover that those preposterous blood-films had,
after all, yielded some “illuminating fact” which had sent him hurrying
down to Southaven in search of corroboration.
When I alighted from the train on the following day at a little past noon, I
found him waiting on the platform, ready to conduct me to his hotel for an
early lunch.
“All goes well, so far,” he reported. “I attended the post-mortem, and
examined the wound thoroughly. The pistol was held in the right hand not
more than two inches from the head; probably quite close, for the skin is
scorched and heavily tattooed with black powder grains. I find that Riggs
was right-handed. So the prima facie probabilities are in favour of suicide;
and the recent loss of money suggests a reasonable motive.”
“But what about that blood in the hall?”
“Oh, we have disposed of that. I completed the blood-film series last
night.”
I looked at him quickly to see if he was serious or only playing a
facetious return-shot. But his face was as a face of wood.

“You are an exasperating old devil, Thorndyke!” I exclaimed with
conviction. Then, knowing that cross-examination would be futile, I asked:
“What are we going to do after lunch?”
“The inspector is going to show us over ‘the scene of the tragedy,’ as the
newspapers would express it.”
I noted gratefully that he had reserved this item for me, and dismissed
professional topics for the time being, concentrating my attention on the
old-world, amphibious streets through which we were walking. There is
always something interesting in the aspect of a sea-port town, even if it is
only a small one like Southaven.
The inspector arrived with such punctuality that he found us still at the
table and was easily induced to join us with a cup of coffee and to accept a
cigar—administered by Thorndyke, as I suspected, with the object of
hindering conversation. I could see that his interest in my colleague was
intense and not unmingled with awe, a fact which, in conjunction with the
cigar, restrained him from any undue manifestations of curiosity, but not
from continuous, though furtive, observation of my friend. Indeed, when we
arrived at the late Mr. Riggs’s house, I was secretly amused by the close
watch that he kept on Thorndyke’s movements, unsensational as the
inspection turned out to be.
The house, itself, presented very little of interest excepting its
picturesque, old-world exterior, which fronted on a quiet by-street and was
furnished with a deep bay-window, which—as Thorndyke ascertained—
commanded a clear view of the street from end to end. It was a rather
shabby, neglected little house, as might have been expected, and our
examination of it yielded, so far as I could see, only a single fact of any
significance: which was that there appeared to be no connexion whatever
between the blood-stain on the study floor and the train of large spots from
the middle of the hall to the street door. And on this piece of evidence—
definitely unfavourable from our point of view—Thorndyke concentrated
his attention when he had made a preliminary survey.
Closely followed by the watchful inspector, he browsed round the little
room, studying every inch of the floor between the blood-stain and the door.
The latter he examined minutely from top to bottom, especially as to the
handle, the jambs, and the lintel. Then he went out into the hall, scrutinizing
the floor inch by inch, poring over the walls and even looking behind the
framed prints that hung on them. A reflector lamp suspended by a nail on

the wall received minute and prolonged attention, as did also a massive
lamp-hook screwed into one of the beams of the low ceiling, of which
Thorndyke remarked as he stooped to pass under it, that it must have been
fixed there by a dwarf.
“Yes,” the inspector agreed, “and a fool. A swinging lamp hung on that
hook would have blocked the whole fairway. There isn’t too much room as
it is. What a pity we weren’t a bit more careful about footprints in this
place. There are plenty of tracks of wet feet here on this oil-cloth; faint, but
you could have made them out all right if they hadn’t been all on top of one
another. There’s Mr. Foxley’s, the girl’s, mine, and the men who carried out
the body, but I’m hanged if I can tell which is which. It’s a regular mix up.”
“Yes,” I agreed, “it is all very confused. But I notice one rather odd thing.
There are several faint traces of a large right foot, but I can’t see any sign of
the corresponding left foot. Can you?”
“Perhaps this is it,” said Thorndyke, pointing to a large, vague oval mark.
“I have noticed that it seems to occur in some sort of connexion with the big
right foot; but I must admit that it is not a very obvious footprint.”
“I shouldn’t have taken it for a footprint at all, or at any rate, not a human
footprint. It is more like the spoor of some big animal.”
“It is,” Thorndyke agreed; “but whatever it is, it seems to have been here
before any of the others arrived. You notice that wherever it occurs, it seems
to have been trodden on by some of the others.”
“Yes, I had noticed that, and the same is true of the big right foot, so it
seems probable that they are connected, as you say. But I am hanged if I can
make anything of it. Can you, inspector?”
The inspector shook his head. He could not recognize the mark as a
footprint, but he could see very plainly that he had been a fool not to have
taken more care to protect the floor.
When the examination of the hall was finished, Thorndyke opened the
door and looked at the big, flat doorstep.
“What was the weather like, here, on Wednesday evening?” he asked.
“Showery,” the inspector replied; “and there were one or two heavy
showers during the night. You were noticing that there are no blood-tracks
on the doorstep. But there wouldn’t be in any case; for if a man had come
out of this door dropping blood, the blood would have dropped on wet stone
and got washed away at once.”

Thorndyke admitted the truth of this; and so another item of favourable
evidence was extinguished. The overwhelming probability that the blood in
the hall was that of some person other than the deceased remained
undisturbed; and I could not see that a single fact had been elicited by our
inspection of the house that was in any way helpful to our client. Indeed, it
appeared to me that there was absolutely no case for the defence, and I even
asked myself whether we were not, in fact, merely trying to fudge up a
defence for an obviously guilty man. It was not like Thorndyke to do that.
But how did the case stand? There was a suggestion of suicide, but a clear
possibility of homicide. There was strong evidence that a second person had
been in the house, and that person appeared to have received a wound. But
a wound suggested a struggle; and the servant’s evidence was to the effect
that when she left the house a violent altercation was in progress. The
deceased was never again seen alive; and the other party to the quarrel had
been found with property of the dead man in his possession. Moreover,
there was a clear motive for the crime, stupid as that crime was. For the
dead man had threatened to revoke his will; but as he had presumably not
done so, his death left the will still operative. In short, everything pointed to
the guilt of our client, Robert Fletcher.
I had just reached this not very gratifying conclusion when a statement of
Thorndyke’s shattered my elaborate summing up into impalpable
fragments.
“I suppose, sir,” said the inspector, “there isn’t anything that you would
care to tell us, as you are for the defence. But we are not hostile to Fletcher.
In fact, he hasn’t been charged. He is only being detained in custody until
we have heard what turns up at the inquest. I know you have examined that
blood that Mr. Foxley took, and Fletcher’s blood, too, and you’ve seen the
premises. We have given all the facilities that we could, and if you could
give us any sort of hint that might be useful—well, I should be very much
obliged.”
Thorndyke reflected for a few moments. Then he replied:
“There is no reason for secrecy in regard to you, inspector, who have
been so helpful and friendly, so I will be quite frank. I have examined both
samples of blood and Fletcher’s, and I have inspected the premises, and
what I am able to say definitely is this: the blood in the hall is not the blood
of the deceased——”
“Ah!” exclaimed the inspector, “I was afraid it wasn’t.”

“And it is not the blood of Robert Fletcher.”
“Isn’t it now! Well, I am glad to hear that.”
“Moreover,” continued Thorndyke, “it was shed well after nine o’clock at
night, probably not earlier than midnight.”
“There, now!” the inspector exclaimed, with an admiring glance at
Thorndyke, “just think of that. See what it is to be a man of science! I
suppose, sir, you couldn’t give us any sort of description of the person who
dropped that blood in the hall?”
Staggered as I had been by Thorndyke’s astonishing statements, I could
not repress a grin at the inspector’s artless question. But the grin faded
rather abruptly as Thorndyke replied in matter-of-fact tones:
“A detailed description is, of course, impossible. I can only sketch out the
probabilities. But if you should happen to meet with a negro—a tall negro
with a bandaged head or a contused wound of the scalp and a swollen leg—
you had better keep your eye on him. The leg which is swollen is probably
the left.”
The inspector was thrilled; and so was I, for that matter. The thing was
incredible; but yet I knew that Thorndyke’s amazing deductions were the
products of perfectly orthodox scientific methods. Only I could form no sort
of guess as to how they had been arrived at. A negro’s blood is no different
from any other person’s, and certainly affords no clue to his height or the
condition of his legs. I could make nothing of it; and as the dialogue and the
inspector’s note-takings brought us to the little town hall in which the
inquest was to be held, I dismissed the puzzle until such time as Thorndyke
chose to solve it.
When we entered the town hall we found everything in readiness for the
opening of the proceedings. The jury were already in their places and the
coroner was just about to take his seat at the head of the long table. We
accordingly slipped on to the two chairs that were found for us by the
inspector, and the latter took his place behind the jury and facing us. Near to
him Mr. Foxley and Miss Markham were seated, and evidently hailed our
arrival with profound relief, each of them smiling us a silent greeting. A
professional-looking man sitting next to Thorndyke I assumed to be the
medical witness, and a rather good-looking young man who sat apart with a
police constable I identified as Robert Fletcher.
The evidence of the “common” witnesses who deposed to the general
facts, told us nothing that we did not already know, excepting that it was

made clear that Fletcher had left his uncle’s house not later than seven
o’clock and that thereafter until the following morning his whereabouts
were known. The medical witness was cautious, and kept an uneasy eye on
Thorndyke. The wound which caused the death of deceased might have
been inflicted by himself or by some other person. He had originally given
the probable time of death as six or seven o’clock on Wednesday evening.
He now admitted—in reply to a question from Thorndyke—that he had not
taken the temperature of the body, and that the rigidity and other conditions
were not absolutely inconsistent with a considerably later time of death.
Death might even have occurred after midnight.
In spite of this admission, however, the sum of the evidence tended
strongly to implicate Fletcher, and one or two questions from jurymen
suggested a growing belief in his guilt. I had no doubt whatever that if the
case had been put to the jury at this stage, a unanimous verdict of “wilful
murder” would have been the result. But, as the medical witness returned to
his seat, the coroner fixed an inquisitive eye on Thorndyke.
“You have not been summoned as a witness, Dr. Thorndyke,” said he,
“but I understand that you have made certain investigations in this case. Are
you able to throw any fresh light on the circumstances of the death of the
deceased, Joseph Riggs?”
“Yes,” Thorndyke replied. “I am in a position to give important and
material evidence.”
Thereupon he was sworn, and the coroner, still watching him curiously,
said:
“I am informed that you have examined samples of the blood of deceased
and the blood which was found in the hall of deceased’s house. Did you
examine them, and if so, what was the object of the examination?”
“I examined both samples and also samples of the blood of Robert
Fletcher. The object was to ascertain whether the blood on the hall floor was
the blood of the deceased or of Robert Fletcher.”
The coroner glanced at the medical witness, and a faint smile appeared
on the face of each.
“And did you,” the former asked in a slightly ironical tone, “form any
opinion on the subject?”
“I ascertained definitely that the blood in the hall was neither that of the
deceased nor that of Robert Fletcher.”

The coroner’s eyebrows went up, and once more he glanced significantly
at the doctor.
“But,” he demanded incredulously, “is it possible to distinguish the blood
of one person from that of another?”
“Usually it is not, but in certain exceptional cases it is. This happened to
be an exceptional case.”
“In what respect?”
“It happened,” Thorndyke replied, “that the person whose blood was
found in the hall suffered from the parasitic disease known as filariasis. His
blood was infested with swarms of a minute worm named Filaria nocturna.
I have here,” he continued, taking out of his research-case the two bottles
and the three boxes, “thirty-six mounted specimens of this blood, and in
every one of them one or more of the parasites is to be seen. I have also
thirty-six mounted specimens each of the blood of the deceased and the
blood of Robert Fletcher. In not one of these specimens is a single parasite
to be found. Moreover, I have examined Robert Fletcher and the body of the
deceased, and can testify that no sign of filarial disease was to be
discovered in either. Hence it is certain that the blood found in the hall was
not the blood of either of these two persons.”
The ironic smile had faded from the coroner’s face. He was evidently
deeply impressed, and his manner was quite deferential as he asked:
“Do these very remarkable observations of yours lead to any further
inferences?”
“Yes,” replied Thorndyke. “They render it certain that this blood was
shed not earlier than nine o’clock and probably nearer midnight.”
“Really!” the astonished coroner exclaimed. “Now, how is it possible to
fix the time in that exact manner?”
“By inference from the habits of the parasite,” Thorndyke explained.
“This particular filaria is distributed by the mosquito, and its habits are
adapted to the habits of the mosquito. During the day, the worms are not
found in the blood; they remain hidden in the tissues of the body. But about
nine o’clock at night they begin to migrate from the tissues into the blood,
and remain in the blood during the hours when the mosquitoes are active.
Then, about six o’clock in the morning, they leave the blood and migrate
back into the tissues.
“There is another very similar species—Filaria diurna—which has
exactly opposite habits, adapted to day-flying suctorial insects. It appears in

the blood about eleven in the forenoon and goes back into the tissues about
six o’clock in the evening.”
“Astonishing!” exclaimed the coroner. “Wonderful! By the way, the
parasites that you found could not, I suppose, have been Filaria diurna?”
“No,” Thorndyke replied. “The time excludes that possibility. The blood
was certainly shed after six. They were undoubtedly nocturna, and the large
numbers found suggest a late hour. The parasites come out of the tissues
very gradually, and it is only about midnight that they appear in the blood in
really large numbers.”
“That is very important,” said the coroner. “But does this disease affect
any particular class of persons?”
“Yes,” Thorndyke replied. “As the disease is confined to tropical
countries, the sufferers are naturally residents of the tropics, and nearly
always natives. In West Africa, for instance, it is common among the
negroes but practically unknown among the white residents.”
“Should you say that there is a distinct probability that this unknown
person was a negro?”
“Yes. But apart from the filariæ, there is direct evidence that he was.
Searching for some cause of the bleeding, I noticed a lamp-hook screwed
into the ceiling and low enough to strike a tall man’s head. I examined it
closely, and observed on it a dark, shiny mark, like a blood-smear, and one
or two short coiled hairs which I recognized as the scalp-hairs of a negro. I
have no doubt that the unknown man is a negro, and that he has a wound of
the scalp.”
“Does filarial disease produce any effects that can be recognized?”
“Frequently it does. One of the commonest effects produced by Filaria
nocturna, especially among negroes, is the condition known as
elephantiasis. This consists of an enormous swelling of the extremities,
most usually of one leg, including the foot; whence the name. The leg and
foot look like those of an elephant. As a matter of fact, the negro who was
in the hall suffered from elephantiasis of the left leg. I observed prints of the
characteristically deformed foot on the oil-cloth covering the floor.”
Thorndyke’s evidence was listened to with intense interest by everyone
present, including myself. Indeed, so spell-bound was his audience that one
could have heard a pin drop; and the breathless silence continued for some
seconds after he had ceased speaking. Then, in the midst of the stillness, I
heard the door creak softly behind me.

There was nothing particularly significant in the sound. But its effects
were amazing. Glancing at the inspector, who faced the door, I saw his eyes
open and his jaw drop until his face was a very mask of astonishment. And
as this expression was reflected on the faces of the jurymen, the coroner and
everyone present, excepting Thorndyke, whose back was towards the door,
I turned to see what had happened. And then I was as astonished as the
others.
The door had been pushed open a few inches and a head thrust in—a
negro’s head, covered with a soiled and blood-stained rag forming a rough
bandage. As I gazed at the black, shiny, inquisitive face, the man pushed the
door farther open and shuffled into the room; and instantly there arose on
all sides a soft rustle and an inarticulate murmur followed by breathless
silence, while every eye was riveted on the man’s left leg.
It certainly was a strange, repulsive-looking member, its monstrous bulk
exposed to view through the slit trouser and its great shapeless foot—
shoeless, since no shoe could have contained it—rough and horny like the
foot of an elephant. But it was tragic and pitiable, too; for the man, apart
from this horrible excrescence, was a fine, big, athletic-looking fellow.
The coroner was the first to recover. Addressing Thorndyke, but keeping
an eye on the negro, he said:
“Your evidence, then, amounts to this: On the night of Joseph Riggs’s
death, there was a stranger in the house. That stranger was a negro, who
seems to have wounded his head and who, you say, had a swelled left leg.”
“Yes,” Thorndyke admitted, “that is the substance of my evidence.”
Once more a hush fell on the room. The negro stood near the door,
rolling his eyes to and fro over the assembly as if uneasily conscious that
everyone was looking at him. Suddenly, he shuffled up to the foot of the
table and addressed the coroner in deep, buzzing, resonant tones.
“You tink I kill dat ole man! I no kill um. He kill himself. I look um.”
Having made this statement, he rolled his eyes defiantly round the court,
and then turned his face expectantly towards the coroner, who said:
“You say you know that Mr. Riggs killed himself?”
“Yas. I look um. He shoot himself. You tink I shoot um. I tell you I no
shoot um. Why I fit kill this man? I no sabby um.”
“Then,” said the coroner, “if you know that he killed himself, you must
tell us all that you know; and you must swear to tell us the truth.”

“Yas,” the negro agreed, “I tell you eberyting one time. I tell you de
troof. Dat ole man kill himself.”
When the coroner had explained to him that he was not bound to make
any statement that would incriminate him, as he still elected to give
evidence, he was sworn and proceeded to make his statement with curious
fluency and self-possession.
“My name Robert Bruce. Dat my English name. My country name
Kwaku Mensah. I live for Winnebah on de Gold Coast. Dis time I cook’s
mate for dat steamer Leckie. On Wednesday night I lay in my bunk. I no fit
sleep. My leg he chook me. I look out of de porthole. Plenty moon live. In
my country when de moon big, peoples walk about. So I get up. I go ashore
to walk about de town. Den de rain come. Plenty rain. Rain no good for my
sickness. So I try for open house doors. No fit. All doors locked. Den I
come to dis ole man’s house. I turn de handle. De door open. I go in. I look
in one room. All dark. Nobody live. Den I look annudder room. De door
open a little. Light live inside. I no like dat. I tink, spose somebody come
out and see me, he tink I come for teef someting. So I tink I go away.
“Den someting make ‘Ping!’ same like gun. I hear someting fall down in
dat room. I go to de door and I sing out, ‘Who live in dere?’ Nobody say
nutting. So I open de door and look in. De room full ob smoke. I look dat
ole man on de floor. I look dat pistol. I sabby dat ole man kill himself. Den I
frighten too much. I run out. De place all dark. Someting knock my head.
He make blood come plenty. I go back for ship. I no say nutting to nobody.
Dis day I hear peoples talk ’bout dis inquess to find out who kill dat ole
man. So I come to hear what peoples say. I hear dat gentleman say I kill dat
ole man. So I tell you eberyting. I tell you de troof. Finish.”
“Do you know what time it was when you came ashore?” the coroner
asked.
“Yas. When I come down de ladder I hear eight bells ring. I get back to
de ship jus’ before dey ring two bells in de middle watch.”
“Then you came ashore at midnight and got back just before one
o’clock?”
“Yas. Dat is what I say.”
A few more questions put by the coroner having elicited nothing fresh,
the case was put briefly to the jury.
“You have heard the evidence, gentlemen, and most remarkable evidence
it was. Like myself, you must have been deeply impressed by the amazing

skill with which Dr. Thorndyke reconstructed the personality of the
unknown visitor to that house, and even indicated correctly the very time of
the visit, from an examination of a mere chance blood-stain. As to the
statement of Kwaku Mensah, I can only say that I see no reason to doubt its
truth. You will note that it is in complete agreement with Dr. Thorndyke’s
evidence, and it presents no inconsistencies or improbabilities. Possibly the
police may wish to make some further inquiries, but for our purposes it is
the evidence of an eyewitness, and as such must be given full weight. With
these remarks, I leave you to consider your verdict.”
The jury took but a minute or two to deliberate. Indeed, only one verdict
was possible if the evidence was to be accepted, and that was agreed on
unanimously—suicide whilst temporarily insane. As soon as it was
announced, the inspector, formally and with congratulations, released
Fletcher from custody, and presently retired in company with the negro to
make a few inquiries on board the ship.
The rising of the court was the signal for a wild demonstration of
enthusiasm and gratitude to Thorndyke. To play his part efficiently in that
scene he would have needed to be furnished, like certain repulsive Indian
deities, with an unlimited outfit of arms. For everyone wanted to shake his
hand, and two of them—Mr. Foxley and Miss Markham—did so with such
pertinacity as entirely to exclude the other candidates.

“I can never thank you enough,” Miss Markham exclaimed, with
swimming eyes, “if I should live to be a hundred. But I shall think of you
with gratitude every day of my life. Whenever I look at Robert, I shall
remember that his liberty, and even his life, are your gifts.”
Here she was so overcome by grateful emotion that she again seized and
pressed his hand. I think she was within an ace of kissing him; but being,
perhaps, doubtful how he would take it, compromised by kissing Robert
instead. And, no doubt, it was just as well.

IX.
GLEANINGS FROM THE WRECKAGE

There was a time, and not so very long ago, when even the main streets of
London, after midnight, were as silent as—not the grave; that is an
unpleasant simile. Besides, who has any experience of conditions in the
grave? But they were nearly as silent as the streets of a village. Then the
nocturnal pedestrian could go his way encompassed and soothed by quiet,
which was hardly disturbed by the rumble of a country wagon wending to
market or the musical tinkle of the little bells on the collar of the hansom-
cab horse sedately drawing some late reveller homeward.
Very different is the state of those streets nowadays. Long after the hour
when the electric trams have ceased from troubling and the motor
omnibuses are at rest, the heavy road transport from the country thunders
through the streets; the air is rent by the howls of the electric hooter, and
belated motor-cyclists fly past, stuttering explosively like perambulant
Lewis guns with an inexhaustible charge.
“Let us get into the by-streets,” said Thorndyke, as a car sped past us
uttering sounds suggestive of a dyspeptic dinosaur. “We don’t want our
conversation seasoned with mechanical objurgations. In the back-streets it
is still possible to hear oneself speak and forget the march of progress.”
We turned into a narrow by-way with the confidence of the born and bred
Londoner in the impossibility of losing our direction, and began to thread
the intricate web of streets in the neighbourhood of a canal.
“It is a remarkable thing,” Thorndyke resumed anon, “that every new
application of science seems to be designed to render the environment of
civilized man more and more disagreeable. If the process goes much farther,
as it undoubtedly will, we shall presently find ourselves looking back
wistfully at the Stone-age as the golden age of human comfort.”

At this point his moralizing was cut short by a loud, sharp explosion. We
both stopped and looked about from the parapet of the bridge that we were
crossing.
“Quite like old times,” Thorndyke remarked. “Carries one back to 1915,
when friend Fritz used to call on us. Ah! There is the place; the top story of
that tall building across the canal.” He pointed as he spoke to a factory-like
structure, from the upper windows of which a lurid light shone and rapidly
grew brighter.
“It must be down the next turning,” said I, quickening my pace. But he
restrained me, remarking: “There is no hurry. That was the sound of high
explosive, and those flames suggest nitro compounds burning. Festina
lente. There may be some other packets of high explosives.”
He had hardly finished speaking when a flash of dazzling violet light
burst from the burning building. The windows flew out bodily, the roof
opened in places, and almost at the same moment the clang of a violent
explosion shook the ground under our feet, a puff of wind stirred our hair,
and then came a clatter of falling glass and slates.
We made our way at a leisurely pace towards the scene of the explosion,
through streets lighted up by the ruddy glare from the burning factory. But
others were less cautious. In a few minutes the street was filled by one of
those crowds which, in London, seem mysteriously to spring up in an
instant where but a moment before not a person was to be seen. Before we
had reached the building, a fire-engine had rumbled past us, and already a
sprinkling of policemen had appeared as if, like the traditional frogs, they
had dropped from the clouds.
In spite of the ferocity of its outbreak, the fire seemed to be no great
matter, for even as we looked and before the fire-hose was fully run out, the
flames began to die down. Evidently, they had been dealt with by means of
extinguishers within the building, and the services of the engine would not
be required after all. Noting this flat ending to what had seemed so
promising a start, we were about to move off and resume our homeward
journey when I observed a uniformed inspector who was known to us, and
who, observing us at the same instant, made his way towards us through the
crowd.
“You remind me, sir,” said he, when he had wished us good evening, “of
the stories of the vultures that make their appearance in the sky from
nowhere when a camel drops dead in the desert. I don’t mean anything

uncomplimentary,” he hastened to add. “I was only thinking of the
wonderful instinct that has brought you to this very spot at this identical
moment, as if you had smelt a case afar off.”
“Then your imagination has misled you,” said Thorndyke, “for I haven’t
smelt a case, and I don’t smell one now. Fires are not in my province.”
“No, sir,” replied the inspector, “but bodies are, and the fireman tells me
that there is a dead man up there—or at least the remains of one. I am going
up to inspect. Do you care to come up with me?”
Thorndyke considered for a moment, but I knew what his answer would
be, and I was not mistaken.
“As a matter of professional interest, I should,” he replied, “but I don’t
want to be summoned as a witness at the inquest.”
“Of course you don’t, sir,” the inspector agreed, “and I will see that you
are not summoned, unless an expert witness is wanted. I need not mention
that you have been here; but I should be glad of your opinion for my own
guidance in investigating the case.”
He led us through the crowd to the door of the building, where we were
joined by a fireman—whose helmet I should have liked to borrow—by
whom we were piloted up the stairs. Half-way up we met the night-
watchman, carrying an exhausted extinguisher and a big electric lantern,
and he joined our procession, giving us the news as we ascended.
“It’s all safe up above,” said he, “excepting the roof; and that isn’t so
very much damaged. The big windows saved it. They blew out and let off
the force of the explosion. The floor isn’t damaged at all. It’s girder and
concrete. But poor Mr. Manford caught it properly. He was fairly blown to
bits.”
“Do you know how it happened?” the inspector asked.
“I don’t,” was the reply. “When I came on duty Mr. Manford was up
there in his private laboratory. Soon afterwards a friend of his—a foreign
gentleman of the name of Bilsky—came to see him. I took him up, and then
Mr. Manford said he had some business to do, and after that he had got a
longish job to do and would be working late. So he said I might turn in and
he would let me know when he had finished. And he did let me know with a
vengeance, poor chap! I lay down in my clothes, and I hadn’t been asleep
above a couple of hours when some noise woke me up. Then there came a
most almighty bang. I rushed for an extinguisher and ran upstairs, and there
I found the big laboratory all ablaze, the windows blown out and the ceiling

down. But it wasn’t so bad as it looked. There wasn’t very much stuff up
there; only the experimental stuff, and that burned out almost at once. I got
the rest of the fire out in a few minutes.”
“What stuff is it that you are speaking of?” the inspector asked.
“Celluloid, mostly, I think,” replied the watchman. “They make films and
other celluloid goods in the works. But Mr. Manford used to do experiments
in the material up in his laboratory. This time he was working with alloys,
melting them on the gas furnace. Dangerous thing to do with all that
inflammable stuff about. I don’t know what there was up there, exactly.
Some of it was celluloid, I could see by the way it burned, but the Lord
knows what it was that exploded. Some of the raw stuff, perhaps.”
At this point we reached the top floor, where a door blown off its hinges
and a litter of charred wood fragments filled the landing. Passing through
the yawning doorway, we entered the laboratory and looked on a hideous
scene of devastation. The windows were mere holes, the ceiling a gaping
space fringed with black and ragged lathing, through which the damaged
roof was visible by the light of the watchman’s powerful lantern. The floor
was covered with the fallen plaster and fragments of blackened woodwork,
but its own boards were only slightly burnt in places, owing, no doubt, to
their being fastened directly to the concrete which formed the actual floor.
“You spoke of some human remains,” said the inspector.
“Ah!” said the watchman, “you may well say ‘remains.’ Just come here.”
He led the way over the rubbish to a corner of the laboratory, where he
halted and threw the light of his lantern down on a brownish, dusty,
globular object that lay on the floor half buried in plaster. “That’s all that’s
left of poor Mr. Manford; that and a few other odd pieces. I saw a hand over
the other side.”
Thorndyke picked up the head and placed it on the blackened remnant of
a bench, where, with the aid of the watchman’s lantern and the inspection
lamp which I produced from our research-case, he examined it curiously. It
was extremely, but unequally, scorched. One ear was completely shrivelled,
and most of the face was charred to the bone. But the other ear was almost
intact; and though most of the hair was burned away to the scalp, a tuft
above the less-damaged ear was only singed, so that it was possible to see
that the hair had been black, with here and there a stray white hair.
Thorndyke made no comments, but I noticed that he examined the
gruesome object minutely, taking nothing for granted. The inspector noticed

this, too; and when the examination was finished, looked at him inquiringly.
“Anything abnormal, sir?” he asked.
“No,” replied Thorndyke; “nothing that is not accounted for by fire and
the explosion. I see he had no natural teeth, so he must have worn a
complete set of false teeth. That should help in the formal identification, if
the plates are not completely destroyed.”
“There isn’t much need for identification,” said the watchman, “seeing
that there was nobody in the building but him and me. His friend went away
about half-past twelve. I heard Mr. Manford let him out.”
“The doctor means at the inquest,” the inspector explained. “Somebody
has got to recognize the body if possible.”
He took the watchman’s lantern, and throwing its light on the floor,
began to search among the rubbish. Very soon he disinterred from under a
heap of plaster the headless trunk. Both legs were attached, though the right
was charred below the knee and the foot blown off, and one complete arm.
The other arm—the right—was intact only to the elbow. Here, again, the
burning was very unequal. In some parts the clothing had been burnt off or
blown away completely; in others, enough was left to enable the watchman
to recognize it with certainty. One leg was much more burnt than the other;
and whereas the complete arm was only scorched, the dismembered one
was charred almost to the bone. When the trunk had been carried to the
bench and laid there beside the head, the lights were turned on it for
Thorndyke to make his inspection.
“It almost seems,” said the police officer, as the hand was being
examined, “as if one could guess how he was standing when the explosion
occurred. I think I can make out finger-marks—pretty dirty ones, too—on
the back of the hand, as if he had been standing with his hands clasped
together behind him while he watched something that he was experimenting
with.” The inspector glanced for confirmation at Thorndyke, who nodded
approvingly.
“Yes,” he said, “I think you are right. They are very indistinct, but the
marks are grouped like fingers. The small mark near the wrist suggests a
little finger, and the separate one near the knuckle looks like a fore-finger,
while the remaining two marks are close together.” He turned the hand over
and continued: “And there, in the palm, just between the roots of the third
and fourth fingers, seems to be the trace of a thumb. But they are all very
faint. You have a quick eye, inspector.”

The gratified officer, thus encouraged, resumed his explorations among
the debris in company with the watchman—the fireman had retired after a
professional look round—leaving Thorndyke to continue his examination of
the mutilated corpse, at which I looked on unsympathetically. For we had
had a long day and I was tired and longing to get home. At length I drew
out my watch, and with a portentous yawn, entered a mild protest.
“It is nearly two o’clock,” said I. “Don’t you think we had better be
getting on? This really isn’t any concern of ours, and there doesn’t seem to
be anything in it, from our point of view.”
“Only that we are keeping our intellectual joints supple,” Thorndyke
replied with a smile. “But it is getting late. Perhaps we had better adjourn
the inquiry.”
At this moment, however, the inspector discovered the missing forearm
—completely charred—with the fingerless remains of the hand, and almost
immediately afterwards the watchman picked up a dental plate of some
white metal, which seemed to be practically uninjured. But our brief
inspection of these objects elicited nothing of interest, and having glanced
at them, we took our departure, avoiding on the stairs an eager reporter, all
agog for “copy.”
A few days later we received a visit, by appointment from a Mr.
Herdman, a solicitor who was unknown to us and who was accompanied by
the widow of Mr. James Manford, the victim of the explosion. In the
interval the inquest had been opened but had been adjourned for further
examination of the premises and the remains. No mention had been made of
our visit to the building, and so far as I knew nothing had been said to
anybody on the subject.
Mr. Herdman came to the point with business-like directness.
“I have called,” he said, “to secure your services, if possible, in regard to
the matter of which I spoke in my letter. You have probably seen an account
of the disaster in the papers?”
“Yes,” replied Thorndyke. “I read the report of the inquest.”
“Then you know the principal facts. The inquest, as you know, was
adjourned for three weeks. When it is resumed, I should like to retain you to
attend on behalf of Mrs. Manford.”
“To watch the case on her behalf?” Thorndyke suggested.
“Well, not exactly,” replied Herdman. “I should ask you to inspect the
premises and the remains of poor Mr. Manford, so that, at the adjourned

inquest, you could give evidence to the effect that the explosion and the
death of Mr. Manford were entirely due to accident.”
“Does anyone say that they were not?” Thorndyke asked.
“No, certainly not,” Mr. Herdman replied hastily. “Not at all. But I
happened, quite by chance, to see the manager of the ‘Pilot’ Insurance
Society, on another matter, and I mentioned the case of Mr. Manford. He
then let drop a remark which made me slightly uneasy. He observed that
there was a suicide clause in the policy, and that the possibility of suicide
would have to be ruled out before the claim could be settled. Which
suggested a possible intention to contest the claim.”
“But,” said Thorndyke, “I need not point out to you that if he sets up the
theory of suicide, it is for him to prove it, not for you to disprove it. Has
anything transpired that would lend colour to such a suggestion?”
“Nothing material,” was the reply. “But we should feel more happy if
you could be present and give positive evidence that the death was
accidental.”
“That,” said Thorndyke, “would be hardly possible. But my feeling is
that the suicide question is negligible. There is nothing to suggest it, so far
as I know. Is there anything known to you?”
The solicitor glanced at his client and replied somewhat evasively:
“We are anxious to secure ourselves. Mrs. Manford is left very badly off,
unless there is some personal property that we don’t know about. If the
insurance is not paid, she will be absolutely ruined. There isn’t enough to
pay the debts. And I think the suicide question might be raised—even
successfully—on several points. Manford had been rather queer lately:
jumpy and rather worried. Then, he was under notice to terminate his
engagement at the works. His finances were in a confused state; goodness
knows why, for he had a liberal salary. And then there was some domestic
trouble. Mrs. Manford had actually consulted me about getting a separation.
Some other woman, you know.”
“I should like to forget that,” said Mrs. Manford; “and it wasn’t that
which worried him. Quite the contrary. Since it began he had been quite
changed. So smart in his dress and so particular in his appearance. He even
took to dyeing his hair. I remember that he opened a fresh bottle of dye the
very morning before his death and took no end of trouble putting it on. It
wasn’t that entanglement that made him jumpy. It was his money affairs. He
had too many irons in the fire.”

Thorndyke listened with patient attention to these rather irrelevant details
and inquired: “What sort of irons?”
“I will tell you,” said Herdman. “About three months ago he had need for
two thousand pounds; for what purpose, I can’t say, but Mrs. Manford
thinks it was to invest in certain valuables that he used to purchase from
time to time from a Russian dealer named Bilsky. At any rate, he got this
sum on short loan from a Mr. Clines, but meanwhile arranged for a longer
loan with a Mr. Elliott on a note of hand and an agreement to insure his life
for the amount.
“As a matter of fact, the policy was made out in Elliott’s name, he having
proved an insurable interest. So if the insurance is paid, Elliott is settled
with. Otherwise the debt falls on the estate, which would be disastrous; and
to make it worse, the day before his death, he drew out five hundred pounds
—nearly the whole balance—as he was expecting to see Mr. Bilsky, who
liked to be paid in bank-notes. He did see him, in fact, at the laboratory, but
they couldn’t have done any business, as no jewels were found.”
“And the bank-notes?”
“Burned with the body, presumably. He must have had them with him.”
“You mentioned,” said Thorndyke, “that he occasionally bought jewels
from this Russian. What became of them?”
“Ah!” replied Herdman, “there is a gleam of hope there. He had a safe
deposit somewhere. We haven’t located it yet, but we shall. There may be
quite a nice little nest-egg in it. But meanwhile there is the debt to Elliott.
He wrote to Manford about it a day or two ago. You have the letter, I think,”
he added, addressing Mrs. Manford, who thereupon produced two
envelopes from her handbag and laid them on the table.
“This is Mr. Elliott’s letter,” she said. “Merely a friendly reminder, you
see, telling him that he is just off to the continent and that he has given his
wife a power of attorney to act in his absence.”
Thorndyke glanced through the letter and made a few notes of its
contents. Then he looked inquiringly at the other envelope.
“That,” said Mrs. Manford, “is a photograph of my husband. I thought it
might help you if you were going to examine the body.”
As Thorndyke drew the portrait out and regarded it thoughtfully, I
recalled the shapeless, blackened fragments of its subject; and when he
passed it to me I inspected it with a certain grim interest, and mentally
compared it with those grisly remains. It was a commonplace face, rather

unsymmetrical—the nose was deflected markedly to the left, and the left
eye had a pronounced divergent squint. The bald head, with an abundant
black fringe and an irregular scar on the right side of the forehead, sought
compensation in a full beard and moustache, both apparently jet-black. It
was not an attractive countenance, and it was not improved by a rather odd-
shaped ear—long, lobeless, and pointed above, like the ear of a satyr.
“I realize your position,” said Thorndyke, “but I don’t quite see what you
want of me. If,” he continued, addressing the solicitor, “you had thought of
my giving ex parte evidence, dismiss the idea. I am not a witness-advocate.
All I can undertake to do is to investigate the case and try to discover what
really happened. But in that case, whatever I may discover I shall disclose
to the coroner. Would that suit you?”
The lawyer looked doubtful and rather glum, but Mrs. Manford
interposed, firmly:
“Why not? We are not proposing any deception, but I am certain that he
did not commit suicide. Yes, I agree unreservedly to what you propose.”
With this understanding—which the lawyer was disposed to boggle at—
our visitors took their leave. As soon as they were gone, I gave utterance to
the surprise with which I had listened to Thorndyke’s proposal.
“I am astonished at your undertaking this case. Of course, you have given
them fair warning, but still, it will be unpleasant if you have to give
evidence unfavourable to your client.”
“Very,” he agreed. “But what makes you think I may have to?”
“Well, you seem to reject the probability of suicide, but have you
forgotten the evidence at the inquest?”
“Perhaps I have,” he replied blandly. “Let us go over it again.”
I fetched the report from the office, and spreading it out on the table
began to read it aloud. Passing over the evidence of the inspector and the
fireman, I came to that of the night-watchman.
“Shortly after I came on duty at ten o’clock, a foreign gentleman named
Bilsky called to see Mr. Manford. I knew him by sight, because he had
called once or twice before at about the same time. I took him up to the
laboratory, where Mr. Manford was doing something with a big crucible on
the gas furnace. He told me that he had some business to transact with Mr.
Bilsky and when he had finished he would let him out. Then he was going
to do some experiments in making alloys, and as they would probably take
up most of the night he said I might as well turn in. He said he would call

me when he was ready to go. So I told him to be careful with the furnace
and not set the place on fire and burn me in my bed, and then I went
downstairs. I had a look round to see that everything was in order, and then
I took off my boots and laid down. About half-past twelve I heard Mr.
Manford and Bilsky come down. I recognized Mr. Bilsky by a peculiar
cough that he had and by the sound of his stick and his limping tread—he
had something the matter with his right foot and walked quite lame.”
“You say that the deceased came down with him,” said the coroner. “Are
you quite sure of that?”
“Well, I suppose Mr. Manford came down with him, but I can’t say I
actually heard him.”
“You did not hear him go up again?”
“No, I didn’t. But I was rather sleepy and I wasn’t listening very
particular. Well, then I went to sleep and slept till about half-past one, when
some noise woke me. I was just getting up to see what it was when I heard a
tremendous bang, right overhead. I ran down and turned the gas off at the
main and then I got a fire extinguisher and ran up to the laboratory. The
place seemed to be all in a blaze, but it wasn’t much of a fire after all, for by
the time the fire engines arrived I had got it practically out.”
The witness then described the state of the laboratory and the finding of
the body, but as this was already known to us, I passed on to the evidence of
the next witness, the superintendent of the fire brigade, who had made a
preliminary inspection of the premises. It was a cautious statement and
subject to the results of a further examination; but clearly the officer was
not satisfied as to the cause of the outbreak. There seemed to have been two
separate explosions, one near a cupboard and another—apparently the
second—in the cupboard itself; and there seemed to be a burned track
connecting the two spots. This might have been accidental or it might have
been arranged. Witness did not think that the explosive was celluloid. It
seemed to be a high explosive of some kind. But further investigations were
being made.
The superintendent was followed by Mrs. Manford, whose evidence was
substantially similar to what she and Mr. Herdman had told us, and by the
police surgeon, whose description of the remains conveyed nothing new to
us. Finally, the inquest was adjourned for three weeks to allow of further
examination of the premises and the remains.

“Now,” I said, as I folded up the report, “I don’t see how you are able to
exclude suicide. If the explosion was arranged to occur when Manford was
in the laboratory, what object, other than suicide, can be imagined?”
Thorndyke looked at me with an expression that I knew only too well.
“Is it impossible,” he asked, “to imagine that the object might have been
homicide?”
“But,” I objected, “there was no one there but Manford—after Bilsky
left.”
“Exactly,” he agreed, dryly; “after Bilsky left. But up to that time there
were two persons there.”
I must confess that I was startled, but as I rapidly reviewed the
circumstances I perceived the cogency of Thorndyke’s suggestion. Bilsky
had been present when Manford dismissed the night-watchman. He knew
that there would be no interruption. The inflammable and explosive
materials were there, ready to his hand. Then Bilsky had gone down to the
door alone instead of being conducted down and let out; a very striking
circumstance, this. Again, no jewels had been found, though the meeting
had been ostensibly for the purpose of a deal; and the bank-notes had
vanished utterly. This was very remarkable. In view of the large sum, it was
nearly certain that the notes would be in a close bundle, and we all know
how difficult it is to burn tightly-folded paper. Yet they had vanished
without leaving a trace. Finally, there was Bilsky himself. Who was he?
Apparently a dealer in stolen property—a hawker of the products of robbery
and murder committed during the revolution.
“Yes,” I admitted, “the theory of homicide is certainly tenable. But unless
some new facts can be produced, it must remain a matter of speculation.”
“I think, Jervis,” he rejoined, “you must be overlooking the facts that are
known to us. We were there. We saw the place within a few minutes of the
explosion and we examined the body. What we saw established a clear
presumption of homicide, and what we have heard this morning confirms it.
I may say that I communicated my suspicions the very next day to the
coroner and to Superintendent Miller.”
“Then you must have seen more than I did,” I began. But he shook his
head and cut short my protestations.
“You saw what I saw, Jervis, but you did not interpret its meaning.
However, it is not too late. Try to recall the details of our adventure and

what our visitors have told us. I don’t think you will then entertain the idea
of suicide.”
I was about to put one or two leading questions, but at this moment
footsteps became audible ascending our stairs. The knock which followed
informed me that our visitor was Superintendent Miller, and I rose to admit
him.
“Just looked in to report progress,” he announced as he subsided into an
arm-chair. “Not much to report, but what there is supports your view of the
case. Bilsky has made a clean bolt. Never went home to his hotel. Evidently
meant to skedaddle, as he has left nothing of any value behind. But it was a
stupid move, for it would have raised suspicion in any case. The notes were
a consecutive batch. All the numbers are known, but, of course, none of
them have turned up yet. We have made inquiries about Bilsky, and gather
that he is a shady character; practically a fence who deals in the jewellery
stolen from those unfortunate Russian aristocrats. But we shall have him all
right. His description has been circulated at all the seaports, and he is an
easy man to spot with his lame foot and his stick and a finger missing from
his right hand.”
Thorndyke nodded, and seemed to reflect for a moment. Then he asked:
“Have you made any other inquiries?”
“No; there is nothing more to find out until we get hold of our man, and
when we do, we shall look to you to secure the conviction. I suppose you
are quite certain as to your facts?”
Thorndyke shook his head with a smile.
“I am never certain until after the event. We can only act on
probabilities.”
“I understand,” said the superintendent, casting a sly look at me; “but
your probabilities are good enough for me.”
With this, he picked up his hat and departed, leaving us to return to the
occupations that our visitors had interrupted.
I heard no more of the Manford case for about a week, and assumed that
Thorndyke’s interest in it had ceased. But I was mistaken, as I discovered
when he remarked casually one evening:
“No news of Bilsky, so far; and time is running on. I am proposing to
make a tentative move in a new direction.” I looked at him inquiringly, and
he continued: “It appears, ‘from information received,’ that Elliott had some

dealings with him, so I propose to call at his house to-morrow and see if we
can glean any news of the lost sheep.”
“But Elliott is abroad,” I objected.
“True; but his wife isn’t; and she evidently knows all about his affairs. I
have invited Miller to come with me in case he would like to put any
questions; and you may as well come, too, if you are free.”
It did not sound like a very thrilling adventure, but one never knew with
Thorndyke. I decided to go with him, and at that the matter dropped, though
I speculated a little curiously on the source of the information. So,
apparently, had the superintendent, for when he arrived on the following
morning he proceeded to throw out a few cautious feelers, but got nothing
for his pains beyond vague generalities.
“It is a purely tentative proceeding,” said Thorndyke, “and you mustn’t
be disappointed if nothing comes of it.”
“I shall be, all the same,” replied Miller, with a sly glance at my senior,
and with this we set forth on our quest.
The Elliotts’ house was, as I knew, in some part of Wimbledon, and
thither we made our way by train. From the station we started along a wide,
straight main street from which numbers of smaller streets branched off. At
the corner of one of these I noticed a man standing, apparently watching our
approach; and something in his appearance seemed to me familiar.
Suddenly he took off his hat, looked curiously into its interior, and put it on
again. Then he turned about and walked quickly down the side street. I
looked at his retreating figure as we crossed the street, wondering who he
could be. And then it flashed upon me that the resemblance was to a certain
ex-sergeant Barber whom Thorndyke occasionally employed for
observation duties. Just as I reached this conclusion, Thorndyke halted and
looked about him doubtfully.
“I am afraid we have come too far,” said he. “I fancy we ought to have
gone down that last turning.”
We accordingly faced about and walked back to the corner, where
Thorndyke read out the name, Mendoza Avenue.
“Yes,” he said, “this is the way,” and we thereupon turned down the
Avenue, following it to the bottom, where it ended in a cross-road, the name
of which, Berners Park, I recognized as that which I had seen on Elliott’s
letter.

“Sixty-four is the number,” said Thorndyke, “so as this corner house is
forty-six and the next is forty-eight, it will be a little way along on this side,
just about where you can see that smoke—which, by the way, seems to be
coming out of a window.”
“Yes, by Jove!” I exclaimed. “The staircase window, apparently. Not our
house, I hope!”
But it was. We read the number and the name, “Green Bushes,” on the
gate as we came up to it, and we hurried up the short path to the door. There
was no knocker, but when Miller fixed his thumb on the bell-push, we
heard a loud ringing within. But there was no response; and meanwhile the
smoke poured more and more densely out of the open window above.
“Rum!” exclaimed Miller, sticking to the bell-push like a limpet. “House
seems to be empty.”
“I don’t think it is,” Thorndyke replied calmly.
The superintendent looked at him with quick suspicion, and then glanced
at the ground-floor window.
“That window is unfastened,” said he, “and here comes a constable.”
Sure enough, a policeman was approaching quickly, looking up at the
houses. Suddenly he perceived the smoke and quickened his pace, arriving
just as Thorndyke had pulled down the upper window-sash and was
preparing to climb over into the room. The constable hailed him sternly, but
a brief explanation from Miller reduced the officer to a state of respectful
subservience, and we all followed Thorndyke through the open window,
from which smoke now began to filter.
“Send the constable upstairs to give the alarm,” Thorndyke instructed
Miller in a low tone. The order was given without question, and the next
moment the officer was bounding up the stairs, roaring like a whole fire
brigade. Meanwhile, the superintendent browsed along the hall through the
dense smoke, sniffing inquisitively, and at length approached the street
door. Suddenly, from the heart of the reek, his voice issued in tones of
amazement.
“Well, I’m hanged! It’s a plumber’s smoke-rocket. Some fool has stuck it
through into the letter-cage!”
In the silence which followed this announcement I heard an angry voice
from above demand:
“What is all this infernal row about? And what are you doing here?”

“Can’t you see that the house is on fire?” was the constable’s stern
rejoinder. “You’d better come down and help to put it out.”
The command was followed by the sound of descending footsteps, on
which Thorndyke ran quickly up the stairs, followed by the superintendent
and me. We met the descending party on the landing, opposite a window,
and here we all stopped, gazing at one another with mutual curiosity. The
man who accompanied the constable looked distinctly alarmed—as well he
might—and somewhat hostile.
“Who put that smoke-rocket in the hall?” Miller demanded fiercely. “And
why didn’t you come down when you heard us ringing the bell?”
“I don’t know what you are talking about,” the man replied sulkily, “or
what business this is of yours. Who are you? And what are you doing in my
house?”
“In your house?” repeated Thorndyke. “Then you will be Mr. Elliott?”
The man turned a startled glance on him and replied angrily:
“Never you mind who I am. Get out of this house.”
“But I do mind who you are,” Thorndyke rejoined mildly. “I came here to
see Mr. Elliott. Are you Mr. Elliott?”
“No, I’m not. Mr. Elliott is abroad. If you like to send a letter here for
him, I will forward it when I get his address.”
While this conversation had been going on, I had been examining the
stranger, not without curiosity. For his appearance was somewhat unusual.
In the first place, he wore an unmistakable wig, and his shaven face bore an
abundance of cuts and scratches, suggesting a recently and unskilfully
mown beard. His spectacles did not disguise a pronounced divergent squint
of the left eye; but what specially caught my attention was the ear—a large
ear, lobeless and pointed at the tip like the ear of a satyr. As I looked at this,
and at the scraped face, the squint and the wig, a strange suspicion flashed
into my mind; and then, as I noted that the nose was markedly deflected to
the left, I turned to glance at Thorndyke.
“Would you mind telling us your name?” the latter asked blandly.
“My name is—is—Johnson; Frederick Johnson.”
“Ah,” said Thorndyke. “I thought it was Manford—James Manford, and I
think so still. I suggest that you have a scar on the right side of your
forehead, just under the wig. May we see?”
As Thorndyke spoke the name, the man turned a horrible livid grey and
started back as if to retreat up the stairs. But the constable blocked the way;

and as the man was struggling to push past, Miller adroitly snatched off the
wig; and there, on the forehead, was the tell-tale scar.
For an appreciable time we all stood stock-still like the figures of a
tableau. Then Thorndyke turned to the superintendent.
“I charge this man, James Manford, with the murder of Stephan Bilsky.”
Again there was a brief interval of intolerable silence. In the midst of it,
we heard the street door open and shut, and a woman’s voice called up the
stairs: “Whatever is all this smoke? Are you up there, Jim?”

I pass over the harrowing details of the double arrest. I am not a
policeman, and to me such scenes are intensely repugnant. But we must
needs stay until two taxis and four constables had conveyed the prisoners
away from the still reeking house to the caravanserai of the law. Then, at
last, we went forth with relief into the fresh air and bent our steps towards
the station.
“I take it,” Miller said reflectively, “that you never suspected Bilsky?”
“I did at first. But when Mrs. Manford and the solicitor told their tale I
realized that he was the victim and that Manford must be the murderer.”
“Let us have the argument,” said I. “It is obvious that I have been a
blockhead, but I don’t mind our old friend here knowing it.”
“Not a blockhead, Jervis,” he corrected. “You were half asleep that night
and wholly uninterested. If you had been attending to the matter, you would
have observed several curious and anomalous appearances. For instance,
you would have noticed that the body was, in parts, completely charred and
brittle. Now we saw the outbreak of the fire and we found it extinguished
when we reached the building. Its duration was a matter of minutes; quite
insufficient to reduce a body to that state. For, as you know, a human body
is an extremely incombustible thing. The appearance suggested the
destruction of a body which had been already burnt; and this suggestion
was emphasized by the curiously unequal distribution of the charring. The
right hand was burnt to a cinder and blown to pieces. The left hand was
only scorched. The right foot was utterly destroyed, but the left foot was
nearly intact. The face was burned away completely, and yet there were
parts of the head where the hair was only singed.
“Naturally, with these facts in mind, I scrutinized those remains narrowly.
And presently something much more definite and sinister came to light. On

the left hand, there was a faint impression of another hand—very indistinct
and blurred, but still unmistakably a hand.”
“I remember,” said I, “the inspector pointed it out as evidence that the
deceased had been standing with his hands clasped before or behind him;
and I must admit that it seemed a reasonable inference.”
“So it did—because you were both assuming that the man had been alone
and that it must therefore have been the impression of his own hand. For
that reason, neither of you looked at it critically. If you had, you would have
seen at once that it was the impression of a left hand.”
“You are quite right,” I confessed ruefully. “As the man was stated to
have been alone, the hand impression did not interest me. And it was a mere
group of smudges, after all. You are sure that it was a left hand?”
“Quite,” he replied. “Blurred as the smudges were, one could make out
the relative lengths of the fingers. And there was the thumb mark at the
distal end of the palm, but pointing to the outer side of the hand. Try how
you may, you can’t get a right hand into that position.
“Well, then, here was a crucial fact. The mark of a left hand on a left
hand proved the presence of a second person, and at once raised a strong
presumption of homicide, especially when considered in conjunction with
the unaccountable state of the body. During the evening, a visitor had come
and gone, and on him—Bilsky—the suspicion naturally fell. But Mrs.
Manford unwittingly threw an entirely new light on the case. You remember
she told us that her husband had opened a new bottle of hair dye on the very
morning before the explosion and had applied it with unusual care. Then his
hair was dyed. But the hair of the corpse was not dyed. Therefore the corpse
was not the corpse of Manford. Further, the presumption of murder applied
now to Manford, and the body almost certainly was that of Bilsky.”
“How did you deduce that the hair of the corpse was not dyed?” I asked.
“I didn’t deduce it at all. I observed it. You remember a little patch of hair
above the right ear, very much singed but still recognizable as hair? Well, in
that patch I made out distinctly two or three white hairs. Naturally, when
Mrs. Manford spoke of the dye, I recalled those white hairs, for though you
may find silver hairs among the gold, you don’t find them among the dyed.
So the corpse could not be Manford’s and was presumably that of Bilsky.
“But the instant that this presumption was made, a quantity of fresh
evidence arose to support it. The destruction of the body was now
understandable. Its purpose was to prevent identification. The parts

destroyed were the parts that had to be destroyed for that purpose: the face
was totally unrecognizable, and the right hand and right foot were burnt and
shattered to fragments. But these were Bilsky’s personal marks. His right
hand was mutilated and his right foot deformed. And the fact that the false
teeth found were undoubtedly Manford’s was conclusive evidence of the
intended deception.
“Then there were those very queer financial transactions, of which my
interpretation was this: Manford borrowed two thousand pounds from
Clines. With this he opened an account in the name of Elliott. As Elliott, he
lent himself two thousand pounds—with which he repaid Clines—subject
to an insurance of his life for that amount, taken out in Elliott’s name.”
“Then he would have gained nothing,” I objected.
“On the contrary, he would have stood to gain two thousand pounds on
proof of his own death. That, I assumed, was his scheme: to murder Bilsky,
to arrange for Bilsky’s corpse to personate his own, and then, when the
insurance was paid, to abscond—in the company of some woman—with
this sum, with the valuables that he had taken from Bilsky, and the five
hundred pounds that he had withdrawn from the bank.
“But this was only theory. It had to be tested; and as we had Elliott’s
address, I did the only thing that was possible. I employed our friend, ex-
sergeant Barber, to watch the house. He took lodgings in a house nearly
opposite and kept up continuous observation, which soon convinced him
that there was someone on the premises besides Mrs. Elliott. Then, late one
night, he saw a man come out and walk away quickly. He followed the man
for some distance, until the stranger turned back and began to retrace his
steps. Then Barber accosted him, asking for a direction, and carefully
inspecting him. The man’s appearance tallied exactly with the description
that I had given—I had assumed that he would probably shave off his beard
—and with the photograph; so Barber, having seen him home, reported to
me. And that is the whole story.”
“Not quite the whole,” said Miller, with a sly grin. “There is that smoke-
rocket. If it hadn’t been for the practical joker who slipped that through the
letter-slit, we could never have got into that house. I call it a most
remarkable coincidence.”
“So do I,” Thorndyke agreed, without moving a muscle; “but there is a
special providence that watches over medical jurists.”
We were silent for a few moments. Then I remarked:

“This will come as a terrible shock to Mrs. Manford.”
“I am afraid it will,” Thorndyke agreed. “But it will be better for her than
if Manford had absconded with this woman, taking practically every penny
that he possessed with him. She stood to lose a worthless husband in either
event. At least we have saved her from poverty. And, knowing the facts, we
were morally and legally bound to further the execution of justice.”
“A very proper sentiment,” said the superintendent, “though I am not
quite clear as to the legal aspects of that smoke-rocket.”

THE END

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
The edition hosted on Fadedpage was consulted for most of the changes
listed below.
Minor spelling inconsistencies (e.g. notepaper/note-paper,
tattoed/tattooed, writing-table/writing table, etc.) have been preserved.

Alterations to the text:
Punctuation: fix some quotation mark pairings, and a few missing periods
and commas.
[I. THE MAGIC CASKET]
Change “we heard his brisk step on the stairs” to steps.
[II. THE CONTENTS OF A MARE’S NEST]
“and I suppose that to a toxicologist, there is nothing like an” delete the
comma.
“Yet teeth are far more resistent to fire than bones” to resistant.
[III. THE STALKING HORSE]
“I am starting for Folkestone in re Burnham deceased.” italicize in.
“but do not re-act in this way on cellulose paper” to react.
[IV. THE NATURALIST AT LAW]
“Who had a motive for killing Cyrus Pedley? and Who had the
opportunity and the means.” change the period to a question mark.
[V. MR. PONTING’S ALIBI]
“But since the trouble about the will, he is hardly on speaking terms with
them?” change the question mark to a period.
[VI. PANDORA’S BOX]
“opening it and opening another’s man’s box” to another.
[VII. THE TRAIL OF BEHEMOTH]
“I became aware of quick footsteps descending the staris behind us” to
stairs.

[VIII. THE PATHOLOGIST TO THE RESCUE]
Change “is in the custody of the robbery and no murder.” to “is in the
custody of the police, charged with robbery and murder.”
(“Yes,” Thorndyke replied. “I am in a position to give important and
material evidence?”) change the question mark to a period.
“I get back to de ship jus’ before dey ring two bells in the middle watch.”
to de.
[IX. GLEANINGS FROM THE WRECKAGE]
“in the palm, just between the roots of the third and fourth finger” to
fingers.
“in a full beard and moustache, both apparently jet-back” to black.

[End of text]

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